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Extracts
from a Diary
Edited by Simon Barber "Flying
Solo"
(Being the tenth part of the
aeronautical and otherwise adventures of Amelia Bourne-Phipps.
Currently she’s studying at the Songmark Aeronautical School for Young
Ladies – and part of the course involves getting her official pilot’s
license. The trouble is, through no fault of her own she lost her
passport, and is falsely accused of being an enemy Agent, so can’t get
another. Not in her own name, that is …) Saturday 16th March, 1936 (Written much later). Dear Diary – the Songmark course certainly emphasises thinking for ourselves, and all I can say is it is just as well we have already had plenty of practice. The first leg of my trip was easy enough, as apart from showing my ticket and passport I strolled through customs at the Shawnee Pacific Airpaths terminal. It is easy to leave Spontoon, as long as the authorities are not actively watching out for you – and though my original British passport would have been no problem on this outward flight, the officials on the Gilbert and Sullivan Isles might already have it on their list. Drat that Soppy Forsythe; she might have ruined my reputation permanently with one stroke of a pen. I was determined to stay in my new character as thoroughly as possible – or the folk on the seats next to me would have seen me looking out longingly at Eastern Island as we taxied out to the main seaplane way and took off very smoothly in the license-built Short Cockle. I also kept resisting the temptation to check in the mirror that my fur dye was convincing. Saimmi had helped me apply it first thing in the morning after leaving Songmark and she assures me that I make a very fetching Eurasian girl. The Siamese fur markings are less pronounced than those of a purebred, but without having the right colour eyes or snout shape, I am better off with this design. The Cockle is a very comfy aircraft for fourteen passengers, with one steward and two crew; just as well as we were thirteen hours in it! Most of the other passengers were tourists, laden with cameras and loud shirts, eager to head down to the Marquesas and Ponape to study the wonderful ruins and interesting folk rituals there. I had not thought about it much, but the tourist world is mostly in “circuits”, with American circuits staging through Wake and Midway, French ones through Tahiti and the like. I am the odd one out, heading from an independent state on Spontoon, bouncing from French to British territories on a Macau passport written in Portuguese. Prudence Akroyd will be taking this trip on Monday, and I remembered her motto of “If in doubt say nowt.” Some of the other passengers did ask me where I was going – I explained I was “touring”, which seems to cover most possibilities. One of them, a matronly Canadian sea otter who had been behind me coming through Customs, was rather inquisitive and asked where I had learned to speak English so well, without an accent. Without lying, I could tell her I have one English parent (simply not mentioning my other one) and went to school in England. I think the pair of elderly canines behind me must have been half deaf, or at least they assumed I could not hear their shocked whispers over the noise of the engines. At any rate, they were scandalised about the idea of bringing a half-native girl back – India and most of the Colonies are full of Eurasians of various mixes, but they tend to stay there unacknowledged and not embarrass the folks back home. I don’t see why the folk in Barsetshire waiting for the “Sahibs” and “Mem-sahibs” to return should be so surprised - after all, folk sent out on military and civil service postings are away for at least three years, which is a long time in a hot climate. From what I have seen on Spontoon, a lot of “Euro” folk come home having served their posting or made their money, and settle down without telling anyone of their other “family” left behind. Our regular Civil Service posting is five years, but one hears of ladies staying the extra year to make it a “round half-dozen” – in some cases to make sure they are not embarrassingly round on their return, I should think! Some of the Hoele’toemi clan are very happily adopted that way, but I can imagine not everywhere is as relaxed about it. The flight passed quite well, with not too much turbulence and a fine view of the Pacific. I would have liked to navigate this route with a map handy – indeed, I have a big brass reflector compass in my luggage, but it is hardly “In Character” for Kim-Anh Soosay, the entertainer from Macau on holiday. It was getting dark when we sighted the twin islands of Croque-Monsieur and Croque-Madame, the Northernmost of the French Sandwich Isles with the only major paved runways in the group. Ten minutes later we alighted very smoothly off the seaplane terminal of Ile de Croissant for the overnight stop. One can hardly expect tourists to sleep in an aircraft seats; there are sleeper services on the bigger flying boats, but those hardly carry a quarter of the day passengers and the Cockle would never make any money carrying just four people. Quite an experience, being a tourist abroad – we see so many on Spontoon; it is odd to be one myself now. I had worried briefly about what to say to Customs, but in fact we were just waved through to a hotel and café within the seaplane base perimeter. I can see this is much easier on the airlines, as our bags are stored in the hotel and go straight out the next day, so visas and customs are hardly needed. After thirteen hours in a wicker seat I felt like a jolly good run, or better still a swim as it is getting distinctly hot as we go South (the French Sandwich isles are quite toasty at 12’ North, and the Gilbert group straddles the equator.) But nobody else was doing that, and I definitely did not want to stand out – so while everyone else headed out to the hotel bar I had half an hour of vigorous dance exercises and a very necessary cool shower. I decided to make the most of the free time and catch up with my books – every little helps and I was relaxing under the protection of the great travel system, like a parcel being passed across the planet with no need to work at it. Actually I had rather a shock when I opened the bedroom – at first glance there was what looked like someone asleep in there already! I advanced very quietly, trying to work out who it might be by the scent – but I laughed and pulled the sheets off, when all I could scent of the intruder was laundry starch. I doubt anyone would cause me much trouble after being boil-washed. I have heard of these before in stories of tropical climes. The lump under the sheets was actually a full-length bolster padded with cotton, to soak up the sweat. They are called “Dutch Wives” or alternatively “Dutch Husbands” – presumably something of solid qualities always there when needed, but not expected to be particularly interesting. Actually, the only Dutch folk I know are the van Hoogstraaten family, at least one of whom is “interesting” to the police of many nations and the other is in the Spontoon Olympic rowing team. Whatever you may say about that family, you cannot call them dull (and if one believes a tenth of what Beryl says of Piet, rather livelier to share a hotel suite with than a bolster.) A quiet evening inside the mosquito net, with my textbooks and notebooks for navigation exercises – and unlike the dances, one can do the physical exercises Mrs. Hoele’toemi taught me without breaking out in sweat and even while reading. Actually, one could do them in an aircraft seat as well – but one’s fellow passengers might misinterpret things, which could be embarrassing. I remember Maria being about to throw a bucket of water over me the first time I practiced without telling her beforehand. Sunday 17th March, 1936 It gets definitely hot down here, even though it is still March – certainly without the “Dutch Husband” my fur would have been even stickier than it was. A mercifully cool shower improved matters, as even at seven in the morning the humidity was what one sweltering Radio LONO weather announcer last year called “One hundred percent and rising fast.” The Airline companies these days do think of everything! As soon as the breakfast gong sounded, we were informed there would be a half-hour service held by a padre attached to the seaplane base. Everyone went along, and I joined in. Having a random selection of “Euros” of all sorts coming through on each trip, the service was rather blandly generic, but everyone there can say they did (somewhat) attend Church. It might be a good pitch for that Unitarian fundamentalist who annoys folk on Casino Island, to get the chance to preach to such a wide audience. Of course, some people are never satisfied. One stout couple in front of me grumbled that the Airline should have a proper Western Anabaptist Kingdom Hall, as the price of their round-trip tickets could pay to build half a dozen out here. “Out here” was illustrated with an expansive wave, as if they expected everything outside the airport to be palm-thatched reed huts. If these isles are anything like Spontoon, there would be a good reason for that; the nearest factory for things like screws and nails is probably in Japan or New Zealand and a month away on a cargo steamer! It was with rather a lump in my throat that I saw the Shawnee Pacific Airpaths flight take off and head back north, leaving me on the dockside terminal to wait for my connection. Of course, in most circumstances I have the protection of my passport anywhere in the world – the newspapers make much play of tales such as “Kidnapped British lady traveller found unharmed: public demand punitive raids by gunboat regardless.” But my current status is rather more precarious: I am a suspected Enemy Agent in disguised fur carrying forged papers, and any police force that catches me will get an official pat on the back rather than a Royal Navy gunboat offshore. Being so near the equator, being only March hardly helped matters and my tongue was almost hanging out like a canine’s by the time the big Moraine-Saulnier amphibian landed and I could wave farewell to French territory. The Gilberts are served by French routes on the North to South directions, and Imperial Airways East and West – which is the main direction of Empire trade. It was a vast relief to get to five thousand feet and have some cooler air at last – I can hardly forgive the missionaries around here for making once-comfortably clad native girls wear calico dresses, even if they do look more presentable to Euros on the postage stamps. Another eight hours brought us to the Gilbert and Sullivan chain, with the familiar sight of Mount Mikado looming over the mainly flat coral atolls. Quite a sight! The top was wreathed in clouds but the main harbour of New Penzance was clear and it was just approaching suppertime when we finally touched down outside the harbour. From what I had read, these islands are not a major tourist destination: they grow copra, mine phosphates and act as a nice red pin on the map without which the map might fall down. They have fine coral beaches and a balmy climate outside typhoon season – but that is true of most of the Pacific isles, and they are much too far from any population centres to attract extensive holiday custom. Being four days in a cruise ship further than the Spontoon group from the cities of Japan and the Americas, they are rather emptier. I fear I have not picked the best character to slip easily through Customs. Ahead of me were a family of missionaries, an anthropology professor and a pair of grizzled explorer hounds who were recognised by type and waved through despite having rifle cases strapped to their luggage and a total lack of big game around here. Coming from Spontoon, naturally I thought of presenting myself as a tourist, which is the default type of visitor – but not here. Although I have passed through immigration on Vostok where they have good reasons to be suspicious, at least there they were expecting us. Heaven preserve me from keen young Customs officers fresh from training, out to impress their boss and with few chances to do so! I was singled out by a Border collie officer, his official cap gleaming new and his nose shiny with good health – I knew I was in for trouble when his tail wagged uncontrollably at the sight of my Macao passport. From everything I have heard of my assumed country, showing that is like waving a red flag in front of Maria’s Uncle. Fortunately, my passport held up to scrutiny and the name Kim-Anh Soosay is not on the long list he consulted under the counter. I would have liked to see if my real name actually was. I got through after five minutes of grilling, remembering Madame Maxine’s advice of how to stay elegantly relaxed under pressure. The name badge on my questioner’s cleanly pressed uniform read “L. Leamington”, possibly one of the Warwickshire Leamingtons. At any rate, I could tell my explanation that I was looking for ideas from the Native dances for a show held about as much water with him as a sieve after a gunfight. At the end of it, my passport was stamped and I was blinking in the evening sunlight of New Penzance, just ten miles and two days from my date with the Test School. All I had to do was change fur and costume and get over there on the day, I told myself – there should be no trouble with that. I must remember not to listen to my own advice sometimes. I was awfully wrong. Monday 18th March, 1936 One of the things about having a generously sized Empire is it offers so many vacancies for every kind of administrator. From what I heard, the Gilberts used to have rather a problem with the natives brewing up huge quantities of coconut toddy, date and palm wine, and never showing up in the morning for work. This might have been well enough when all they did was fish and plant taro, but there are businesses to run and phosphate to dig, and the islands’ balance sheets were looking somewhat hung-over as well. Normally I would have thought that appointing Sir Dai Evans as Governor would be a good move, as even I have heard of him as a strict teetotaller. Possibly too crusading – which might be why he was sent out here on the far side of the planet from the Llandudno Temperance Hall from which he attempted to launch a political putsch last year (other nations choose places such as beer cellars as a venue, generally more successfully.) Normally I would hardly care one way or another if he had banned the public sale of all alcohol, including methylated spirits stove fuel. Beryl will probably complain, but even she would hardly risk running into legal trouble this week, and so far from home. Of course, normally I am not wearing waterproof fur dye that needs alcohol solvent to take off! It was going to be so simple – find a hotel, pay in advance for a night, retire to my room with my grooming kit, a litre of any strong spirit and a good mirror – the Siamese guest vanishes for a week, while I cheerfully hitch a ride or walk across the island to the airfield where Amelia Bourne-Phipps is expected. I have the hotel room booked, and now would be a very good time for Kim-Anh to vanish in a whiff of brandy fumes. There is a certain young Mr. Leamington sitting in the hotel bar downstairs, happily sipping iced sarsaparilla while he leafs through the guest register and chats with the staff. He is out of uniform right now, but there is no mistaking that fur pattern. One supposes he is a good choice for a customs or police officer – every time he looks in the mirror he sees things in stark black and white. (Later) Although I rarely agree with much of Beryl’s advice, she certainly has survived a lot of fur-raising adventures, and in the right circumstances she might occasionally be right. “If you can’t get out of their way, get right in close where they can’t hit you”, is something she has often proclaimed, and being a mouse at Saint T’s must have been a ruthless testing ground for defensive ideas. Really there is little point in trying to evade Mr. Leamington without getting his suspicions even further aroused, so instead I decided to get in closer instead. I smoothed down my fur, scented it very lightly as Madame Maxine suggests, and by tiffin time I was sitting at the same hotel table, with a tall glass of ginger beer. Lovely stuff, we used to drink it by the gallon back at Saint Winifred’s in summertime, but not something I have found much of on Spontoon. Nootnops Red is probably even nicer. I am sure that Beryl’s idea of a good plan would be to take him for a moonlight scroll, apply the Roedean Nerve Pinch, steal his keys and raid the Customs shed for confiscated liquor. Not my style at all, and Mr. Leamington (Lionel, as I discover) is a loyal official doing his job and the last person I would want to harm. In Molly’s “Extra-Spicy Pacific Yarns” pulp fiction books, a true Adventuress would seduce him and persuade him to obtain a bottle for her – vanishing into the night with it before actually granting him any favours. I would deserve that “Hunting license” Nuala issued in error, if I ever did a thing like that. I admit I did pump him for information somewhat, while trying to allay his suspicions. I told as much as the truth as I could, that I had been on Spontoon previously learning the dances, and had come here looking for more qualifications. I did ask if there was anywhere on the islands where one might find a glass of wine – there is, in the Golf Club, the Civil Service Club and two of the top hotels. One assumes this is to prevent the rest of the administration declaring civil war on their Governor, and that no natives are allowed at the bar. It seems that official life here is rather dull, with a rather restricted round of social events on the calendar and about five clubs that are more or less compulsory to join unless one wants to be considered a bad sport. I picked up the hint that the new Governor is a tireless worker and reformer, and expects all his staff to be the same. I am not sure which church he attends, but he sounds very methodical. Of course, the more I managed to get Mr. Leamington to talk about himself, the less he was asking about me – a good thing, considering I could trip myself up in any number of ways. It is a good thing the border policeman is a border collie and not one of those star-nosed moles who can spot whether or not one is telling the truth. I promised to be in the hotel bar the next evening, which allayed his suspicions a little – though just what crimes he thinks I am here for, is hard to say. My luggage is as minimal and bland as I could make it, and I am hardly going to be inciting Native revolts or spreading subversion. I almost wished I had Liberty and Tatiana here – in fact that dorm alone could attract the attention of every police, customs and Political Officer in the island, leaving the path clear for me. I knew there had to be a good use for Brigit Mulvaney somewhere on the planet. A stroll around New Penzance in the moonlight showed it to be a very sombre place, with several shuttered cafes and taverns mostly empty as their customers try to get used to ginger beer. There were a few soldiers around, and with a thrill I recognised their regimental badge from Father’s charts at home. I know we send out small detachments of every regiment all over the Empire to acclimatise – but here in the Gilbert and Sullivan islands, I hardly expected to bump into the Yeoman of the Guard. Tuesday 19 th March, 1936 A scorching hot day, mercifully less humid, but still as pitiless as Spontoon in midsummer. I was out early to look around in my quest for a way to un-Siamese myself, having just one day left. I looked at the two fine hotels, the Utopia and the Savoy, and thought longingly of their locked cellars full of high-test Bombay gin. Awful stuff, but like most of the locals I would dearly love to get hold of a bottle. The difference is, I have no intention of drinking it! It would be awfully embarrassing to be turned away from the door of the Savoy, even though I am respectably dressed. My flying kit was sent direct to the test centre and awaits me there under my own name – it would have been rather suspicious to carry it through Customs as Kim-Anh, and a far less eager officer than Mr. Leamington would have pounced on it. The main commercial and shopping area is by the port, and many of the enterprises were run by Indians, the commercial backbone of small trade through the Empire. Whether in far Africa or the South Seas, there are two near certainties – the army officers came from Home, and the warehouse owner came from Bombay or nearby. I could see turbans and scent the spices from two hundred yards down the street, and was soon in the middle of the trading bazaar, with Oriental felines buying and selling at top speed regardless of the heat. The Spontoonies would call them all “Euros”, but nobody else would – certainly, nobody expects to see large Tigers and Panthers coming out of the mists of a European forest. There is certainly an advantage with having this fur pattern. I might not get served in the Utopia, but in the bazaar people talk to me a lot more freely than if I was in my respectable clothes and pith helmet (the officials really do wear them as standard here!) It did not take long to hear that the new local laws were proving rather unpopular with everyone – even the Indians who never drink alcohol like selling it to us. The actual locals are less of a market, as in this climate any sort of fruit juice ferments almost overnight and they simply hide a jar in the forest – no doubt still turning up half wrecked in the morning with the effects of exceedingly bad wine. The only “Euros” I saw were two soldiers who were loudly ordering “Fizzy mango.” I could scent those myself from one stall, which were simply very ripe mangoes injected with yeast and left to ferment in the sun. I doubt the local laws cover this – they were being sold as reject fruit so nobody can even complain they are over-ripe! Given a few days I would try to refine this myself, but I am short of time and equipment; presumably the local police are primed to spot anyone buying pressure vessels, thermometers and yards of copper piping. Molly has told me dozens of tales of ingenious “stills” put together in suitcases and built into cars to run off the radiator heat, and for once I wish I had one. There was a tea-house near the corner of the bazaar which had a few shelves of snacks for sale, giving me an idea. While I sipped a cooling tea and munched a chilli bhaji, I sketched out a shopping list including a bottle of neat spirits (preferably “Absolut” vodka or “Relativ” gin, as I would hate to waste something drinkable) and quietly handed it to the turbaned proprietor, asking him where would be the best place to fill the list. Not surprisingly, he pointed out just as quietly that it was no longer available for sale. But he did say that it had been known for people to obtain it – and he presented me with a white hibiscus flower that he motioned I should wear by my left ear. It was a jolly expensive flower, five shillings worth! He suggested I take a walk through the bazaar and keep my eyes and ears open. I spent the next hour slowly shopping, remembering to haggle appropriately. I was starting to think I had bought nothing but an overpriced bloom when a native kitten dashed past me, pressing a folded note in my paw and vanished into the crowds without even slowing down. Opening my compact I groomed my whiskers while reading the note – just a time, a place and a price. Ten shillings for a bottle of spirit! I suppose this is what they call a seller’s market, and the merchants are charging danger money on top. There is a fine open garden looking out over the harbour, where I managed to find shade and a breath of cooling wind. The view was stunning, looking over the island chain with a few phosphate carriers just visible on the horizon. A relaxing spot, and a nice place to watch the daily seaplane coming in on the East-West route. Hopefully Prudence and Beryl are on time for the evening flight, and hopefully we will all meet up at the Test Centre. A polite cough made me turn around, to see a very striking gentleman standing behind the bench with a picnic hamper. Very striking indeed – no taller than me, but exceedingly athletic, looking like a dancer – and a very genuine Siamese. He asked if he might have the other end of the bench – and though in my pith helmeted guise I might have hesitated, today I smiled and happily let him. This was just as well – he looked around at the park and opened his picnic basket. There was a stack of those split level “Tiffin Carriers” one sees in the bazaars, and next to those, wrapped securely in towels – three square bottles of spirits! He apologised for being early, but gallantly added that he had been told of my beauty and had to see if the story was true. It was a most interesting luncheon, as I gladly accepted his offer of sharing the less clandestine contents of the hamper (and at fifteen shillings a bottle he can surely afford to be generous with the snacks.) His name he gave as Prad Phao, though in the circumstances I would not bet a farthing on that being what his family call him. I can hardly complain, being as genuinely oriental as Chop Suey myself. His fur markings are very clear and distinctive, and his snout is much finer than mine with wonderful blue eyes, unlike my own green ones. Though not as solidly built as some Spontoonie cats I know to my delight, he looks as if he has steel cable and whipcord under his very glossy fur. Actually, he was quite apologetic about what he was selling, explaining that it was a local product of dates fermented in oil drums and cautioned me to mix it with plenty of water before drinking – and implored me not to drink too much of it. I could reassure him on that point, though I think he might have been surprised at just how well I would take his advice. Molly has told me quite enough of the hazards of crude spirits, though in her stories it is only her competitors’ brands that make customers go blind. It was a work of an instant to drop a bottle into a padded Tiffin Carrier under the cover of the hamper, and pass it to me – one sees locals with them at all times of day, and they attract no comment. By mid-afternoon the breeze had sprung up and we had been having a most enjoyable conversation when he looked at his watch, apologised and explained he had to meet less charming customers in town. Prad Phao (I am not sure which way round the name goes in Siam) raised his hat and departed with the hamper. A very interesting encounter, to be sure – I doubt Molly’s family employed drinks salesmen with such style. I was in two minds what to do – return to the hotel straight away, remove the fur dye and head straight across the island, or stick to my first plan. But that would mean breaking my promise to see Mr. Leamington, and given a choice I would hardly want to do that. I might be forced to look like two different people, but I only have one honour underneath it. So after another leisurely look around town I returned to the hotel with my tiffin carrier swinging nonchalantly by its handle, and put in another three hours with my textbooks. It was swelteringly hot, so I was completely down to my fur under the mosquito netting. Actually, looking at myself in the mirror I felt a slight pang at the thought of taking the patterning off; Saimmi did a very artistic job. After the exams I hope I can apply it as well, though it should just be a matter of stepping onto an aircraft and making sure my muzzle matches the passport photograph. When I started to dress for the evening it had been broad daylight – but by the time I had finished grooming it was pitch dark, the sun going down in about fifteen minutes flat! When night falls on the Equator, it has a very impressive diving speed. I felt something of a pang at leaving the bottle in my room, but I could hardly take it with me – we wear full or empty knapsacks at Songmark almost as part of the uniform, but one would never go with my current outfit. Having done my duty to my textbooks, we were always told to relax the night before an exam, as staying up half the night cramming at the last minute rarely helps matters – as with a heavy meal, one needs time to digest things. Mr. Leamington was already at the bar with a fresh sarsaparilla on plenty of ice when I arrived; it is impressive how folk react to seeing me in this fur style. I could see his tail wag as he caught sight of me, though of course he soon stilled it – and he seemed very interested in hearing how I had spent my day. Fortunately I had dropped the wilting white flower before returning to the hotel – it would not amaze me if it was a code that changed daily. Lionel did insist on buying me a ginger beer, commenting that he regrets he could not show me the Savoy where they have a wider choice. I doubt he meant more brands of ginger ale or dandelion and burdock. I could quite understand his problem, as a fresh-faced young officer can hardly walk into a club full of his seniors with a mysterious Eurasian girl and expect folk to cheer him. Of course, investigating me here off-hours could be explained as dedication above and beyond the call of duty – quite another matter. I rather regretted telling him I would be away studying any dances I could find (quite true, if I do see any on the way to the Test centre) and might not see him before I leave. It turns out he actually is one of the Warwickshire Leamingtons, and the kind of gentleman I might meet at tennis parties and weekend house parties back home perfectly respectably. Pleading tiredness, I left him to the remains of a lukewarm Sarsaparilla and the prospect of a return to the duty rooms of Government House. Dear Diary: in Molly’s pulp fiction books, this is not how the evening generally ends with the exotic and not necessarily respectable lady of mystery heading back to look at a textbook before turning in early and alone. Of course, most of those tales are wishful thinking written for folk such as Lionel. I have enough complications as it is, and with all the windows open to flush out the scent of the raw spirit, I spent half an hour in the bathroom painstakingly removing the popular entertainer Kim-Anh from the face of the earth. It seemed a pity. Actually, I had about half a glass left over, and while my fur dried sampled it in a toast to getting this far. Prad Phao was quite right, it was awful stuff and went straight down the drain after one sip. I am sure it has its uses in cocktails – one Schneider Trophy fuel cocktail I memorised was sixty percent fine Romanian benzole, thirty percent ethanol, ten percent furfuran and five teaspoonfuls to the gallon of tetra-ethyl lead. Shaken not stirred, naturally. Wednesday 20th March, 1936 Quite a day! Last night a half Siamese retired to Room Fifteen, and this morning a plain English cat quietly slipped out without being seen. Kim-Anh had paid everything in advance, so nobody should be wondering too much where she vanished to. “Down the drain” sounds rather sinister, and I would be hard put to explain matters if stopped by a hotel detective. By the time I walked round the corner I was quite a different person; wearing my neat Songmark shirt and a pair of cycling trousers in the heat, I had native policemen stopping the traffic unasked to let me cross the road. I enquired as to buses across to Jury Point where the airfield is, but it seems there is no public service. Folk who have vehicles here have drivers assigned to them. All I carried was my overnight bag with the fur dye and costume for the return trip: stocking up on the way through town for two quart bottles of ginger beer, I decided ten miles along a plain track marked on the map would be three and a half hours brisk hike, getting me there in time for luncheon. In fact it took me five, as the humidity reached a hundred and the temperature overtook it by ten in the morning – rather than my striding in smartly, it was more like a steaming rag-doll of a trainee pilot that arrived at the main gate. At least my Songmark tutors would be happy I had not drunk all my liquids in the first hour, much though I wanted to. Anyway, at long last I was signing my real name in to register at Jury Point, where my “Trial by Jury” could begin. I noticed in the register that Beryl and Prudence had already arrived, and ten minutes later we were all in one of the bungalows at the end of the officer’s compound, comparing notes on our trip over. There are about fifteen other pilots here to take the tests this week: mostly private local flyers from the surrounding colonies, with a couple of commercial types who have been flying self-taught for years and need official paperwork. Looking at the map on the wall, Jury Point might not have a mile of paved runway to match Eastern Island, but it does have three adequate strips in a classic “A” pattern, always giving one of them a decent headwind without too much drift (landing on Eastern Island in a gusting Northerly is an education in side-slipping.) It was such a relief to have actually arrived, that I felt like collapsing in one of the veranda chairs and falling asleep. But of course the hard work has just started – we are invited to dine with the base commander tonight, which is the same sort of “invitation” to being asked to a ship’s Captain’s table: when he calls, you go. next |