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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
18 May, 1936 to 24 May, 1936


Monday 18th May, 1936

Pouring with rain for our “escort mission” to Moon Island to look after the first-years on the firing range. When it decides to rain in Spontoon this time of year there is nothing half-hearted about it – the water just comes down in torrents. Brigit Mulvaney has been getting nostalgic for the “soft weather” of her home, and indeed I can cheerfully admit that they have a clear superiority over England in the fog and drizzle department. Both our home islands are rather disadvantaged in terms of solar energy, but if folk ever found out how to extract energy from Greyness we could close all our coal mines the following week.

Although most tourists were safely sheltered in their hotels till the rain stopped, there was one party of rather odd horned rabbits who we saw in the gardens near the water-taxi dock playing some ball game, laughing and shouting with the rain absolutely streaming off their fur. Helen passed near enough to spot their accents – she just said “Arizona” and she and Molly nodded significantly.

Moon Island does seem rather dull in the rain, as it is the only island with no “attractions”, natural or built. The view from Hanamahina Bay is mostly military base and docks with the anti-aircraft sites and water towers on the skyline, but it all has to go somewhere.

Our first-years were grumbling rather as they got to the firing range and had to strip, clean and reassemble their rifles out in the middle of the field with everything absolutely soaking. Rain Island has a lot of Great War vintage Canadian Ross straight-pull bolt rifles which are rather prone to jamming, especially if dropped in the mud a few times. The range instructors demonstrated that, and then had everyone clean and strip them again. The Ross Mark III is a very fine target rifle, but everyone agreed it was better on a target range than in the trenches. (Beryl’s logical and surprisingly Quaker-ish conclusion: stick to target ranges and avoid fighting the Great War in the future.)

One of our first-years is Lucinda Beresford, whose father is a Colonel in her nation’s armoured train fleet. She was being enthusiastic about the idea of conducting the defence from behind waterproof armour plate that can be much stronger than any practical tank and a lot smoother ride than a battleship. To listen to her, one gets the idea that future conflicts will be one great melee of manoeuvring train consists, with every marshalling yard a tangle of squadrons shunting to and fro as they try to bring their rail guns to bear. Presumably their version of surprise charges will be a rather stately affair, limited as to how fast the sappers can lay down railway lines.

Fortunately Molly did not hear her, as that is one side of her interests we are not trying to encourage. Just last week when she was still fast asleep, Beryl mischievously dropped in and tried an experiment. Whispering things in her ear like “Paris Cannons … whole batteries of Paris Cannons – all illegally converted to full auto belt feed … loaded and ready for your signal …” certainly showed folk are rarely a hundred percent asleep, even when they are dreaming. By her scent, Molly appreciated it in more than technical terms – she gave a pleased moan and one could tell it was inspiring a rather pleasant dream. Although we agreed with Beryl it was an interesting demonstration, it was rather an unfair thing to do to anyone, so we swatted the pesky mouse out of the room with wet towels. Maria commented she would forgo suggesting the usual bucket of water, as it was hardly Molly’s fault.

Still, Molly did have a cheering twenty rounds on the long rifle range today with my M1918 Mauser. This was the first time she had tried it in pouring rain, and discovered rather a problem – the muzzle blast is so huge it throws up about a ten-foot splash of very conspicuous spray from the wet ground. Definitely not something a sniper wants to happen. But nothing can dampen her enthusiasm for this kind of thing, and she looked very much happier by the time she handed the tank-hunting Mauser over to me.

Back via Main Island, where the public hot baths and dryers managed to restore the proper species mix to what had looked like thirty drowned rats. We pointed out that very often there will be no hot shower to look forward to, and they should appreciate today – at which Liberty was most unappreciative. The first-years have already had quite a lot of expedition training, and are heading out all next week, leaving us and the third-years in peace. Definitely we can use the break – Molly points out, it is such a strain “riding shotgun” on them, especially since we are not allowed the shotgun.

(Later) Really, it is very odd how the three years of Songmark are so different, given that we are from all corners of the globe and one year’s intake is as mixed as any other. There is no reason why our year could not have worked together as a big team like theirs rather than split into dorms – our Tutors leave that kind of decision to us, not that we ever sat down and decided it. Reading the reports from the years before us, two classes voted to have a head girl in charge, though really there are too few of us and we are too evenly matched to make that work well.

The first-year dorms are still rather fluid, but I think they have mostly settled into their final cast lists. Lucinda is the only one who keeps complaining, as she is a bloodhound with perhaps the finest sense of scent among us. This would be fine except her dorm mates are a skunk, a fox and a badger respectively, and of course we are all exercising flat-out in the heat this time of year. It is interesting how our Tutors manage to juggle things – it took them a term and a half to settle Prudence’s dorm together, but some things are missed out on the qualifications our schools and parents send in to apply to Songmark. At least, I think so.

Wednesday 20th May, 1936

Quite a treat today – Songmark actually took part in some filming! In a very minor way, with the Barx Brothers’ director wanting a shot of a flying boat zooming overhead as his characters duck. Of course he could have done this the Hollywood Union-approved way, of hiring stunt pilots and the like – or he could do things the Spontoon way of offering twenty free cinema tickets and a bit-part in film History. Operating costs are rather lower out here, once folk reach these waters.

Our Tutors approved, as we need to keep up our flying hours anyway – so our third-year chum Conchita drew the short straw and dutifully bounced over the camera crew at thirty feet in the Sea Osprey, our only flying boat. Her dorm were outraged that the producer approved the very first “take”, as they had been listed to take the next three attempts between them. It was a jolly good low-level run, and I should think it was frightening enough on the ground that nobody wanted to be on the receiving end twice.

From what we heard of the party at the weekend, the Barx Brothers are just about the same off camera as on – except that Dipso actually speaks, and in fact is quite eloquent (his character in the films never has any lines, just a deranged and incoherent mumbling.) Blotto is quite as outrageously funny in the fur as he is without the aid of a scriptwriter – indeed, the scriptwriter hangs around at the studio parties with his shorthand notebook handy ready to capture his finer quips for posterity. They also have a Miss Murgatroyd as their foil, a genteel and matronly lady who the Barx brothers almost run rings round in the films – that is genuine as well by all accounts, as she confessed she really had no idea why folk found the films funny.

Molly used to swoon over Stinko, the brother with the longest ears who plays the romantic interest. But then, she certainly has a liking that way – I recall her looking with definite interest at two of the rabbits in our dance class, and of course gentlemen rabbits and deer are both called bucks.

The first-years are starting to pack up for their trip, twelve days out in the Kanim Islands starting this weekend. It will be a great relief for everyone to see them out of the way – two whole weekends of freedom for us. The third-years are working absolutely on full throttle now – if they were engines they would be running like a Schneider Trophy racer on the final straight under twenty pounds of boost and the pistons about to come through the cylinder heads.

Some of the juniors have had the bright idea of actually coming to ask us about it – our third-years being manifestly too busy to do anything but study and only breathe when they remember to. Saffina certainly is used to getting by in a desert climate, but as a matter of equipment we have been able to drop her some broad hints about what to pack and what to leave strictly on the shelf. Songmark has an extensive collection of outdoor gear, ranging from native fish-spears to bicycle generators for battery charging – and any student on an expedition like this can choose just what to take. If Saffina listened to Beryl, she might end up carrying a pair of skis to the Kanim Islands (“glide over the quicksands easy as anything, honest,” and one day we will make Beryl demonstrate it) which she would either have to haul around all her adventures, or abandon at awful cost to her marks as well as pay for replacements.

Florence Farmington is another of the sensible ones and I suppose being not only of Puritan stock but a solid business background would encourage proper planning. She has asked if it is true “real” adventurers cut short their boot laces and saw off half their toothbrush handles to save weight – I had to admit never having seen that, but at the end of a long day hauling supplies, every ounce really does add up. When she is not suffering her unfortunate affliction (Molly says that everything folk falsely claimed as an alternative intoxicant in Prohibition, actually works for her) she is one of the brightest of the bunch, and the rest of her dorm adore her. Rather hopelessly, Ada says, and she would know. I can hardly envy Florence, imagining if I ever had to fill in for Prudence leading her dorm with their interests – it would be like a hockey captain trying to do her best for a lacrosse team. But then, Songmark is hardly going to advertise for suitable candidates to make up the numbers that way – or are they?

Friday 22 nd May, 1936

Farewell to the first-years! They are not going as far as we did to Gunboat Island, but if one is stuck on an uninhabited island over the horizon it hardly matters. Saffina is carrying a proper fish-spear, which should make things much easier (and they are only about a shell and a half to replace in the market, if she does lose it.) It seems Ubangi-Chari does have rivers in their desert, and she is practiced at the rather tricky sport of spear fishing and knowing where to aim to beat the refraction underwater. I fear anything smaller than a tuna at point-blank range would be quite safe from me.

I rather envied them, although we have another big trip on the timetable this term; we only had a week rather than a full twelve days last year, and were sorry to leave Gunboat Island once we had made ourselves comfortable and managed to build a stockpile of edible roots and a relatively leak-free roof. Certainly our Tutors look as if they have confidence in that class, and indeed it is hard to imagine them being worried by what they find out there. Although nobody is allowed firearms, Rumiko has even been allowed to take her swords with her, which she is very pleased with (not being allowed to wear them in class.)

Molly might have been a touch jealous, at least she complained that a longsword and a shortsword are hardly going to help anyone on a desert island, being far too precious to use for cutting firewood or anything practical, unlike two shell’s worth of locally made machete (we have seen the workshop on Main Island where they make them out of old car leaf-springs.) But then, Molly’s idea of the perfect pocket-knife is my Pioneer issue saw-edged bayonet: far too thick for a practical handsaw and (the books say) the saw teeth make it very inconvenient as a bayonet too. It is an interesting idea of Jasbir’s that the recent years of Songmark seem to be recruited from a more ruthless bunch than the Boarding School started off with. Though we never met the first three years’ classes, by the accounts they left behind they were more inclined to exploration and treasure-hunting, and spent less time on the firing-ranges. Either the days are somehow getting stormier outside, or at least our Tutors believe they will be.

Maria is always busy on Fridays with her reporting and journalism class, which she uses to keep track of world events. Whenever she returns to Italy (if her Uncle does not appoint her as permanent ambassador to the German Antarctic colony of New South Thule) she will certainly have all the facts at her paw-tips, even if rivals expect her to have spent three years learning nothing but aviation and the price of coconuts. There is about the world’s smallest Reuter’s branch next to the Western Onion Telegraph office where they let journalism students help out, and a lot comes in off the wire that never gets into newspapers.

She came in today with a rather interesting project – tracing a string of events across the world, these past three weeks. Many people employ “clippings Bureaux” to search for strange things; she mentions Professor Schiller has a standing order on religious revivals and discoveries of archaeological artifacts. The key is to spot hundreds of raw facts and look for a pattern – at the same time remembering that nine times out of ten there is no pattern. Despite what folk say in detective stories, the world actually is full of coincidences.

Maria unfolded a world map of shipping and nautical related events. The first thing that caught her eye was a mysterious fire on the dockside – in Trieste of all places, exactly five weeks ago. That started her looking, and indeed she caught a trail of interesting stories. One of the locks on the Suez Canal was found entirely deserted, with no sign of its crew when the next shift arrived. A vessel in the Red Sea reported distant gunfire on the horizon, though no fleets were exercising in the area. A dozen similar incidents, finishing with a report from Macao of how the elderly but still potent commerce raider the Direwolf had sortied, and was last seen heading South into the open ocean at flank speed.

It all makes a lot of sense when she plots it on a map with timings. That is, from Trieste one can almost push a toy boat across the map and see things happening around it. Exactly what is heading this direction is not very clear, as there is nothing official at all – indeed, no government has said anything, which is rather odd. The last event that the wire reported was the Direwolf sailing, and that was three days ago – but the Pacific is an awfully big place, even if you do know where someone is going.

From what I have heard of that ex-commerce raider, she is available for hire with no unnecessary questions asked – like many things in Macao. One supposes that the prospect of returning to Europe to be interned and one’s ship seized somehow did not appeal to them in 1918, and they have certainly managed admirably as far as keeping their original charter to raid enemy shipping goes. Although the Direwolf’s crew are said to display their Imperial German Naval flag when they raid, their current Government has nothing to do with them. But then, the current Government seems to be more into running Olympic Games, building lots of giant roads and producing hundreds of tracked agricultural vehicles, fleets of which can be seen coming off the production line. Certainly it is very different from 1914, for which we can all be grateful.

When Maria was distracted I quickly raided the waste bins for the carbon papers she had used – by teatime today they were heading out to Post Box Nine, who might be interested. The line of odd events is heading this direction, but of course this could mean Hawaii or anywhere in the Pacific – except that remembering who was in Trieste at the time, I rather think a certain handsome stag is involved.

I feel rather ashamed of myself for using Maria’s work without asking, but I could hardly explain to her exactly where I was sending it, let alone why. That is one of the things that make Helen’s tail and my own droop sometimes – our own best friends, we have to keep secrets from. But Maria can never forget whose relative she is, nor could I ask her to try – and despite what they teach us in Songmark, knowledge is not always safety, quite the opposite. If the folk at Post Box Nine do already know exactly what is happening out there – at least now they know that anyone with access to the public wire and an enquiring mind can work it out too.

Saturday 23rd May, 1936

Relaxation. Songmark feels a much quieter place without the first-years around the place – for a change, our second-year weekend passes are just that, with no escort duty or need to stay within call to act as the “shore patrol.”

Just think, in a month’s time I will be Tailfast again! I would have spent the whole weekend on South Island, but Jirry is busy carrying cameras and setting up scenery for the Barx Brothers on Casino Island. So I carried on with the dance lessons, grimly determined to get back to one hundred percent fitness. It is definitely hard work, but has to be done.

Some of the dance class were missing today, the ones who also perform at the Coconut Shell and other mainstream Euro venues. “Parrot Feathers” has a big dance routine that needs a lot of trained extras; it is dear enough sending the stars and the key production team over here without sending every supporting cast member as well – and Spontoon has a very decent pool of experienced actors.

Madelene X was being sniffy again last week about Jasbir wanting to be a “chorus girl”, which she thinks is very low-key for anyone, let alone a Maharani. From what I used to read in Film Frolics they have an unenviable reputation, which is rather unfair. Most folk would never have the training and stamina to get through one of the classic high-kicking dance routines, let alone the fifteenth “take” of the day after the stars forget their lines again. Society newspapers love to have headlines like “The millionaire and the chorus girl” – but if nothing else he would be getting a guarantee of extreme health and fitness as good as any professional athlete. And just because the job does not actually demand keen wits and a pleasant personality, there is no reason to think it excludes them either.

Although I got through our dance exercises without actually falling flat on my snout, by the time we finished I was feeling quite weak at the hocks. We stopped in Luakinakina Park to rest, which is fairly tourist-free still (most of them heading straight for the beaches this time of day) where we had a very welcome surprise. Our ex-Tutor, now Mrs. Voboele was there with her new husband and newer daughter! We had not seen her since the Autumn term – and of course we all went over to congratulate them.

I remember Helen’s comment then about Mrs. Voboele not wasting any time – after years of being an Adventuress and more years at Songmark, our ex-Tutor certainly seems to have had a fine honeymoon to judge by the timing of things. Looking at her husband, a very dashing equine gentleman whose scars make him look more striking than otherwise, one can quite understand. We did ask if she would be coming back to teach later on; she had been in charge of the class that graduated a year ago, having seen them through their three years from start to finish as Miss Devinski is doing with us. It is certainly a natural time to think about changes, and one could hardly have a bigger one. She smiled and commented that Songmark was in good hands, while her own were going to be busy enough from now on.

Her kitten looks absolutely adorable, though her eyes are hardly open yet. She takes after her mother except for the tail and the fur colour – rather than being cooped up in a perambulator she was asleep curled up on the park grass in the sunshine the way the Spontoonie kittens do outside the longhouses. Of course, one can do that here – back in Barsetshire the park-keepers delight in forbidding absolutely everything as a general principle, and are well qualified to enforce it (our Parish Council has a policy of employing ex-servicemen, generally those who were dishonourably discharged in mid-1917 for offences too hideous ever to be brought to trial.)

Still, by teatime all four of us were down on South Island, even Maria happily changing into Native dress for the day. I must say, she attracts more attention than Helen or myself, her figure being far nearer the local ideal of beauty. I can imagine some of the lady tourists prefer these islands as they need not spend the months before their holiday trying to slim down for the beach. Mind you, some of them decidedly should, as even the most Samoan influenced Spontoonie would admit one can always have too much of a good thing. At least Missy K at her roundest had impressive muscles under it all, but some of these folk one can imagine taking fright at the sight of a whaling ship.

South Island was definitely filling up with the summer crowd, a hundred and more on Haio Beach with the souvenir stalls doing a roaring trade. The waves were just right for the villagers to demonstrate their “surf riding”, that ancient Hawaiian sport. It is good to see they still keep the old traditions up here – in a few decades who will have heard about it anywhere else?

We met some of the Guide School, who are in their “authentic” costumes for the first time this year, and are busy being photogenic for the visitors. Having met them last Summer away from the tourist routes, they wore rather less elaborate and more practical costumes then, although definitely from the same traditions. Violobe mentioned that it was a great test of one’s resolve, ten times a day being the wide-eyed Native girl just in from the forest, with no idea why the visitors wanted a picture of her for their “spirit-box”. It might be interesting to see if we could try that for awhile, and if we manage to convince anyone.

Of course, we did not say that in English in front of the tourists – just as crooners learn to sing and grin at the same time, we have been practicing our tourist smiles regardless of what we are actually saying behind them. Molly’s Spontoonie accent still shows definite Chicago tones, but her language is improving all the time. It is hard work though – I was puzzling out one of the local historical folklore guides myself last week about delinquent Pirates apparently punished by being painted purple – the word I wanted of course was “marooned”.

Certainly we have quite a range of visitors to cater for, with everything from folk who just flop on the beach for the afternoon with a newspaper over their muzzles, to some who insisted on trying the surf riding. I suppose they provided some entertainment for the Spontoonies who can actually do it. Similarly there is just about every species around; some of them look as if they are here for more than a relaxing beach holiday. I would have said that chimp girls are not really made for scanty modern bathing costumes (especially at certain times) but two of them seem to be competing on their display. I felt my ears blushing red at the sight, but they were not half the colour of some things in view. One hopes they consider sunburn a cosmetic.

I left Violobe about to earn her Guide’s School marks, as a very large and loud tourist was bearing down on her with camera cocked and loaded. His souvenir shirt proclaims “I AM A MONG” in Spontoonie, which is as good as a hazard warning light at fifty paces.

(Later) The Hoele’toemi household is its usual friendly place, with all of us lending a paw on the taro patch; with Jirry and his brothers away helping with the films and as tourist guides, they appreciate the help more than ever. Although Mrs H insists it would be perfectly all right for us to spend the rest of the day on the beach, we can hardly laze about in the sun while she labours over a hot fire-pit getting our supper ready. In a way it is relaxing after the week of hard brain work, just to weed and hoe what will be next month’s dinner for the family.

I must say, Helen has rather lost her horror of being “domesticated”. As she points out, she will only be doing as much of that as she wants to. As ever, she is determined to pay her way, and as Mrs H will not accept a cowry of our money, this is the only way she can do it.

Actually, looking at her in full native costume of grass skirt, Tailfast necklace and a flower in her head-fur, Helen looked exactly like the other local girls in the fields around, with husbands working beside them and kittens playing in the irrigation ponds. I asked her if she was planning on getting more than Tailfast this year - Missy K is engaged and Wo Shin is married after all, and I doubt our Tutors would really object if Helen made the case of it being part of a proper career plan. Molly’s comment was that Helen hardly needs to get married unless she really plans on becoming a resident; she has Marti already, and there is “no point in buying a cow, while milk’s cheap”. Hardly the way that I would have put it. But then, the news of Lars returning has put her rather on edge, and she confessed she looks up at the sound of every aircraft to see if it is his.

A fine evening followed, with Jirry and his brother Joni returning from their film work on Casino Island. Jirry has an excellent memory, and by his accounts the Barx Brothers are well worth seeing at work – as well as being very easy to get along with unless one is a Director used to telling the stars what to do and how to do it; they have gone through quantities of directors like Missy K goes through Poi. They do their very best by their co-stars too, as after poor Miss Murgatroyd has been hit by cream-cakes all afternoon in the course of duty, the brothers booked a suitable evening of relaxation for her at their own expense (a palm-court orchestra: not my idea of fun, but it takes all sorts.)

Sunday 24th May, 1936

Rather a damp day all across the Nimitz Sea, according to the radio; I must confess it is a very snug feeling looking out from the shelter of the freshly thatched Hoele’toemi family hut to watch the sheets of grey rain lashing the jungle outside. Molly is in a gleeful mood, imagining how the first-years are managing out on some open beach in the Kanim Isles trying to get their fires lit and their driftwood shelters up. As she points out, whatever happens there is consolation in thinking of others less fortunate. If they had a postal service, I expect Liberty and Brigit would be sending us heartfelt “Wish you were here” postcards right now.

The problem with only having a weekend pass is that oiled fur is hardly an option, the process taking nearly two hours to put on properly and half an hour with hot water and special soap to remove afterwards. That much time can be better spent elsewhere – and indeed I helped Jirry with renovating one of the smaller longhouses of a friend of his who is working on Casino Island for the season. If we did not spend absolutely all the time on decorating, nobody complained – it was hardly as if we had a foreman watching over everything. That could have been embarrassing. It was a very nice morning to be indoors with such company.

Although the rain hardly let up all day we did a tour of local shrines with Saimmi, cleaning and tending them. One of those facing Haio beach had been damaged, almost certainly by tourist brats. I was quite surprised to see just how Helen’s fur bristled at the sight – had the culprits been in sight, the tourist board would not have been happy about their fate. Considering how little Helen used to think of religion, it is quite a change for her. The Spontoonie religion is rather neutral in some surprising ways, and tends toward achieving balance rather than heading towards a definite ideal – Saimmi did not protest at Helen’s idea with the rock-pool and the crabs, the way the Reverend Bingham surely would.

Anyway, an hour’s work cleaning and a ceremony to appease the spirits of the shrine, put things back in order and had Helen merely fuming rather than fulminating. If Helen does settle down in these islands, I am sure folk know they will be gaining a fiercely loyal defender.

Back to a peaceful Songmark, with the third-years too busy to do more than wave and the first-years not due back till Wednesday. We are not in any hurry to see them, as gate guard takes half the usual number of us right now and we trust each other not to illicitly hop the fence. Even Beryl is doing nothing more worrying than looking forward to the holidays and her next adventures, even though she was banned last year from playing at the Casino. I am not sure why they have such a down on “card-counters”, as one might have thought losing track of one’s cards would be the very last thing a player wanted.

For some reason Adele Beasley seems to jump at the very mention of Casinos these days, though as far as I know she has never been to the one here, and with her bad luck she is quite wise not to. She would only get into trouble and embarrassment. When Beryl dreamily remarked how fine it would be for an unknown player to hit the jackpot, Adele looked quite ill and hurried out. Very odd.

Maria is the only one in argumentative mood and it is not too hard to see why. It seems the Althing have very generously offered a bigger building plot for her church, to be relocated on Casino Island this year after Tourist Season ends. The Chapel of the Sacred Heart is rather the odd one out, as in general no “Euro” churches are allowed except on Casino Island. She points out that it has been standing there since 1890, and has a perfect right to stay as it has been around longer than the Althing has been a proper government. From the way Maria tells it, moving addresses is what Molly would call “an offer they can’t refuse”. The old chapel is only timber and corrugated iron anyway, and Casino Island is nearer home for her and most of the congregation.

Still, despite the fact that she is more amused than scandalised by our likings for the local religion, Maria has been brought up to the idea of her Church moving ever outwards as a “civilising” influence in native lands, with the South Island chapel a beachhead on the map. Abandoning it and retreating to the Euro part of the islands looks like a shameful retreat, especially to someone with her background (“Italian tanks have no reverse gears, only forward!” as she sometimes boasts, though I think her Uncle coined the phrase.) Still, as my own Father learned at Gallipoli – some beachheads are better off abandoned as a bad idea.


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