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


Tuesday June 16 th , 1936

Out escorting the first-years to Moon Island for their self-defence courses and making sure nobody sneaks a rifle-grenade into their pocket. We had our own class just afterwards, where I put my Webley-Fosbury through its paces, and our Tutors let Molly and myself use the “hunting ammunition” I purchased last Summer on Krupmark. Definitely it must be for bigger game, as one hit on smaller ones would leave one trying to find where all the pieces landed!

I mentioned to Helen how many of the first-years are from rather odd places – there is Greta from the Danish West Indies, and Dolores McCrae from Scottish Darien (which oddly survived as a Jacobite colony though the average life expectancy in that climate was not much longer than the voyage time to get there.) Helen has the idea that although they may learn a lot about these islands, the Spontoonies learn more from them. Of course, some of them are from “extreme” places, as Red Dorm proves. If they just recruited from the richest and most populous countries, Songmark’s nationality list would resemble a European map and would be a very different place. The current first-year has two Baltic girls (Tove from Finland and Reet from Estonia) and not a single British one if Brigit insists on disqualifying herself.

Helen rather wrinkled her snout as Red Dorm reappeared from the armoury for us to pat them down for contraband. Mr. Sapohatan can afford to keep us sweet by not asking us to work against our own countries, she pointed out quietly – in my case Brigit Mulvaney would do the job for free, and in hers Liberty would hand out any American secrets to their opponents with a smile. One hardly likes to think of some of our first-years getting “into the act” as Helen puts it. Saffina is the only one I would trust with my tail, but then she is from the best Royal Family in her part of Africa. In fact, I am definitely pleased she is coming with us to Cranium Island later on – she is as big as a full lioness for starters, and her parents made sure their children are definitely well supplied with hybrid vigour.

A fine day for flying in the afternoon, and indeed we had a trip to remember. Our Tiger Moths have a service ceiling of fourteen thousand feet, and today we were given the task of getting there. On again with the wool-lined leather flying suits we put away in February – and a very hot stagger out to the runway; our fur will reek of mothballs for days.

I must say, the first part was thrilling with our formation climbing up in a loose spiral above Main Island, seeing the fields grow smaller and the ships shrink to dots beneath us. We were soon very glad of our Sidcot suits, as two miles high the air is definitely chilly in the slipstream even in June. After that, things became rather difficult – the aircraft began to misbehave, as even at full throttle there was not quite enough air under the wings to carry us comfortably. It was most alarming to feel our sturdy Moths developing unsuspected vices; rather like watching an old friend getting drunk and violent.

Beryl was the first of us to get into difficulties; she pulled a turn a little too tight at fourteen thousand, dropped a wing and went into a spin – I counted twenty full turns before she pulled out of it three thousand feet below and headed back down as we were told to do. Madelene X was next, pulling a rather nasty whip-stall and dropping straight down.

At “maximum angels” as Helen picturesquely calls it, things get decidedly tense. Another fifty knots would make all the difference in the world, but until someone puts a supercharger on a Moth, this part of the flight envelope feels like edging along an ever-thinner branch – one mistake, and down you go. Helen, Maria and Carmen all held the top altitude, as I did myself – literally balanced in the air like a tight-rope walker, with just the disturbance of sticking one’s paw into the slipstream being enough to topple the balance. In fact I did that myself, feeling the Moth trying to spin but managing to coax it into a tight spiral dive, an exhilarating ride with the wind singing past my ears and the airspeed indicator was passing a hundred and fifty!

We probably get in twenty hours of flight time a week, weather permitting, and today was something of a finale – the highest and fastest our faithful Moths are going to carry us. As our Tutors keep impressing on us, one never stops learning, even with years in the same aircraft – but I think we will be learning faster now on other mounts.

Actually, it was scorching hot on the runway as I handed over to Belle after the usual five minute check. By the time she had signed for it and refuelled, I was absolutely melting away inside the Sidcot suit. Helen and Maria were in just as bad a state (Carmen is of course Mixtecan and accustomed to the heat) and as soon as we filled our log books we took the chance to head straight over to Song Sodas.

Although we have our share of adventures, things definitely do go on behind our tails. There were a dozen folk in there including Jasbir’s dorm – who seemed rather hushed and shocked. It takes a good deal to shock Irma Bundt; if one told her the Great War was re-starting she would just quietly head out to the shops and corner the market in strategic bully beef and Maconochie.

Lars was here! To be precise, he was outside but did not come in. Miss Devinski was here as well, and faced him on the doorstep. They were both outwardly polite, but she was absolutely icy. He assured her he never enters anywhere unless asked in – but he had never been to Song Sodas before.

Our Tutor’s reply was that he never would – and turning to Jasbir’s dorm and the hired help serving, she snapped that any of them who asked him in would be fired or expelled respectively, without appeal. She charged Jasbir to make it very clear to the rest of us.

Lars bowed politely, and just as politely invited her to take him to court any day she named – with a jury of star-nosed moles to decide if he had done anything to anyone unwillingly on Spontoon; the loser to leave the islands forever. It was quite a scene to hear Jasbir describe it (and her family have professional story-tellers at Court, which she has learned much from.) If looks could kill, the ricochets would have left few survivors in the place.

Well! Helen nodded significantly, adding that she is not surprised at all. She reminded me of my original opinion of him – and how very strangely it changed. Sometimes I wish I had not posted my first years of diaries back to Barsetshire for safe-keeping, as I have nothing written down here as to what did go on. Helen says it might make quite a difference; apparently at one stage I was the only witness against him when Molly and those other folk were kidnapped in the Papeete Influenza outbreak.

Anyway, a round of rum and vanilla fudge sodas cooled everyone’s nerves as well as snouts, and we left Jasbir drafting a notice for the second-year dorm. I must definitely tell Molly – who is no respecter of Authority, but quite sensible enough these days not to risk her Songmark place. After all, she has nowhere else to go.


Thursday 18 th June, 1936

An interesting day, with us escorting first-years to Casino Island for classes at one of the “Euro” schools. We scarcely know any of the non-natives apart from Nuala and her mother the Countess, but there are hundreds of folk born Spontoonies who never put on a grass skirt in their lives. There are Chinese, European “Euros” (even the Chinese are called euros by Spontoon usage) and quite a few others. Madelene X approves, pointing out that just because Helen’s ancestors went across the Atlantic they did not don local war-paint and feathers. Possibly some did, but that idea would only set Madelene off again on another rant about the evils of “going Native”.

Having an hour before we had to pick our juniors up, Maria suggested a stroll by the docks, out West towards the new jetties. There were certainly fewer tourists to be seen, and indeed the area has a certain “reputation” especially at night. Casino Island does seem to cater for all tastes, including the ones who like to watch non-serious barroom brawls and tell their friends at home about the wild and rugged islands they survived on.

Thinking of which, we did see some familiar faces. By the Old China Dock, that interesting nautical trio we met last month were there – the rugged sailor gent was in spectacular unarmed combat with another sailor, a huge dark-furred bristly bull with no visible neck who anyone would think could have snapped him like a twig. I have to say the rest of the crew were no earthly use, the skinny girl just ran around shrieking while the fat cook looked on placidly munching a hamburger. I was about to suggest to Maria calling the police on such an unequal fight when the bull was laid out flat by a blow like a battleship shell. I have absolutely no idea how he did that – but if he can do it on demand, he ought to be in the boxing ring or in movies! I mentioned the notion, but he said he is happy being what he is.

Actually, Maria was quite keen to use her first-aid on the defeated party, who came round in a few minutes. That was definitely impressive in its own right, had the fellow a neck he would have probably broken it after that punch. If he had been hit with a railway sleeper he could have hardly been knocked off his paws like that; Kilikiti bats are not in the running. Maria was very glad to see him little damaged despite everything.

Poor Maria – we will have to arrange something like fur dye for her in the next year, as her international fame is something of a social handicap. The rest of us are not planning on going into public politics and leadership after Songmark, but Maria has to be decidedly discreet. She grumbled good-naturedly about Helen and myself getting all the best boys, forgetting the company we were in.

Madelene X had a lot to say about that; looking down her snout at Helen and myself she commented it was just as well we kept in with our jungle friends around here, as if we returned home and ever tried to marry we would find out how much of a market there is in civilised lands for damaged goods.

It was just as well there was a crowd on the street with a constable proceeding toward us having heard the commotion or Madelene would have finished the day distinctly damaged herself, and in a more visible way. The trouble is, from some people’s point of view she is not exactly wrong. A native “Wahini” is expected to bring a certain amount of experience with her to the honeymoon and a European girl of good family is absolutely not. On my Gilbert and Sullivan Isles trip, with fur dye I could have been a very successful Adventuress managing to snare that very nice Lionel Leamington – under my own name as his innocent blushing bride I fear I could not quite be so convincing.

Oh well. One can hardly be a swimming champion and keep the fur dry.


Friday 19 th June, 1936

We managed to cheer up Maria today quite convincingly – not indeed by arranging a discreet romance, but with the arrival of the Italian Schneider Trophy team! The advance guard of them touched down off the Air Terminal this morning in four big Cant seaplanes carrying mechanics and organisers ready for the aircraft and pilots.

There was a lecture from our departing Herr Bussmann first thing, where he expounded on aircraft industries as a whole, pointing out how Boing Aircraft in Seattle have cut the person-hours needed to build an aircraft by half by putting far more automation and less hand-crafting on the assembly line. Maria rather sniffily dismissed it after the lecture as “monkey-work”, pointing out all the Fiats and Capronis are built by experienced craftsmen with at least a seven-year apprenticeship. Her country’s “artisanal” idea certainly has done well providing specialised aircraft for the Schneider Trophies, but I cannot help wondering how well they would scale up to turning out thousands in emergencies. In the Great War there was no time to start training folk on seven-year apprenticeships.

Susan de Ruiz was definitely down in the dumps today and no wonder; her family’s aircraft factory in Spain has been captured by the Reds. Spain is looking more dangerous than ever; definitely our senior Conchita is looking worried apart from the strain of her final exams. Her family are prominent in the news, being involved with that record-breaking “air bridge”. A whole army transported from the Sahara to Spain, in a few days! We have heard worse news, Susan has told us of the only European equivalent to Songmark having to pack up and scatter. It is a pity we cannot take them in here, but a Songmark education needs resources that cannot all be loaded into a transport aircraft.

Just think – in a month Conchita and the rest will be gone and we will be third-years. Well, we will be the senior year at any rate. An exciting, but slightly fur-raising idea. There will be a lot of farewells on these islands starting next month – from what Conchita says, nobody is planning on staying after the Schneider Trophy. Many of our Seniors have island friends, in fact most of them – it makes for an interesting life to head out into the world, but I would hardly think it a good idea to be a sailor-girl “with a boy in every port.” Still, the market for Songmark girls making their living is thinly spread worldwide, and we can hardly all set up shop on Eastern Island.

That is another strange difference between the years – what with my dorm and Prudence’s, so many of my year have “gone Native” – and I would be surprised if Prudence does not stay here with Tahni; much to Helen’s discomfort that pair is getting Tailfast again this solstice. Definitely there is no-one like Tahni in Lancashire.

It will be nice not to have to shepherd the first-years around the other islands, true enough; this afternoon we took them round the hospitals on Casino Island. Saffina is now the head of her dorm, which is quite an achievement for someone of her background. She has an actual Parisian girl, Grisette St. Etienne in the dorm as well, causing our “beloved” Madelene X to grit her teeth and threaten to write home about it. Although Saffina won her post fair and square, having a pure-blood Parisian under the (rather friendly) rule of anyone from their colony of Ubangi-Chari is guaranteed to make Madeleine’s fur bristle. I have not heard Grisette complain yet.

We did have nearly an hour to ourselves, and mingled with the tourists near the Casino. It was a fascinating experience as always, seeing a tour-boat docking and a swarm of invaders storming ashore with their cameras cocked and loaded. One can see that the boats must have lists and maps of attractions, as the crowd wasted no time looking for street-plans but split into marauding squadrons heading straight for their various targets. The new “Criminally Insane Croquet” course near the sea-front did very well, having upstaged last year’s fad of Crazy Golf, and the Casino has an outdoor tent where those not formally dressed can lose their holiday allowance on the turn of a card.

The Coconut Shell and all the other dance halls are in full swing now, and every lunchtime one can see plainly dressed dancers taking the air at their breakfast-time, having entertained in the casino till the small hours and about to start their exercise routines. Molly is really quite impressed; in Spontoon they are professional dancers as dedicated as any Olympic athletes, and not what she called “B-girls” as she knew back in Chicago. I did ask if B-girls are any relation to G-men; she was quite horrified at the idea and seemed to think it quite insulting to the girls.

I must say, it surely takes determination to stick at a tourist stall all day long throughout an entire Season. What is fresh and exciting to five batches of visitors a day surely wears on the nerves after awhile: indeed I saw one Spontoonie on his rest-break cheerfully breaking a worn record in two and slinging the fragments into a distant bin with accuracy that should have sent him to Berlin as a discus thrower. It was a classic from the first-ever talkie, “The Scat Singer”, with Al Pugson’s inimitable voice singing “You are my son, chien, my only son, chien.” Still, after listening to it every hour for a week or two I would be tempted to take the record out to the firing range and provide it with some extra holes.

Jirry has been saying he is giving up the tour guide business either this year or the next, as like most folk he fears his native supply of patience will run out when least expected. Squeezed into a refreshment tent by a suddenly advancing tour-boat crowd, one can quite sympathise. At Madame Maxine’s we were taught that one should be able to make an impression across a crowded room – but by one’s dress-sense, not the strength of one’s perfume! One of the large matrons had a voice that could probably make an impression across a crowded hangar. While engine-testing.

Although various folk still deny it, one thing that Father says we learned in the Great War is that even the best have a finite quantity of nerve, and even if you won medals earlier, it may fail later on. Moral fibre seems to be like dural, perfectly sound on its first test but liable to fail under enough fatigue. It would be rather bad for the Tourist Board if a Guide snapped under the strain one day and let some of our tourists know just what they really think of them, in English.


Saturday 20 th June, 1936

The Schneider Trophy teams are definitely assembling; today the Germans arrived, in a tight formation of flying-boats that touched down just after lunchtime. I expect that black-furred Miss Klensch will have an awful lot to say to them; part of the reason folk arrive so early is to fine-tune the aircraft for the local conditions, and she has been here all my time on Spontoon. After all, the racing aircraft are built to the tightest possible margins – and one calculated to take off in the legal distance in the dense air of a Baltic January day, will never manage it in these islands in August.

Considering the usual competitors for Spontoon’s main aeronautical event, it is rather odd that our first-years have no Germans or Italians (Maria is the last one of her countryfolk to get in) – or British, for that matter. One hopes our Tutors are not being prejudiced about it, though of course it is hardly a thing we can ask them and expect an answer. There was Erica who left a year ago, but she would have applied some time in 1932, when things were different over there. Looking at the year books of the first two classes to graduate, six of them came from Germany, plus one who listed her place of birth as “German Marshall Islands”, a name that has vanished from the map. I can hardly count Hannah Meier, whose family is what Helen calls assimilated American.

Anyway, the Island Bird-watcher will have a busy time of things in the next ten weeks, what with the official racing teams and all the folk coming to watch them. One wonders just how the locals did persuade the Trophy team to hold it here, considering Spontoon has never entered a national team let alone won it!

Our third-years are off all next week, on a survival exercise so grim that not even Beryl has yet found a way of exaggerating it. I have borrowed one of Conchita’s manuals which she has finished with, rather grimly entitled “Things that you can eat and visa versa.” Of course it is quite like reading a medical book full of awful things that someone somewhere had; one starts to take it personally and wonder if that slight itch is the first sign of Peruvian Sarcoptic Mange. Conchita is out with the rest of the third-years this week on a very practical final field exam, and it is too late now to read up on theory.

Beryl claims there are discreet wards set up for hypochondriacs, staffed by folk who have been convicted of masquerading as doctors. Our Matron Mrs. Oelabe could definitely cure them I should think – one of Florence’s first-year dorm tried to get off last week with a clinical case of “Malady Imaginaire” which I think she is now immune to. Old-fashioned country doctors used to prescribe a thorough purgative as the default treatment, so there can be no harm in it.

She has claimed some interesting things this month! She mentions an ancestor who was a harpooner in the Arctic and hunted great white whales. I would have thought mice were rather small for that sort of job; Molly on the other paw comments that even without a harpoon, Beryl is our champion “line-shooter.”

(Later) Helen and I have permission from our Tutors for South Island tonight, so we headed out with Prudence in time for one of Mrs. Hoele’toemi’s fine meals. I have to confess my tail was drooping somewhat, knowing my friends are getting Tailfast and I am disqualified. I will only have one more chance at this before I finish at Songmark!

The entire Hoele’toemi clan was assembled including Saimmi and Moeli, who I have hardly seen in months. Moeli will be seeing her husband’s side of the family tomorrow, something I would love to do. But I volunteered to help look after the village; it is Tourist season after all and the hotels a mile up the road are packed with all sorts of folk. The locals have rather a problem tomorrow, with everyone who is in the local religion wanting to go to the Tailfasting and other ceremonies, leaving the place rather empty. Two years ago someone raided one of the neighbour’s houses and made off with some rather special ceremonial items used in the Winter rituals, which probably fetched a pretty penny from some private collector. Although perfectly suited to the climate, palm-thatch and rattan matting longhouses are not exactly built to be burglar-proof.


Sunday 21 st June, 1936

A fine day for most people, though generally a disappointing one for me! I was up before dawn to see the family off to Sacred Island, Prudence having stayed in the village women’s hut overnight and meeting Tahni on the beach. Jirry was going to stay on with me – but I could see him following his brother and Helen out with his eyes. I kissed him and told him there was no point in both of us missing the ceremonies, and he gratefully responded in kind. It is not every day one’s brother gets Tailfast, and he hurried out to catch up with Marti and Helen. I had thought about attending myself – but it would be too painful.

It felt rather odd being almost alone in the village with just the aged Mama Tupu’kalo and a dozen cubs too young to make the journey; even with the best local boatmen the reefs around Sacred Island are savage and capsizing is not unknown. We stayed in the village centre, by the one longhouse with a telephone – although of course we did not expect trouble, it is always best to be ready, and the local police are quite aware of the village problem today. I had my Webley-Fosbury in my bag, although it does not really go with my Native Costume. Surprisingly, when I told her what I would be doing Miss Devinski had let me take it along with the box of “hunting Shells” that I bought on Krupmark and she has warned me never to try carrying through Customs anywhere. Having tried two of them I can see why, as there are definite international treaties on mercury-cored bullets.

Actually it was a perfectly calm morning as Mama Tupu’kalo and I had our work cut out looking after twelve cubs and making sure they did not wander off. There were some tourists wandering down to Haio Beach itself, though they seemed not amazed to find it empty of concessions stalls today. It is Sunday, after all.

I suppose it is hardly surprising that folk jump to conclusions. Mama T is feline, certainly old enough to be my grandmother, and we were dressed in quite similar costume. Some of the tourists got the impression we were all one family, including the twelve cubs of various species! One respectably dressed canine lady kept looking at me and then at the cubs, her ears perked right up and her eyes going very wide as she obviously tried to work out how I had managed it. I could have enlightened her, of course, had I felt like it. I wonder what sort of tales she will be telling about the Natives when she gets home.

What with waking two hours before dawn and all the cub-watching I was decidedly tired by lunchtime, and while Mama T cooked I managed to calm the younger ones down with a story. The four youngest, Jirry’s remoter nephews and nieces I think, were very well-behaved and took a nap. That is how folk found me on their return from Sacred Island, watching over the village with four sleeping cubs more or less squeezed into my lap. It was rather a strange sensation – although Helen and Prudence have new Tailfast fur braids, for the minute I was the one with the kittens. Mrs H seemed very pleased at the sight.

A fine celebratory lunch followed; Prudence waved farewell and headed out with Tahni to her Main Island village, and no doubt to show off to her friends. Definitely they are a happy couple, and Tahni is very devoted to her. One imagines when European explorers first got down to Tanganyika and met the friendly native hyena girls, they had rather a shock. Helen also looks very happy, and no wonder – I would have been myself, with a twisted braid of my fur and Jirry’s witnessed in front of the priestesses and congregation. Some things money cannot buy.

Helen had one worrying note; she says one of the Wild Priests turned up, and after the ceremony solemnly warned her and the rest to defend their lockets and those of their partners with their lives. Nobody said that to us last year! Saimmi has mentioned the mystical significance of the lockets, which are in a very real sense like spiritually exchanging door keys. It is rather galling, that although I seem to be trustworthy enough to be left guarding the village children, Saimmi will not let me be Tailfast to her brother. It is one thing to be told there is a shadow over me, but it might be more useful if she would explain what it is and what can be done about it. It feels rather like the time I tried to leave the Gilbert and Sullivan islands only to be told by the authorities my papers were “not in order” with no further explanation or hint of how I could improve matters.

Saimmi thanked me for looking after the place, as apart from Herr Rassberg in his shop on the coast there were very few folk around to watch over the village except for the sick and elderly. I hardly expected to need to defend the place, but it was good that I could at least keep an eye open for trouble. She noted that Helen has a Pass till curfew tonight, and will presumably be making the most of it with Marti.

My tail drooped, but Saimmi had a diversion that I certainly did not expect. She asked if Jirry and I would be interested in a trip to Meeting Island; as I have never come away from one of her outings without having learned something, I agreed on the spot. Although we had to wait awhile for a water-taxi, by three we were on the slopes of the island’s crater.

I know their Aunt Mililani lives in seclusion in the centre of the island in that sanatorium which holds the cripples from the Gunboat Wars, such of them as survived the 1918 influenza and the Papeete version last year. But although she picked flowers and motioned for us to do the same, it was not the sanatorium we went to.

Dear Diary: though Molly and I scraped through the typhus we picked up rescuing the Sturdey boys on Albert Island, we knew one of our ship’s company had perished. Of course, we were ill for weeks and hardly knew a thing about it at the time. A sad loss; Hinewehi was one of the cheeriest and perkiest of the Meeting Island coyote girls, which is saying a lot. It is an unfair world, where the Sturdeys got off scot-free and not even discouraged in the slightest, except that Beryl mentioned relieving them of their wallets and more (I can hardly believe that one; we would have heard their howls from Hawaii.). We paid respects to where she lay – though Saimmi did mention a rather surprising belief.

As the Spontoon islanders assembled their “custom” and beliefs from a wide stretch of the Pacific cultures, it is not surprising that they have quite a mix, and that I have not yet heard half of it. It hardly fits in with what the Reverend Bingham preaches, but then that is his job to persuade the locals of the errors of their ways.

Saimmi says that though it does not happen as standard, one belief is that in some circumstances the spirits of islanders come back to be born again on the island. An elder such as Mama Tupu’kalo who has lived a full life would probably not want to, but someone who was lost to the islands far sooner than they should have, may well do. She mentioned something about their customs when celebrating the loss of a brave warrior or equivalent, which is something like one hears of an Irish “wake” but yet more positive. According to Saimmi, one or two of Hinewehi’s friends that night probably “left the door open for her” as she puts it; alternatively if her spirit does return she might be welcomed as an Albert Islander next time, as some of them came to the ceremony and by tradition might have done the same.

Although it is scarcely something one would teach at home in Sunday-schools, it is quite a consoling idea. It definitely makes sense why the islanders are keen to adopt any cub having Spontoon descent on even one side; some of our tourists have an extravagantly good time and then head back to the American Bible Belt or such places only to send for a back-dated marriage license the month after. One hardly likes to think of a warrior spirit being brought up there, if half the things Belle has been telling me of her homeland are true! I always knew the Spontoonies look after their own, but I had never dreamed to what lengths they will go to.


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