Wednesday 8th July, 1936

An unhappy coincidence for us – the first day of our exams and the finale of the Olympics! Of course we might get to see the newsreels later, but we had been tuning in at eleven at night on the short-wave to hear the day’s medal ceremonies live. Spontoon has won just that one medal, but that is good going considering our population, about the size of a large market town in Europe. The bobsleigh team survived with no more than minor injuries, much to everyone’s amazement. I suppose to the rest of the national winter sport teams, having us represented was a big enough shock without the extra amazement of getting any medals.

Well, that is it for the Olympics, and their Chancellor will probably be stuck for exciting things to do in the next few years. In the last newsreel we saw him handing out the medals using a big carved antique gold box as a stand; if nothing else I am sure he will carry on collecting antiques. Possibly that is why he keeps mentioning expanding his living room, it must be getting crowded!

The exams were absolute frighteners, as ever. Navigation was the worst, especially for Helen who felt like writing “if in doubt, trust to my sense of direction”. She is actually rather good at that and rarely gets lost in practice – but that was not what the exam board wanted to hear.
 

Friday 10th July, 1936

Final exams, hurrah! At least, the final ones indoors with written papers. It was a great relief to finish at four, as the temperature is ninety degrees and even with all the doors and windows open the classroom was an oven. Miss Windlesham looked as dusty as the rest of us, and headed straight for the staff bungalow where no doubt a tall jug of Nootnops Red with ice was waiting for her. Just one more week of this, and we will be on holiday time. The third-years have a last week after that, a sort of grace period where they are still Songmark pupils and can use all the resources we have for one last time before heading out into the world.

I must say, our Tutors do work hard. When we have finished, their work just begins, and no wonder they have to put in plenty of relaxation into their timetable. I pointed out to Beryl that they do practice what they preach, and the staff rooms in our compound are decidedly “no guests” as much as our own dorms are. Beryl tapped her snout slyly and suggested when it is our turn to clean there we look for secret passages.

We have heard more about the Spanish Ladies’ flight school trying to find places for its displaced pupils, and there is a lot of speculation that some might want to come here. That would be nice but somehow I cannot see how it would work – we already turn away so many perfectly good pupils for lack of resources. Although the staff rarely talk about future plans for the school, a large expansion would be difficult here without losing the personal touch that really makes Songmark function. I know they have to turn away three quarters of the applicants, some of whom are quite desperate to get in here, and more so with the Spanish school closing.

There are two English girls camped out on the island right now petitioning our Tutors, sisters from the Lake District, a Peggy and Ruth “call me Cap’n Nancy” who would surely do well but have to take their chances with the rest. Even having sailed here from England as they did is no guarantee that they will not have to sail right back disappointed, although it is the sort of thing our Tutors look on favourably.

After all the revising and hard work, an evening free was total luxury. Both my dorm and Jasbir’s voted to head over to the beach, the Eastern side of our island being a clean stretch and fairly tourist-free. Without a proper support team of ice-cream and hot-dog stands, the typical tourist loses interest in mere sun and sea rather rapidly.

Some tourists might have been put off by being right under the approach to the end of the runway (the usual winds being westerlies at this time of year) but not us! I am sure Madelene X will be cheering her snout off when she spots the French team have arrived, carrying with them their Nieuport-Delage and Bloch racers. Anyway, we were the first to see them coming in from the East, having staged in the massive French naval and submarine base of Clipperton Island, just off the Mixtecan coast.

Actually, we had the entire evening off for once so determined to enjoy it – nobody has had much opportunity to spend their allowances this past week, and made Mahanish’s our primary target. First, a very refreshing dip in the Nimitz Sea, watching the aircraft practice above us. Some of them were none too far above us: seeing two squads of us in Songmark bathing costume prompted a couple of the Italian racing pilots to do some decidedly low-level reconnaissance. I might be quite impressed by that, if I was not thinking of what fraction of a second’s slip would crash them onto the runway or the beach and us. Schneider trophy racers are really not built for aerobatics; they are meant for locking onto a straight course with the throttle wide open where the high wing loading and rather small control surfaces are no handicap. If it goes wrong, ten tonnes of hot metal and a hundred gallons of racing fuel are liable to make quite a hole in the landscape, and nobody in the way has a chance to even duck.

Needless to say, Maria was almost swooning at the sight (though literally she isn’t the type to faint; one could break a railway sleeper over her head without her falling down) and the rest of the evening was a variation on “Now that’s what flying REALLY is, it’s a shame we don’t spend our time practicing like that.” I doubt Songmark would have so many folk wanting to send their daughters here if we had the accident rate one would get on her system.

Happily, we are well-known enough to the airport staff that they let us use the pilot’s ready room showers to wash the salt off and change back into our Songmark uniforms, without having to go all the way across to the compound and back in the heat. Mahanish’s does not quite have the dress code of the top Casino Island hotels, but dripping wet fur and bathing costumes are frowned on (and a deserved frown at a Songmark girl gets back to our Tutors at record speed, who repay it to us with interest.) Hurrah for the “Foxtrot Oscar” Chilli, a splendid invention and quite up to the Tindaloo and Phall curry dishes of dear old Saint Winifred’s school, where we had them as often as Songmark serves Poi. I would swap our menus any day, though I fear Maria and Molly would probably go up in flames. It was a great relief to be there with our Tutors’ permission, and not to need one of us on overwatch in case we had to exit rapidly. A white wine with ice and lemonade exactly hit the spot for me, while most folk dived for the Nootnops Blue like water in a desert.

Although Molly has no shares in the Nootnops factory, she has a bright idea of trying to produce a stain remover that can tackle Nootnops Red. I think it must have mulberry juice as an ingredient, which is about the nearest version I know to drinkable ink. It is quite heartbreaking to think of the costly evening gowns and such that have been spoiled by Nootnops Red; as Helen muttered, carelessly using the Red version damages the hat and carelessly using the Blue does unfortunate things to what you put the hat on. The only problem will be getting a stain remover strong enough to remove the Nootnops and leave some fabric afterwards. Peroxide might do it, but one would need to be decidedly careful. Pure hydrogen peroxide is more than a bleach, as Jasbir says her sister Meera has had a few accidents with it in her “Congreve Club” rocket hobby at Roedean. Even the fumes have left her fur patterned in a way her parents did not contribute to.

We had been in about half an hour when I had a most interesting encounter – I heard a well-spoken English gentleman behind me, and turned to see a distinguished looking bulldog dressed in a tropical twill jacket. He gave rather a start at the sight of me, and with a bow introduced himself as Major Hawkins, Retired. He does not look really old enough to have retired as a Major, though many  folk were invalided out of the Great War without any obviously missing pieces.

Actually, he is the first military gentleman from Home I have talked to on these islands; the last time I talked with any Colonial authorities was on my trip down to the Gilbert and Sullivan Islands which was so decidedly awkward. He bowed and told me he had been asked to look me up since he was in the area, investigating points of interest such as the Schneider Trophy. On my enquiring, he admits not having met me before, but says he has seen my name mentioned in some surprising places. I doubt he means the dance pages of the Daily Elele. I asked if he was from the Embassy, but he assured me he had heard of me a lot further away than that.

Unfortunately we had no time to chat further, but he assures me he will be on the islands awhile, and says we will doubtless meet again. Fascinating!

On the way back Molly had been in a good mood considering she has not used any ammunition all day. Unfortunately she just had to be looking that direction when Prudence and Tahni were kissing goodnight outside the compound gates. The really galling thing is they are Tailfast, and well accepted here – if Prudence failed her exams and lost her tuition money she could stay here with her friend on Main Island – I am not sure if they could actually marry, but I can ask (not that Molly wants to know.) In contrast, everyone seems to have rather a down on Lars, and is much happier seeing Tahni with a Songmark student than having Lars anywhere on the map. This is liable to irritate Molly severely, and did.

Poor Molly. Although she gets on perfectly well with Prudence and even with Ada (who seems to be actually trying to “visit every cabin in the Ark” as far as ladies go) she has really picked up the most violent distaste imaginable for their interests. Molly thinks nothing of having us scrub her back-fur in the showers, but Ada, Belle, Carmen and Prudence know far better than to offer. There are things I utterly dislike myself, like eating Li Han’s favourite dish of seaweed – but on Molly’s scale, I would be violently ill at the very thought of it. If a certain tramp steamer ever gets into these waters again, I fear its Captain will not be getting away in one piece, and what the Police or our Tutors say about the matter afterwards will not be a consideration.

It hardly helped matters when Ada bounced in the minute before closing, enthusing over her “school ma’m” arriving in two weeks, the one who is still convinced Ada is a Native girl. Mind you, some folk automatically assume the only folk in grass skirts are those too poor or uncivilised to wear anything better. Ada certainly looks as if she will be having a lively summer in her grass skirt – or indeed out of it.
 

Saturday 11 th July, 1936

Just think – in another week we will be free, or at least on holiday. No more classes in the sweltering heat, no more chasing down Red Dorm on suspicion of what they have probably done. No more picking up poor Florence Farmington after she walks downwind of a half-empty petrol drum. Mrs. Oelabe is trying various native herbs to treat her ridiculous level of chemical sensitivity. Florence would certainly be an inexpensive partner to treat to cocktails, one sniff of a freshly varnished table would have much the same effect.

Happily Beryl was busy today having received a registered parcel with what the customs declaration said was a textbook. I suppose it is even if the title is “101 Secrets of the Professional Card Cheats”. Without her along we had a relaxing time on Casino Island, actually the first time we have been shopping in a month! Though our course has many delights, we do miss out on a lot of what most folk think of as plain and everyday pleasures.

This summer, all four of us are staying on Spontoon – the last summer holiday we will get together. There is no telling when we will be called out to adventure, so we took the chance to get our Adventuring equipment up to standard. Molly has had nothing to wear since October except her Songmark uniform, after she arrived back here in rags having escaped from the chain locker of that awful tramp steamer. She is philosophical about some things, remarking that a year ago she travelled back to America with a whole trunk full of top-quality clothing, now lost in her flight from the Authorities – had she stored it here that holiday she would still have it. Her one Rachorska dress she left here was a casualty of our Vostok trip – though with the success of her “fish log” she can turn her mind to some relative luxuries again. Plus there is the fact that our dear Tutors do not really like us wearing the uniform in the holidays or after graduation; I can see their point. When one retires from the Army or the Police one has to turn in the uniform after all. It would be rather sad to see an “old girl” of Saint Winifred’s still wearing her blazer and hat years later, and the outfit is hardly seductive, what with itchy black stockings and everything.

The tailors on Casino Island are well practiced in making practical outdoor gear, Spontoon being the major rest and resupply centre for Adventurers across a large part of the Pacific. Anyone without the imagination to design their own outfit could simply say “Outfit, adventuring, marine and desert conditions, sized to fit me” and pick up a perfectly sound costume the next day. Of course, we have our own ideas, Molly especially. There is nothing like a year’s enforced window-shopping to concentrate the mind on what you really want.

In an hour we had sketched out our summer wardrobe and left it in the small but dextrous paws of the Chinese tailor mice. Molly did have an idea for a reversible uniform effect: luckily we managed to talk her out of it. Having people notice you are wearing professionally built disguise is about as subtle as an “I AM A SPY” hat. She did insist on having two secret pockets built in, something the tailors seemed quite familiar with.

Between the four of us we look rather like a mixed band of soldiers of fortune; rather unavoidable if one goes for utter practicality rather than a fashion-plate appearance. Definitely skirts are out: Helen and Molly wear puttees Army-style, Maria sticks to long boots and I am trying a patent knee-length gaiter that seals right round the boots and claims to be leech-proof. I will be very happy if they live up to that claim!

We had rather a shock on the way out, hearing someone place an order for outfits for “Miss Kansas Smith and party, archaeologists.” I knew they were in the area, but not that they were coming through Spontoon. Surprisingly Molly knows of her too; it seems Miss Smith has a famous film-star mother who was the toast of the East Coast cinema set around the time of the Great War. Her daughter has kept what looks like the original family name and not gone with her mother’s professional one; thinking about it, Sophia Vavavoom is probably a better name for a starlet than a scientist.

Now we know what some professional treasure-hunters wear, having seen their order! They seem to go in for brown leather flight jackets, high boots with jodhpurs and Australian style bush hats. One of them has ordered a baseball cap with steel lining; although our tailors probably do not have a welding torch in their sewing basket I am sure a trip over to the Eastern Island workshops with the plans can provide that part of the design. It is surprising what information one can pick up from a clothing order. Having seen her measurements, Helen explains one reason why “Kansas” Smith got her nickname – the state in question is flat as a pancake, and so is she to judge by her shirt size.

Our dance classes were fine and strenuous as ever, and included quite a bit of improvised hula. We were each given a short paragraph and had to interpret it as gracefully as we could, while keeping within the standard dance traditions. Mine was “the tourist who never tips” and I think I managed it well enough.

On the way back we saw the first of the French racing seaplanes taxiing around while a motor boat of mechanics followed like a trainer watching over a racehorse. This is the Nieuport-Delage 652, one of two different French racers this year using the Lorraine 12RC “Radium” engine, more than two thousand horsepower of inverted V power. Even Madelene X has grumblingly admitted it has had its problems, little things like catching fire or throwing pistons – but if it can hold together long enough, it will definitely be in with a chance. As our Tutors have predicted about Molly and myself, it will end up with an “A” or an “F” but nothing in between.

Although it was a fine and full day, one cannot do everything – Jasbir’s dorm headed straight for the cinema after dance class, and saw the newsreel of the Berlin games finale. It was quite a spectacular event; later on this summer we are promised a definitive film production “Olympia” which should be well worth watching for the highlights (we saw about a tenth of the newsreels if that; our schedule has been rather tight this term.)

Irma says it should be quite something, although their Chancellor may appear in it rather more than some of the rightful contestants. There was one scene at the end which sounds striking, with him raising that old cup in the dying sunset of the final day, with the Olympic flame fortuitously appearing right behind it in the shot as if it was burning in the ancient cup (I cannot comprehend why he cannot afford a new one.) She keeps up with all the news from Europe, and recounts that he has claimed to have already solved five of the seven mysteries of the Spear and three of the Cup, whatever that means. Irma’s family in Switzerland are in some odd mystical sect based on a fellow called Rudolf Stoner or something like it, who dislike the Chancellor on mystical principles. I recall when she first arrived being disappointed there was not a “Goethaeum” on Spontoon, her own brand of temple.

They also caught up with “Flash Gordon: Invasion of the Space Moles” of which Susan and Irma are great followers. I have seen a couple of episodes, but until the distant day when films are as cheap and portable as gramophone records (if that ever happens) I will have to snatch whatever glimpses I can get.

I must say, one of the things about a Songmark education is it rather alters one’s viewpoints; though they are both devoted fans of the hero, all Jasbir’s dorm think he is completely wasting himself dragging around the heroine who they regard as utterly useless and a waste of space in a cramped space rocket, perpetually screaming, falling over and needing rescuing almost every episode.  Irma described one scene where Dale Ardent spent two minutes cowering back in terror as Flash fought it out with the King of the Space Moles, whose tunnels through the aether had almost reached Earth; by Irma’s account she failed on at least fifteen occasions to help, ranging from throwing the curtain over the King to braining him with the ceremonial statue.  If a Songmark girl was in on these films, I expect the fight scenes might be rather shorter. (Jirry has told me how film stars have knock-down fights lasting several minutes being thrown through windows, down hills et cetera without their hats ever coming off. Their head-fur is plaited securely into special hat linings before every scene.)

Failing that, Jasbir says, Dale could have just gone ahead and volunteered to become Queen of the Space-Moles, who have a rather interesting range of advanced sciences and a natty line in costumes. She certainly looks decorative enough if nothing else, and will hardly get to be Queen of anywhere if she does not make use of her opportunities.

Having put so much effort into our takeoff and landing techniques, it is a little disappointing to hear it will all be obsolete in a few years if the Flash Gordon technologies develop as promised. It is impressive the way the spacecraft take off and land at forty-five degree angles, without needing a runway (just as well. All alien worlds look more or less like quarries and gravel pits.) In the comics they explain it by having “Gravity springs” to cushion the landings; Susan did once write into the newspaper asking how they worked. Their science fiction editor actually wrote back – “they work very well, thank you.”
 

Sunday 12th July, 1936

A scorching day indeed, with the sun absolutely blazing out of a cloudless sky. Helen, Saffina and I met up with Saimmi on South Island, and again met the aged High Priestess Huakava. She has been “communing” as she put it, to try and find out more information about the Great Ritual of five hundred years ago. There are no written records from the time, but some of the rock carvings under the park gravel walks of Casino Island hold ambiguous meaning which she says the initiated can read much into. They date from the generation before, when many marvels had already been achieved (they say) and the path indicated for a leap into a whole new level of power. It might have been rather better for the islands had they not made the attempt.

I suppose “communing” is a rather more traditional version of Ada’s high-speed electric Ouija board, which she used quite a lot last term until her rabbi heard and strongly objected. Anyway, Huakava says the Great Ritual was intending to do something with uniting all the Spirits of the island, but exactly why is obscure. Whatever the idea, it was incredibly powerful – if five hundred years later the islands are still suffering the consequences. One can imagine its equivalent in a Flash Gordon world some great Radium furnace having an accident and rendering possibly acres of land quite inhospitable for ages.

Huakava is really none too sure about the wisdom of us taking Molly and Maria on this trip; if it was anywhere but Cranium Island (or possibly Krupmark) she says she would have to leave them out of it for their own safety. The trouble is, it looks as if this a trip calling for two vastly different sorts of protection; whatever natural and engineered hazards we face on the island are a real physical threat she admits we will need all the help we can get against. But if we get past all that there is the fragment itself – which could be something a respirator or steel helmet will not help against in the slightest.

I did mention Maria is a very devout church-goer and always carries her protective crucifix with her, at which Huakava laughed sadly, explaining it was quite the wrong pantheon – about as effective as trying to jam a radio transmitter with a foghorn, entirely different things. (Li Han has told us about the Chinese vampires who do not fly but bounce, and are defeated not with crucifixes but by slapping them on the forehead with sacred scrolls, like issuing parking tickets.) And there is still the problem of Molly, who believes in no sort of real religion and has flatly refused to attend any of our meetings with the local priestesses. It seems that disbelieving in some things will not help matters, just as one can disbelieve in gravity and still fall off a cliff.

Huakava added that the present inhabitants of Krupmark Island would probably laugh to scorn the idea of being influenced by any ancient Polynesian religious seepage, but it happens anyway. She is not sure if the reputed inhabitants of Cranium Island would notice and understand exactly what they have, and sincerely hopes not; just as the local Priestesses have successfully restrained the power of the Fragment in Crater Lake, it would not be impossible to aggravate and boost the potential of the others if one knew or developed the right techniques.  It would be a mad thing to attempt, but this is inhabitants of Cranium Island we are thinking of.

The trouble with Molly is that once she gets an idea into her head it is rather hard to shift it. Her idea of a tropical paradise is one with no police and plenty of opportunities to use her special interests in a good cause; happily since we first met I have managed to persuade her to add the “good cause” bit. Cranium Island sounds as if it decidedly fits the bill, and she has already put together a list of equipment she wants to take, with my T-Gew as the first essential before little things such as food, water and clothing. When I objected she did at least point out we have been trained to forage for food anywhere but the chances of finding working 1918 vintage 13 mm Mauser ammunition lying about the islands are rather remoter. Her list now has two days of food and rather less heavy metal, although the food is iron rations. She also has a few things on her wants list she is unlikely to get; when Molly talks about “Soup” she does not mean minestrone, and “Jelly” or “pineapples” does not mean the dessert.

At last, a relaxing afternoon with Jirry and family – something I have been missing. Their garden plot delivered the first crop of the year of that branched tuber some folk call “Chinese keys” which was quite delicious. I have heard it has a reputation as an aphrodisiac; when I asked Mrs. H she just laughed and asked if that was anything we were short of. I can ask Mrs H anything. Actually, with or without any help from the local recipe, Jirry and I had an exceedingly … enjoyable afternoon. Absence makes the heart grow fonder!
 

Tuesday 14th July, 1936

Quite a day for aircraft; the British team have arrived with their Hawker “Seaspout” which is a developed Hurricane fighter prototype on floats. It really looks very impressive, and has a three-blade variable pitch propeller which should make taking off (the dangerous bit of a Schneider race) so much easier, with less chance of spinning the aircraft one way while engine torque goes the other. With a fixed prop it is awfully inefficient taking off, if it is tuned for high-speed performance.

The Italian Pegni hydrofoil aircraft actually flew! On the third attempt the pilot managed the very tricky quadruple declutch and spun up the airscrew before it lost too much water speed and sank. It seemed exceedingly speedy, not held back by the drag of bulky floats like all the competitors.

I was just leaving Superior Engineering after my engine maintenance classes when I noticed Major Hawkins, who was evidently waiting for me. He was very polite, and asked me if I had a few minutes to spare – which strictly speaking I did, as classes rarely finish quite when my Songmark schedule believes.

Oh my. I should have known I was in trouble when he (still politely) asked me what the daughter of a General was doing turning against her country, especially having gone through such a fine school first. I could put my paw on my heart and swear I had turned against nobody, and guessed that he had seen whatever report Soppy Forsythe had made of us last year. As he had said before he had not come via Spontoon’s embassy, I said I expected he had seen my name in Whitehall, but asked if there was any evidence apart from Soppy’s say-so. Of course, I hardly expected him to say what was or was not in Secret files, but it did give him pause for thought.

Having seen something of what Mr. Sapohatan can do, I was hardly surprised at what Major Hawkins came up with. He reminded me of various things I had done for the Spontoon Islands, and noted with some humour that I had managed to gain my Pilot’s License in the Gilbert and Sullivan Islands without apparently entering or leaving the country. (I would have been more worried by far had he revealed he knew how I managed that; for the moment it looks as if only the locals know about Kim-Anh Soosay and me.)

I pointed out that as a good guest of Spontoon I was naturally obliged to follow the local rules and lend a paw with whatever good works crop up – and I am hardly going to let them down considering the islands are my only home until someone lifts my name from the official blacklist! I think he took the point. At least, he said that any useful information I could give him would count in my favour – and that he was the only one who was liable to listen to me. With a tip of his hat he walked off, leaving me feeling rather flustered.

Dear Diary: I have heard enough from Maria what happens to Double Agents; the job suddenly has its danger level not doubled but squared. The Post Office was happily just a minute’s walk away, and three minutes after that a card was on its way to Post Box Nine reporting the conversation in a roundabout way. It is bad enough with Major Hawkins thinking I am a Spontoonie spy without the risk of Mr. Sapohatan suspecting I am a British one after all this time!

As soon as I returned to Songmark I noticed there was a locally delivered letter for me. My initial reaction was a certain ferret must have been hiding in the post office and broken all records getting his reply to me – but on the back of the envelope the return address was that of Nuala Rachorska. I had to sit down rather rapidly when I read what was inside it.

I have wanted some more identification documents for Kim-Anh, and in my situation can hardly object if people contribute to my finances. But this is not the way I wanted that to happen, someone sending in a fully-paid renewal form for my Hunting License for the year! Nuala writes that it rather puzzled her seeing my reaction to it the first time round; she has looked at my signature on the application form and swears it would pass muster at any bank.

All in all, a rather worrying day.
 

Thursday 16th July, 1936

One more day to go! The first-years are busy with exams and are in no need of escorting, so after classes I braved Miss Devinski in her lair and begged permission to visit Nuala. It was less embarrassing than it might have been; she seems to have accepted the fact that there is one official qualification I am definitely not aiming to receive. Although she did fix me with a steely gaze and remind me that trying to double-bluff her was a very unwise thing to do.

As Nuala quite shamelessly works evenings, I headed out at teatime and found her at home. I must say she did look very striking, and being half civet cat she has a musk that perfumers would try long and unsuccessfully to copy. I had her letter with me and soon she was all business, taking me into the office she uses and showing me the application form.

Oh dear. I can quite see what she means. I would have said myself that was my own paw writing and signature, and it matches the details on the previous form last Autumn. I urged her to tear it up, and she looked rather uncomfortable – explaining the registration fees have already been paid, and like most semi-public organisations she has eagle-eyed accountants (literally in her case as it turns out) who would ask her where the money had gone to. My good health records are a matter of public record like any other citizens, and having apparently correctly filled in my form and anonymously paid the fee, folk would soon be asking sharp questions as why she was not doing her job and issuing a license.

As she saw my ears and tail droop, she reassured me she would stand up to any trouble that way – but rather curiously asked why I was not Tailfast this season, as she had quite expected it of me (she says one day she hopes to be that herself, though not now for obvious reasons.) It is no great secret that the Priestesses have the final say in who qualifies, and I explained matters – that Saimmi had regretfully blackballed me, rather unhelpfully explaining there is some shadow standing between my being Tailfast to Jirry. Nuala dipped an ear at that and noted that it seemed familiar.

At any rate, I cleared up one problem and hopefully averted our Tutors’ wrath for the year. Getting thrown out of Songmark while not being Tailfast could be a very bad thing – unless I wanted to become Mrs. Amelia Hoele’toemi before they deported me. I hope to do that anyway, when the time is right. Nobody expects everything in their life to proceed exactly on schedule, but that is something I would rather not be rushed into by circumstances.
 

Friday 17 th July, 1936

A great day – the end of term and our results are in, our year have all passed! Our Tutors are not looking at all pleased though, for the first time in Songmark’s history they have had to decisively fail a third-year. It is rather an awful warning to the rest of us, and will be written down in large black letters in whatever official records the school keeps. Unlike a first or second-year exam, the final qualifications are just that, with no appeal or re-takes. We are not officially told who it is, but I am sure the news will leak.

That would definitely be nightmare; Songmark does not offer a “graduate or your money back” course. Three years of hard work, bills and sacrifice, and not to have the qualification at the end of it all. Still, our Tutors have often made it clear that the reputation of the school comes first; handing out a Pass mark to someone they cannot honestly say has earned it devalues the hard work of everyone else, like a forged bank note in circulation. Beryl says there are “Universities” which guarantee a degree if you pay them, but anyone with a degree from Oxfud Postal College is better off keeping quiet about it.

The rest of us are celebrating – a hard term, but it is over. Out to Bow Thai tonight, where the Nootnops Blue will flow!

 
next

(Amelia’s adventures continue in “Summer Daze.”)