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



Sunday September 2nd, 1936

Back to Spontoon! I must say, everything went rather smoothly although I had feared all sorts of things. Perhaps the people here are not as bad as is generally made out.

Miss Susan was away all night supervising at The Beach again, so I had a very nice last evening. It is very sad thinking of poor Leon stuck here without company, and none of the locals wanting to get on Miss Susan's bad side. By the photograph on the sideboard he was once a very handsome young wolf, and he sadly explained that a promising stage career was cut short when his family did not approve. He and Miss Susan are the last of the line, which is sad too (and it seems his sister takes a great interest in that lilac house down on the Beach, which she owns and takes a personal delight in staffing. One hardly expects her to carry on the Allworthy line.)

Leon proved to be the perfect gentleman, in more ways than one. Though of course I have been careful, he points out that accidents do happen in the best of families. He has seen my pedigree; it must be the copy I lent to Miss Susan to verify my identity instead of my missing passport. I was surprised that he had drawn up a document for my protection - at least, acknowledging everything and taking responsibility for any unexpected surprises. He even had two copies made which he had signed already; like most insurance policies I signed it too, and had one to take with me which I plan on tearing up next month. At least I certainly hope so; a mixed kitten would be a very bad idea especially right now, but one without even a name would be even worse.

Of course, I thanked him for his consideration in what some folk might think of as a rather self-fulfillingly prophetic manner; I am always careful but nothing is ever exactly one hundred percent safe. He is the most courtly gentleman I have met in the Pacific, and from such a good family back Home by his account - he sighed afterwards and wistfully remarked that if he was half his years he would be offering me a ring that does not go around my tail-root but my finger.

It seemed all too soon that I was back upstairs, and after a few hours sleep was struggling into my flight suit and saying farewell to Judy. She winked and slipped me a silken package that she says is a traditional Chinese "Cheongsam" dress and weighs about four ounces total; I partly unrolled it and it passed inspection masquerading as a flying scarf. She is arranging to have it "stolen" by persons unknown before Miss Susan checks the wardrobes again. I met the Doctor again, and half an hour later I was down on the jetty with him and Kwame, who will be flying the aircraft back to Krupmark.

An excellent flight, tailwinds all the way and without Miss Susan's strict presence I felt very cheerful - the Sikorski has a top speed of two hundred and twenty, and I pushed the throttle to the stops on the main ocean leg before the Kanim Islands appeared on the horizon. Considering it is autumn I felt really full of the joys of spring, having gained commercial experience and (hopefully) a large cash injection in my bank account.

It was a great relief to be back over Spontoon by teatime, seeing folk starting to dismantle the big black and white marker buoys off Eastern Island that the Schneider Trophy teams race around. Missed it again! Hopefully at least Helen and the rest managed to see the big finale. At half past four I was touching down in the main seaplane way, nervous as anything about not scratching the paint of my first commercial flight as I managed to taxi up to the Eastern Island air terminal docks as if manoeuvring on eggshells.

Getting through Customs proved a little difficult, with the doctor having his bag searched down to the seams (Kwame stayed outside the Customs area, and waved me off with a grin and a wink.) The one good thing about having my luggage stolen was there is so much less for a suspicious Customs officer to paw over, and even my flight suit could have been X-rayed without raising any ear-tips, for a change. Then, anyone coming in from Krupmark is bound to be suspect. I hardly see the real point of searching us here apart from making the Customs police look thorough, as if we had wanted to smuggle anything we would have landed or dropped it to a confederate on a fishing boat well out of range of prying eyes; fishing boats are never bothered by officials. All I have left is my flight suit, my log book and my pedigree - plus that document with Leon's signature and mine, carefully hidden. A real pulp Adventuress might keep that as a souvenir, but not me. After next week, that is.

An hour later I was on South Island, having updated my records at the Pilot and Mechanics Union Hall. That is, I am now listed as "Some commercial experience" rather than "No commercial experience" which is a small step up the ladder but at least in the right direction. What I may or may not have in the bank will have to wait till they open tomorrow; I have only Miss Susan's word that she paid me at all, and if not I can hardly try to sue her on Krupmark! As Wo Shin has mentioned, there are some advantages to living in such a place.

As I found out while catching up with Mrs. H, I have missed more than the Schneider Trophy races. Jirry was here for four days, but is now off again. Rather bad timing - and my ears blushed somewhat when I remembered what I had been doing those days he was alone here and probably wondering about me.

Helen, Molly, Maria and Saffina were back for the evening meal and indeed we spent the evening catching up on everything. They saw the races, every thrilling heat of them, from the vantage point next to Radio LONO looking right over the pylons. Italy won! That will make Maria good-natured for months, and indeed the Caproni put in a new world record. The British team came second overall using another customised service fighter rather than a specially designed racer, which is a very good showing. France and Germany were equal third on points, and France might have won had Monsieur Crapaud not spectacularly crashed on the final race. By all accounts he claims his life has always been saved by avoiding seatbelts, as he has 30 years experience of being flung free of wrecks. From what we have heard our Tutors say about hard landings, most people would have been dead or crippled before the first year, so nobody is liable to get experience to match his.

The main "Mystery Ship", the Tillamook entry, had a severe mechanical accident and was retired after causing some ears to rise having seen its early performance. Helen says it had some very odd technology, as on several occasions the mechanics were observed before the race starting the engine then heating up the radiators with blow-torches. There is a lot of speculation about that aircraft, which will probably wait till it appears next year. The Germans are muttering things about its evaporative cooling systems, which would leave one's engined high and dry on a long-distance route but might last the course for the Schneider Trophy laps.

Maria says next year her team will be bringing along a Caproni-Campini design that will quite turn aeronautics around. They are trying to compromise between a regular engine and Monsieur LeDuck's "thermo-propulsive duct" and if they can get that working as promised they can expect to retain the title with some margins to spare.
 

It was a change to have a relaxing evening, back in safety at last with some commercial experience under my belt. I could really use some more like this - and though our Tutors might not like where I went, I managed it solo this time and got out intact. Well, strictly speaking.

Although I lost that Webley-Fosbury revolver, there is some hope Miss Susan might get it sent on later, and at least I was spared the trouble of explaining it to Customs. When I acquired my first one there, thanks to Lars we did not actually go through Customs, but then I should think he rarely does. My ears have occasionally drooped at the thought of getting caught officially with that box of "Hunting ammunition" which I now know is totally illegal anywhere laws apply.

I showed off my other souvenir after supper, the Cheongsam that Judy acquired for me. Silk recovers very well from being folded and used as a flying scarf, and I hate to think what this one would cost me full price at Rachorska's boutique. It certainly fits better with Kim-Anh than me as Amelia, being tailored on Chinese rather than Euro models of "respectable". I recall Li Han surprising us by saying they consider the throat and upper shoulders the parts to be covered for modesty reasons; as long as a dress is tightly buttoned up to the neck, it can be slit practically up to the tail-root. This is a very respectable design, from that point of view.

Helen was looking at it rather suspiciously as I modelled such a design, but I could reassure her it was given to me in fair compensation for my other clothes being stolen. In fact Judy kindly kitted me out with all the necessary garments, which are rather prettier than the ones I lost. I doubt I will forget my first commercial trip in a hurry - though I hope I do not find I have any unexpected souvenirs of this trip!


Monday September 4th, 1936

We have only 2 weeks of holiday remaining, until we sew that third bar on our Songmark badges and head in for our final year. Molly says she is definitely not looking forwards to that - but by her account she has had a blissful week helping Lars at work and play. He has arranged some very strange deliveries, some of which are on open display on Casino Island, she says.

I went over on the water-taxi just after breakfast, my bank pass-book in paw and a hopeful expression on my muzzle. Molly and Lars met up on the Rainbow Bridge, a definitely cinematic meeting as he swept her off her hooves while tourists applauded (they have been parted for all of sixteen hours, after all.)

Although most of the rebuilding goes on outside tourist season there are always folk working around Casino Island. Molly proudly showed me a new piece of street furniture: a sort of waist-high metal bollard or short fence-post, evidently cast iron and newly installed to stop wheeled traffic climbing up the pavement. It is hardly anything to write home about, one would think; it looks quite like the original London ones that were small Russian cannons captured in the Crimean War. The mystery deepened when she whispered she and Lars had helped bring in a ship full of them, and these were just the flawed ones that were not reserved for use elsewhere. A glimmer of light began to dawn when Lars suggested I measure them exactly, and see what it reminds me of. There was one ready to be installed on the opposite pavement, so I could see how much was buried underground.

For some reason, a foundry in Rain Island has made up a batch of heavy metal castings in just the same calibre and nose-tail length as the old Austro-Hungarian Naval shells Lars brought in awhile ago. These are certainly not shells; they are blunt tipped and have no rifling bands, obturation rings or anything that would let them be fired from a normal gun. But in some respects they are interchangeable, and with careful filling Molly says the weight and centre of gravity could be made to match. I have no idea what folk want them for, but by using the rejects right in public it becomes "obvious" what they are and nobody hunting for evidence of suspicious shipments would give them a second glance. Lars says surplus shells are often traded around, as all treaties count the gun barrels rather than the ammunition, and obviously a fifteen-inch naval gun would be rather tricky to hide around here. Those things weigh a hundred tonnes per barrel, and the mountings have to reliably withstand perhaps six hundred tonnes recoil energy at the trunnions. Not quite the sort of industry Spontoon can support.

While waiting for the bank to open we sat and looked out over the central waters in the brilliant sunshine, a secure place to talk as there is water on almost all sides and with the stiff breeze voices are quickly carried away. Lars has heard of my Krupmark Island trip from his own sources on the island; he seemed very surprised indeed when I told him who my customer was.

Something is awfully wrong here. I described Mr. Allworthy in some detail, as well as Miss Susan and the house - there are not two such in the world let alone on that island. I could tell Lars was trying to spare me something unpleasant but I dragged it out of him - the "Fat Leon" he has known for years as a rival is not a kindly invalid ruled by his wicked sister at all, but one of the greatest criminal monsters on the island and with a death penalty waiting for him the minute he returns to civilisation! The one thing Lars did not deny was his claims to have been a fine actor when young - something Lars diffidently suggested he was keeping up with given the right incentives.

I think my jaw must have dropped like one of those matinee cartoon animals, as he rather hesitantly explained that Miss Susan is not only Leon's sister but an exceedingly ... affectionate one, who is known to have a malicious sense of humour only matched by her brother. So physically affectionate, in fact, that it is one of the charges they would both have to face if they returned anywhere ruled by law; one wonders how indiscreet they would have had to be to get noticed that way. Leon did say leaving Krupmark would be the death of him, but he did not mention hangmen being involved.

Of course, Lars was once their business rival by his own accounts and one can hardly turn ideas like this around by just one story. Unfortunately there is nobody "trustworthy" to ask on Krupmark by definition, if Leon is not what he seemed to be. There is Wo Shin of course but I do not relish asking her this sort of question, as she would be sure to put two and two together about as fast as Susan de Ruiz does in maths. I had done my best to triple-check everything when I was over there, but if Leon, Miss Susan and Judy had all been in the joke together - oh my. I imagined that document I signed yesterday suddenly becoming rather less benevolent. There are all sorts of cautionary tales one hears about discovering what one thought was a single page, is part of a larger document now bearing one's signature to the whole thing.

The conversation rather palled after that and I was glad to hear the clocks chiming nine announcing the banks were opening. Molly whispered that I had been set up for a fall, and as I queued for the cashier my tail was definitely trembling in anticipation. Our Tutors have constantly drummed it into us that ignorance is not bliss, and what you don't know will certainly hurt you. I became very conscious that I was wearing the clothing Leon chose for me next to my fur - at least, Judy selected them after my own was stolen; if it really was stolen by someone apart from her.

The Spontoon banks are rather odd in that they double as lost-property and safety deposit storage for goods as well as money; it is not unusual to see someone "depositing" valuables such as fine cloth or bags of pearls as well as the usual currency. When I asked what was in my account, as well as consulting the ledger the cashier came up with a large but quite light parcel, labelled "do not open till Xmas" that had just been handed in five minutes ago; I forgot the banks are open at eight-thirty rather than nine in Tourist season to help departing hotel guests pay their bills on time.

My ears went right up and I breathed a sigh of relief as I checked my balance: it is richer by twenty shells for each leg of the trip and five shells a day "retainer" - exactly as promised, but not a cowry of cash bonus despite being robbed of my luggage and such. After all I did very little between flights but eat and sleep as far as Miss Susan knows; she seems to be hard but fair, and that quite fitted with my first ideas. We took the parcel and went out to a small tree-shaded square where I stared hard at the hard, round, flat-ended parcel wondering what on earth it could be. I could feel something light but soft inside when I shook it; Molly suggested it might be some sort of contraband far more valuable once smuggled into Spontoon, as my bonus for my losses on Krupmark.

Although in most circumstances I could have our Tutors put a Christmas present in safe storage to stop Beryl pilfering it till called for, in this case I could not bear the suspense, and unwrapped it. There was a note inside, evidently penned by Miss Susan herself - thanking me for my services, and detailing how much of a "bonus" I would have made had I only put things on a proper commercial footing rather than giving it gratis. As my tail and whiskers drooped and my ears went down like collapsing sails, I looked at the postscript; I could almost hear her voice sweetly announcing that her brother's document was very thoughtful, but she encloses some more practical gifts for me to use next year.

It's a complete lie about felines that will always get any other fur into an instant fight if they bring up the subject. I'm sure it's never actually happened, but folk of ill-will do whisper such awful things involving kittens, sacks and buckets.

Lars was looking away almost embarrassed, which is a first for him. Molly looked at the coarse sack and rather dainty white enamel bucket rather baffled for half a minute before putting two and two together and suddenly reacting almost as if someone had punched her in the stomach: for a minute I thought she was going to lose her breakfast. I was hardly feeling much better myself.

It seems Lars was completely right about Leon and Susan Allworthy - and I remember Miss Susan saying to her brother that she had to make her own entertainment on Krupmark, though at the time I had no idea I was it.

Oh dear.


Tuesday September 5th, 1936

Dear Diary - I have decided to try and look at the bright side. Whatever else happens, I have expanded my logbook and acquired my first commercial experience. In flight that is - I am not sure how I would cope if Miss Susan actually had paid me the "bonus" she had itemised rather thoroughly for each night; better than I remembered myself. The money would have been in my account, and giving it all away to charity would not have changed things. At least the money I have earned is honest money. (Molly says there is no such thing as dishonest money as long as you can spend it, but she would.) As Father has often said, armies learn more from defeats than from most victories, though one tries to avoid getting too much of that sort of education.

Memo to myself: when one is thrown at judo, we are trained to roll with the fall, pick oneself up and carry on. The good news is of course that now I have a fairly healthy bank balance, and with Molly's commercial success with the "Fish Log" she no longer needs every last cowry to stand between her and being deported to the waiting G-men. Last night I booked an appointment with Madame Maxine, having hinted rather at the problem - this morning I found myself passing the very large tiger lady at the door to enter that very secluded walled garden where Madame M herself advises on such a range of things.

Oh dear is right - though she charged me only five shells to survey the problem, so to speak, she had very little advice to offer that I wanted to hear. I am not planning to marry any canines, however qualified I now may be, and unlike my Pilot's license this one is not going to expire. I bowed to her professional wisdom and reminded myself things would have been much the same with that very nice Lionel Leamington, and a proper Adventuress must take things in her stride. Madame M is very sympathetic, but did ask that if I did not believe her when she warned me in advance about this, why am I asking her advice now? It was rather hard to answer that one, so I quietly paid my bill and left somewhat chastened. I did not like to ask about the gold ring around my tail; Judy might have been telling the truth about that, or at least I like to think so.

Well! Having taken several deep breaths I decided to take my mind off things and see what else is happening on Casino Island. Molly was off at the Temple of Continual Reward, where she is keeping up with her favourite sporting scene. I did not know "dirty pool" had its own dedicated following, let alone organised leagues.

The hotels are packed still and will be for another two weeks, while the big tour boats are still visiting. There is a shop in the back street behind the Madston where they sell all sorts of outdoor gear and very expensive bush-jackets, which tourists buy to be photographed in on a few guided walks around South Island then take home to gather dust in wardrobes forever after. In my case it is more likely to be tested to destruction than left dusty, but what does not get used is wasted and I can hardly complain.

I almost had another very unwelcome shock - in fact I did, as I came round the corner and in front of me was the familiar figure of Kansas Smith! Of course adventurers gather at the Madston Hotel, their main meeting-place (when pickings are not good enough to afford the Marleybone, that is.) Fortunately she and the young boar were facing the other way and did not see me. There were three others obviously in their party but though they saw me we had not met before; at least now I know them which is some advantage.

I saw something rather more, that I am still not sure about. On Cranium Island there were all sorts of strange things happening, and Saimmi was warning Helen and me not to look too closely rather than the opposite. Broad daylight on Casino Island is another matter - in that instant of shocked recognition everything Saimmi taught me kicked in like an engine supercharger and I saw something that I doubt the rest of the crowd did: on Main Island it would have been a very different matter which may explain why they are not there.

There is something that follows Half Ration around; on Cranium Island I saw glimpses of it like a dark fire, a shapeless flickering in the shadows though it was hard to say who or what it was following. Even in daylight I could see it was there today; if anything it is like the shadow of a frisking beast that follows at his heels and never strays far from him. This does not look healthy. I remember when Kansas asked Half Ration an apparently impossible question, it was obviously something very different that replied, speaking through his body and giving information the young boar could hardly have known. Having that sort of arcane assistance to draw on could be very useful to a treasure-seeker; by reputation she has found many things that were simply unknown even to legends, and she famously scorns the usual treasure maps and such that most treasure-hunters rely on.

If I saw that thing and understood something of its nature, it probably saw me just as well, which is not good if Kansas asks it about us. I fear we have definitely made an enemy there, and she does not have a reputation for forgiving and forgetting. Dyed fur would not help as a disguise against a thing like that shadow, if it is anything like the stories Saimmi has been telling us and Saffina has confirmed from her own homeland. I had better tell Saimmi about this development but not Molly; it was bad enough on Cranium Island, but I think she has convinced herself that finding things that are immune to violence "can't happen here." It is a comfort to her, and she has few enough of those. I made a mental note to avoid the Madston for awhile, and diverted by cutting up the hill through the alleyways.

Casino Island is certainly bustling, but it is not that big - in five minutes I was passing another disturbing feature, Father Dominicus' new Flying Establishment. He has bought up one of the older hotels, one built just after the Gunboat Wars when this was still Accounting Island and the planners had not quite decided which side the main development was going to face. The South side of the island won, leaving the (ex) hotel rather stranded in a growing settlement of villas rather than tourist attractions. If he fills the upstairs rooms with bunk beds I should think he can get in easily twice as many students as inhabit the rather sprawling Songmark campus, and in his case the churches will be as important as the airfield, and very handy on the same island.

In the meantime, thanks to this project the local economy is booming as he has hired exclusively local workmen on the job of converting the building. Maria has told me about him. He sounds quite the right priest for the job (worse luck), having as much fire as it takes to get a job done, but enough icy patience to sit and wait for the perfect time for action. Professor Schiller did say in his own (very different) beliefs that everything is made of fire and ice.

Hanging around in the street watching would draw attention to me, and we may be called on to look at this place officially later on. So I carried on to the Western end of town, where there are dockside shops and restaurants mostly serving the docks rather than the tourists. Even there I saw a familiar snout; that short dark velvet-furred Monsieur Taupe *, from the French trophy team that by all accounts is delayed leaving while they try and salvage fragments of their aircraft from the main channel. He was looking with horror at the Mixtecan Restaurant, which had a billboard of dishes served in the traditional style with "Mole Sauce." Happily I could recall enough of my St. Winifred's French lessons to explain to him that the main ingredients are actually chillies and not his relatives. Helen has told me about Mixtecan cuisine which seems mostly to consist of chillies, maize flour and beans, quite often in that order.

Back to South Island, where Mrs. H was waiting with for me with another telephone message. The pilot's guild hall must be getting desperate this time of year, as someone else wants to interview me about a flying commission. I have two weeks to spend, and will certainly see what they want. Any reasonable mission considered, I will say - though I doubt anyone will complain if I class Cranium and Krupmark Islands as totally unreasonable!


* (Editor's note: Taupe=Mole in French.)


Wednesday September 6th, 1936

Well, I could spend the next two weeks with Molly on South Island, recovering from our experiences while relaxing on the beach and "investing" my Krupmark earnings in enough Nootnops Blue that I forget for awhile how I earned it all. But the Adventure bug seems to have bitten me - I might have gained experience on the last commercial flight, but not of the respectable sort I wanted. So this morning I was back again on Casino Island, my papers and logbook in my valise and my most respectable Euro costume freshly pressed for the interview.

This meeting was in one of the small rooms at the Pilot's Hall itself, with a very dour-looking hound dressed in black. He was quite stand-offish, and introduced himself as Mr, Johnson; evidently an American gentleman of some religious persuasion. From what I could gather this was a passenger flight on rather limited means - not just two hundred miles to Krupmark in an hour and a half, but days of flying, all the way to the Southern Hemisphere!

I had to tell him that was far more than I had ever attempted before, and that he would be better getting a commercial airline pilot. He smiled a very thin-lipped smile and explained that none were picking up the offer for the money he had available. His next request was rather odd; he asked if I habitually drank alcohol or smoked tobacco.

Well, it has been weeks since I had a nice glass of wine, and I avoid tobacco as far upwind as possible, so I could reassure him on that score. He also asked if I attended a house of worship on a regular basis - and again I gave him the answer he seemed to approve of. (It might have been just as well he did not ask about Nootnops Blue, or ask just which sort of worship I give these days!) Having confirmed that I would work for the specified rate, about 1/10 of an airline pilot's pay let alone a commissioned freelancer, he laid out the offer.

This is different. Mr. Johnson explains his brethren have been granted a 99-year lease on some islands in the Albanian South Indies, and want to found a new colony free of religious persecution. All well enough, one might think. He has the first wave of settlers already travelling on "economical" shipping via Tillamook, but they are assembling on Spontoon as there is a lack of commercial shipping heading to the Albanian South Indies, there being very little there to trade. Coral and coconuts are not that rare around here, and they are too far from any export markets to make trading them worthwhile. Flooding the home (Albanian) market would take about one ship per year, so at least this is not part of a "get rich quick" scheme.

I had to point that out to him as well but he says he is used to it - his brethren are used to living on freedom and hard work in Utah, he says, having been attracted there originally by the promise of inexpensive land and all the salt they can eat. He showed me the passenger list, and I felt my ears going right up as I read the names.

If Mr. Johnson thinks hardship is good for the soul, he is heading the right direction. I just hope Mrs. and Mrs. and Mrs. and Mrs. Johnson know what they are letting themselves in for!

I think I will take this job on. Whatever else folk may say about Mr. Johnson's religion, everyone agrees they are perfectly respectable. After everything that happened on Krupmark, that will make a nice change. After all, our Tutors will certainly ask us what we did in the holidays, and it would be nice to have something I can actually tell them.



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(Amelia's adventures continue in "Nut Farm", a cheerful tale of plantation pioneers. Or something.)