Spontoon Island
home - contact - credits - new - links - history - maps - art - story
comic strips - editorial - souvenirs - Yahoo forum

Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
8 May, 1937 to 9 May, 1937



Saturday May 8th, 1937

Another bright day, though with far more of a breeze which made everything far more pleasant. As expected, the place was buzzing at breakfast time with seniors translating the local editions of the Elele into English for the junior years. Most third-years are fairly fluent by now, though Madeleine X only knows (or at least uses) the verbs in the declamatory mode. A regular attempted murder foiled by the Police is one thing, but the heroine of the piece being what the pulps call an “International Fur of Mystery” who has wholly evaded police searches really got tongues and tails wagging. My ears were burning. I can imagine any Burmese Dacoit girls encountered on boats heading away from Spontoon getting spontaneous ovations and always wondering why.

    One result is – just the opposite of what I had hoped, Kim-Anh will not be able to get much fresh air on her fur for the rest of term while everyone is waiting to interview her as soon as she comes out of hiding. Her identity would hardly hold up to police scrutiny, after all. So no more fur-dyed trips to Malou on Saturdays – and anyway I am not sure I could face Malou for awhile. How could I possibly make such a mistake as to her “husband”? Even if we had never met till last week, anyone who lives in a house would leave substantial scent behind them – and though I have not got the best scent ability in the year, I can definitely recognise male musk. With equines I have had … practical experience after all, so it is not as if he was some exotic unfamiliar species.

    Kim-Anh’s silk dress is going to take some cleaning as well, though I have removed the obvious bloodstains off it. That is something they rarely tell you about in genteel police dramas, though some of the handy tips and tricks column from Molly’s Criminal World magazine have proven very effective. It is some comfort that of all their readers there is at least one who is putting the tips to honest use. The standard Songmark outfit is a mid-brown khaki which blends in well enough with such stains, as indeed after encountering the thorn bushes of Main Island the first-years find out.

    Second week of May already in our final term! In two months it will all be over! That is a frightening thought. After a busy hour clothes shopping we made the most of our morning on Casino Island as ever, with the usual dance classes in the streaming sunshine. Everyone was working hard, with the “off-island” Natives about to start doing this for the paying public any time now, and many of the Spontoonies about to vanish into respectable Euro outfits as cooks, bell-hops and suchlike for the summer. There is a rather hollow feeling in one’s stomach thinking of the Hoopy Jaloopy festival at the end of the tourist season when those costumes will go back into storage – and though we all have hopes and plans, nobody knows where they will be by then.
 
    Still, when one is determined to enjoy oneself it generally works.  My dorm and Jasbir’s demonstrated a synchronised hula that Mrs. Motorabhe declared she would display on the stage of the Coconut Shell for the paying public against any competition the islands could provide. Great praise indeed. And hard work as ever – as we get fitter we push our limits, finishing up just as tired as any first-year though for more reward. Definitely when we ran across the road to the sea to cool off, there must have been a scent-trail of musk trailing the class that no Parisian perfume factory could (or would be allowed to) match! It was interesting to watch the expressions of the dozen or so tourists busy with their cameras when the musk reached them, even though we were all out in the open air. Film actors would be counted skilled if they could make their ears and tails go rigid quite like that.

    The Missing Coconut serves an excellent luncheon, and not at tourist prices either. Coconut is not missing from its menu, and a very fine crab and coconut salad proved most refreshing. Then it was time to put the new outfit on – not indeed a Rachorska design (those are commissioned and if I want one to take to Europe I had best get ordering it now)  but a modern and elegant dress in rayon that certainly looks very like silk. It included everything from foundation garments outward, all in rayon and very sheer.

    It made rather a change from the past few Saturdays dressed as Kim-Anh – in fact the dress was the least part of it, and the fur dye not very much more. Malou trained me to walk and move as someone different, which is a much harder thing. My ears went up as I realised this might be my first outing as Lady Allworthy since Macao  – this Summer I will be making first impressions and should start to think about what she will wear. Three years of Songmark are I suppose rather like three years in the army; one almost forgets what “civilian” clothes are like. Anyway, I drew no more than average attention in the street, being dressed much like a well-to-do tourist of the independent traveller type. For a second my tail drooped imagining the outfit if Mr. Sapohatan needed us to blend in with the other end of the tourist scale, the ones who frequent the amusement park and “Pirate Cove”. Horn-rim sunglasses, a Hawaiian shirt that a shipwreck survivor could attract rescuers with from miles away and probably a straw hat with a Spontoonie language inscription that uniquely its wearer could actually read. What it might say, is another matter.

    By the time I had stopped shuddering at that image I was at the ferry slip for Meeting Island, and carefully choosing a covered water taxi that would keep the salt water off the dress. In my Songmark outfit I would be happily sitting in the bows getting cooled by the spray, but it is like comparing an enamel mug with a crystal glass champagne flute. One is designed to keep working after hard knocks and the other is decidedly not. Still, at least it was a nice day to use the parasol that matches the rest of the outfit, being as sunny as one would wish. Opening up the parasol, I thought rather of Beryl’s customised version that has two pounds of chain concealed in the handle. Three years ago I would have either laughed or been shocked at the idea, but remembering last week I have a sneaking suspicion she might have the right idea. Gentlemen in Society are known to carry sword-sticks, after all.

    When I got to Meeting Island I noticed there is a constable on duty at the end of the street Judge Poynter lives on; rather a case of closing the stable door too late but I suppose the Interior Ministry have to be seen to react somehow. At any rate, although it was one of the constables I saw responding last week, he did not recognise me and a minute later I was knocking at Harold’s door. He has a new broom in the yard, not surprisingly.

    Harold was almost at the door when I arrived, having evidently been awaiting me, and greeted me most courteously as ever. I must say, the locals have been busy. The front room was nicely redecorated with a new carpet, and everything sparkling clean. I missed the gasogene, which is not something easily replaceable; antique shops might have one but there are none around here unless the tourist trade in freshly carved “ancient” tikis and war-clubs counts. Still, it perished in a worthy cause unlike the canine I hit with it.
 
    Having been in the court I could be expected to know all the details of last week, so could talk about it without much fear of giving myself away. Harold made light of the experience and pointed out a judge made enemies in forty years and learns not lo lose any sleep about that. It was a very peaceful scene this week, with tea and scones awaiting me as we relaxed on the old but nicely polished leather settee.
 
    As to my problems with the Allworthy inheritance, Harold sadly told me that all attempts at finding any more suitable candidates had failed. Some of the distant relatives have been tracked down; the ones that are not confirmed dead are in prison or lunatic asylums. A fine family to marry into! The only consolation is that I can hardly do any worse. The exception is one who vanished into China six years ago now – it is a turbulent place and he is not expected to be seen again. Only after seven years will he be proclaimed as presumed dead, but I can hardly raise my hopes at a last-minute return from some Tibetan monastery or whatever having heard news of the search from a twentieth-hand copy of the Times. Stranger things have happened but the bookmakers rarely lose money on them.

    As we finished off the tea I noticed Harold’s nose twitching, and my ears blushed somewhat. Of course I had been working flat-out all morning, and even after a swim and shower my body is pumping out a lot of fresh musk and would be for at least another hour no matter what I do. Indoors it does tend to build up, and the more one thinks about it the more it happens. I found myself remembering last week, seeing Harold standing like a rock unafraid in the face of his enemies, and noticed my scent was if anything increasing at the thought.
 
    Harold rather apologised that he could do very little for me with my inheritance problem – I reassured him that if it could be done he would have been the one to help me. He has even heard from Mrs. Hoele’toemi, who has worried that I will end up leaving the islands and her family. Of course Mrs. H was the one who first told me about Harold and his history, as indeed he has been serving here all her life and oddly enough has more Spontoon experience than she has. It is a stirring story of honourable devotion to duty, but rather a lonely one.
 
    I had noticed that I was suddenly no longer at the far end of the settee, but right next to Harold though I really have no recollection of moving there. He asked politely if there was anything further he could help me with – and though it might be rather unladylike, I told him exactly what.

    No doubt the constable on the street has been keeping an eye on the house, and he would be reassured to spot that it was Harold this time who drew the curtains and that all was well. Indeed, all was extremely well.

    Oh my. I had not expected Harold to be as well-preserved as he looks. But I was wrong, and very happily so. The only difficulties were those of his species, and after becoming Mrs. Allworthy that was rather less than it would have been. In fact it was easier than the other way round had I been the canine and he the feline – there are some aspects of feline males that grate on more than the sensibilities of any girl not made to match.

    It was a most memorable afternoon for both of us; happily this time of month I should have no worries about it being memorable in the longer term. Not that Mrs. Oelabe would probably throw me out for that now, whatever else the Tutors do about my marks. Alas, some parts of my brand new outfit were ruined, though it was all in a good cause. The antimacassars on the chairs will never be the same again either, as one tends to forget oneself with the claws at times.

    Harold was the perfect gentleman, and asked me immediately if I wished to marry him after what we had done. I declined as gently as I could – though I am not Tailfast I still hope to be married to Jirry on South Island one way or another. I was only glad to have done something for Harold who has been to such trouble on my behalf, with no thought of any reward. Native girls have a more flexible attitude to such things than Euros, providing they are not Tailfast. The chance would be a fine thing.

    Actually, Harold said there was one … feature of me that he was surprised and not a little shocked by. I still keep my fur trimmed back to the skin in one place, as does Molly – in her case it is a souvenir or rather a reminder of her being captured that first time. Harold has battled slavery in the Pacific area all his career and read many confidential police and medical reports from elsewhere, and says it is something done traditionally by Oriental slavers to identify captives in a way they cannot remove, and without doing them any expensive damage. Seeing such a feature on Lady Allworthy would indeed be a shock! I explained where the idea had come from, and admitted I had got used to the idea despite the constant maintenance needed. To be honest it seems so long ago now that I had stopped thinking about it one way or the other. At least nobody has found it off-putting. I recall indeed one occasion with Molly and Lars, when he jokingly pronounced us a matching set.

    An hour later the curtains were open again and if the Constable had looked in he would have seen a serene Lady Allworthy and perfectly well-dressed Judge Poynter refreshing themselves with more tea. Catching my reflection in the old mahogany-framed mirror, I looked hard but with all my training could not detect any trace. After all, I might walk past Father Dominicus and his whole school on the way back.

    It was an odd kind of thrill leaving the house remembering the same time last week and the rather different circumstances. I had been half expecting Harold to have spotted me as Kim-Anh when he saw me again in the same place, but if he did he was diplomatic enough not to mention it.  After all, Kim-Anh was found not guilty of anything and departed without a stain on her character (I wish I could say the same for her silk dress. It was a good thing it was patterned red to start with.)

    By four o’clock I was back on Casino Island, where the place was very busy. From what I heard, not one but two of the larger tour-boats are already on the way having sailed from Hawaii last night. Tourist Season is about to start in earnest when they arrive and the Spontoonies are moving into high gear. Anyone who is not in the Tourist trade is busily making the most of a final weekend before the flood of camera-snapping and gum-chewing “Honoured guests” start waddling around the beaches declaring how quaint it all is. I must confess, if I ever do get the chance to settle on Spontoon, ideally Summer will find me somewhere the tour-boat crowds will not. Sacred Island is the best bet, and if I qualify as a Warrior Priestess I can go there.

    If the clothes shop were surprised I was back so soon for certain replacement items, they raised not an eyebrow or whisker about it. It is not just her aircraft that a prudent girl makes sure she has sufficient replacement parts in stock for, after all. Just to be on the safe side I bought extras. After all, I plan on being back on Meeting Island next week.

    Back to Songmark, carrying the news of the full Tourist Season on its way rather earlier than last year. I shared a water taxi with Eva Schiller, who is heading back to Germany for the holidays. I wished her a Happy Birthday, which she appreciated. She has had things today she appreciated less; it seems I am not the only one who receives embarrassing gifts although Eva’s is not as hard to pass on as Barrow-in-Furryness. At breakfast time both Liberty Morgenstern and Beryl proved unexpectedly generous. Liberty gave her most predacious smile and handed over a rare second-edition of “Das Kapital” by Karl Marx in the original German, and Beryl presented a copy of “Learn to speak Yiddish in twenty days!” while under our Tutors’ gaze Eva had to practice looking suitably grateful. I doubt she will be taking her presents back home. As she pointed out, in German the word “gift” actually means “poison.”

    Not to be out-done, when I mentioned my dorm have been invited back to Italy by Maria, Eva invited us to Germany where her own Uncle’s name has much weight. It appears he is well-known in political circles and not just in Antarctic circles. I am not sure if we will take up that invitation, but it is always useful to have options. Germany might be on the route to Italy as I have been thinking about my school chum Mabel in Switzerland whom it would be super to see again. Unfortunately, just as now would be the best time to make such travel arrangements it is quite impossible with the Songmark final tests and exams taking up all our time and energy. If we only start making arrangements the day after graduation, the airmail letters to arrange visits in Europe might be only flying out on the same aircraft we are.

    Thinking of old school chums, there was a letter from dear Gwendolyn, only the second she has written to me. Just in time, considering the uncertainties of our next few months. She is still working as a nurse in a jungle Mission far out in the Even Newer Hebrides, and has much to say. She is still scandalised by the Natives and their customs, even after two years. One hears that the famous Adventuress Laura Shieling came from that part of the world forty years ago, being orphaned by fever and brought up learning the traditions of the Trobriand Islanders before her return to “Civilisation” where she swiftly found a world of drawing-rooms and vicarage garden parties was not to her taste. She is an acknowledged inspiration to Songmark, though Miss Devinski has not recommended us to copy her to the extent of carrying guncotton charges in the bustle of our skirts (even if fickle fashion ever brings bustles back again. Stranger things have happened.)

    I was surprised to see Florence Farmington back already, and indeed she has run out of Passes for meeting her friend on Casino Island. I am not amazed – it seems Miss Devinski issued them for Educational needs, and I would have thought Gilda would by now have demonstrated everything Florence needs to know. In fact, Florence says our Tutor has indicated that it would be cheaper to marry Gilda and have done with it. Not what Florence had in mind, at least I doubt it. The whole idea was that Florence was going to return to her boyfriend in America afterwards, without leaving any broken hearts behind as she might if she had joined the rest of her dorm at the Double Lotus. I hope the broken heart involved is not hers, as I would hardly thought of Gilda as the sort of bride to write home about despite her profession being legal here.

    Back to our dorm to discover Molly, Maria and Helen have had a lively afternoon without me. There was an Embassy function Maria was invited to; she is invited to many but rarely has the time or inclination to attend. Today she went along, mostly to get up to speed with what is happening outside the Nimitz Sea area. Though I have never been to one of the Embassy functions I have heard a lot about them – an interesting clash of politics and personalities, rather like the rest of the social whirl actually but with more chance of armies and assassins being called for the morning after. Helen and Molly might not have the social training to rub by with the diplomatic corps, but they are jolly good backup for Maria.

    It seems today the backup was almost needed. Last time Helen used the skills Saimmi has taught us on a Mr. Pettachi, the bovine gentleman who has been taking such an interest in Maria. Of course foreign Embassies are hotbeds of political ambition with highly placed and unscrupulous furs keen on pulling down their rivals, and Maria is recognised here as something of a secret weapon for Il Puce. Back in Italy by all accounts she has been almost forgotten, being three years away from Rome. Before her Uncle came to power, that time would have seen the rise and fall of ten or a dozen Italian governments! None of them would have got anything done, Maria says, let alone paving the way to the ideal of the triumphant Third Rome (Herr Hitler pinched the idea for his Reich, as he pinched many of Il Puce’s ideas). The Embassy here have been following Maria’s progress though, and spotted her potential threat to them if and when she returns.

    Having Helen on the job at an Embassy is something most diplomats are not expecting. She says there is an unwritten rule against star-nosed moles becoming career diplomats, but a Warrior Priestess is less conspicuous and in a different way equally revealing. This Signor Pettachi had evidently wanted Maria for himself as a sort of married sporting trophy, but has realised she has become far too powerful and confident for that. Maria noticed his ambitions years ago and was more amused than anything, but now she is less amused. Being already something of a Diplomat she has not yet been persuaded by Molly’s suggestions of which of his bones to break although she has kept her options open on that score.

    Still, it hardly seems he will get the chance now as indeed Maria will be elsewhere fairly soon. As will we all. I have written off to Father telling him to expect us in July, details to follow, as a party of at least four. Father is on a wandering commission on the South Coast helping fill the gaps in the sound-mirror array that keeps an ear on what the French Air Force may be doing. They are our allies indeed, but are much troubled with Reds in the form of their “Front Populaire” and are a nation always prone to revolutions and Monsieur Blum’s government is somewhat aligned with the Reds as it is. Military engineering projects cannot go up overnight, yet friendly Governments can go down much faster.

    For a change, no poi for a weekend evening meal as new potatoes are still in season until the tour boats get here. We have watched the transport aircraft arriving with chilled cargoes of prime meats for the hotel cold storage rooms, as certainly the menu at the tourist hotels is as “Euro” as any tourist could wish. Madeleine X has never got used to our locally sourced diet, and complains that Father Dominicus’ school has never yet served poi. Which is odd, as they are into doing penance and a mostly poi diet would be a severe yet not unhealthy one for most European girls.

  
Sunday May 9th, 1937

Another scorching day, and one where we were very grateful not to be double-timing it across the sand dunes or baking inside an aircraft fuselage sitting out on the runway. Our remaining Songmark calendar is looking rather slender now, as in eight weeks we will have finished the course proper and be starting our farewell week – indeed, some of us will already have gone. Hopefully all as graduates.
 
    Jasbir and Li Han have been offered a job helping out with an archaeological expedition after they graduate, which is nice. I always thought Jasbir would be heading straight back to her home state of Utterly Pradesh to take up her official position, but it seems she has more flexibility than that. She may be a Maharani, but she is not directly in line to the local throne after all. Jasbir tells me her Father may be getting one of the new Imperial ranks, possibly being made a Margrave. The original term came from a warden of the frontier Mark, or Marches, and has been revived entirely for the new Colonial aristocracy who are by definition on the frontier. The fact that they can be immediately distinguished from home nobility by the name helps.

    Molly headed out to Song Sodas where she says she has a meeting arranged, rather a mysterious one. She has no idea how long it will last, but hoped to catch up with us later. At worst, luncheon at Mahanish’s would be no bad thing and there is plenty for her to do on Eastern Island without reporting in for cleaning duty. As Miss Devinski approved the meeting, whatever it is, Molly is excused the floor-scrubbing she is still hit with unless she comes to a “place of worship” on Sunday. Joining Beryl at the Temple of Continual Reward is no longer an alternative.

    Off to South Island, with a distant view of a large cruise liner approaching from the South. Hawaii is that direction, and a couple of hundred eager tourists are loading up their cameras onboard while a score of dusky tropical maidens (some of them freshly fur-dyed for the season) are waiting to dance for them. South Island should be spared today, as tour-boats dock at Casino Island and generally take in the local sights before heading out to the wilder parts of the islands. So the Crazy Golf and the Casinos should expect to fill up well before anyone wanders down to Haio Beach, which is a mercy. There is the smell of fresh paint in the village from the hot-dog and Popatohi stalls that can be setting up on the beach in half an hour when furs at the water-taxi slips telephone the crowds are on the way.

    A fine meeting with the Hoele’toemis, though Jirry had been called away to work with his Father at their “import-export” enterprise, possibly getting things out of public view before hundreds of tourists arrived poking cameras everywhere. Saimmi took us through our Warrior Priestess training, and quizzed Helen on her work yesterday at the Italian Embassy. It seems this Signor Pettachi is known as one of the more outspoken critics of the Spontoonies being “run by witches” and Saimmi has basically issued a license against him. What in most other parts of the world would be called a Hunting License. Of course she would not get directly involved except in emergency, but says she will be interested to see what Helen and I come up with. A General orders missions but leaves it to the troops to carry them out, after all.

    An excellent luncheon, which we helped prepare as ever. It is quite an honour cooking for Saimmi as Spontoon’s High Priestess, especially as she has a high opinion of our culinary skills. She is rather ambivalent about my problems as Lady Allworthy – on the one paw she is sympathetic to the trouble it is causing between Jirry and myself, but on the other, as a religious leader a Lady Allworthy of my Spontoonie sympathies and knowledge sitting in the House of Lords would be no bad thing. I could do more on the wider stage than being Mrs. Amelia Hoele’toemi, proud owner of a new longhouse, a loving husband and a hut full of kittens. Doing both simultaneously is quite impossible, as the British Parliament is not run by postal votes.

    While Helen and Marti vanished off to the guest longhouse for the afternoon and Saimmi had to be about her duties, Maria and I followed Moeli down to the beach while it is still tourist-free. Indeed, the second tour boat could just be seen on the horizon. Moeli’s kitten is due next month and she was telling me the special precautions she would be taking. She has a remote beach-side hut reserved with the assistance of two friends and a local midwife on the unvisited Western side of Main Island, and her husband’s family of the Natives of No Island will be attending the birth. Her kitten naturally will not be delivered in the Casino Island hospital where they have visiting Euros and especially doctors.
 
    It was a very fine and relaxing afternoon, with Maria and myself invited to groom her oiled fur. My ears drooped as I tried to imagine the next time I would be wearing oiled fur, and can hardly think when that will be. Not at my Tailfasting next month, as that is off unless something radical happens to my inheritance problem. I might attend as witness to Helen’s, though. In fact, I asked Moeli if it was unfair of me to hold Jirry to our promise – there are plenty of Spontoonie girls who certainly have the right to be jealous of me! Though I could never call the past two years any sort of wasted time, if I cannot join the Hoele’toemi family there are certainly Spontoonie girls who would, from their point of view.

    Moeli considered for a long time, and suggested I set a time limit – if I am not back in Spontoon free to be Tailfast by the Winter Solstice, to assume I never will be. My ears went right down but I agreed it was the only fair thing to do. Moeli guided my paws to hold her exceedingly round tummy for a minute, and promised that on her part she would be very glad to be my Sister-in-law and her kitten needs an Aunt now that Saimmi’s duties take her elsewhere most of the time.

    I must say, it was a very strange feeling holding Moeli that way – her child (a daughter she says, as she asked Saimmi months ago) feels very lively and seems impatient to see the sun and feel the waves. Had Macao turned out differently I would be in a similar case myself. The exact appearance of Moeli’s child would surprise most people, as would mine have – but a kitten is a kitten, even when it’s not. Oddly enough, the special waivers I seem to have been given as Lady Allworthy seem to hardly care if the heir to the estates is pedigree, or even legitimate – as long as there is one from a different bloodline to Lord Leon, and preferably soon!

    Although an hour’s relaxation on the beach was wonderful, and now we can hardly look forward to any more of the same, all too soon we had to be saying farewell and head back to the water taxi slips facing Casino and Eastern Islands.  There we saw two rather unexpected sights. One was a water-taxi heading towards us heavily laden with Hawaiian-shirted tourists (they must have sent their baggage to the Hotel straight from the customs shed and come here first) and the other was Molly emerging from the small bar next to the Pie-Shop of the Sacred Steak and Kidney. By the way she was staggering I thought she was unwell – until we got closer and scented her breath. She was extremely drunk.

    Oh dear. Though our Tutors look the other way at the occasional glass of wine or Nootnops Blue when we are well away from flying, there are strict rules about being never being obviously drunk in public – and Molly was still wearing her best Songmark uniform, with a boatload of camera-snapping tourists a minute away. This has never happened to any of us before – and indeed we are still here. Fortunately Helen and Maria took charge; they grabbed her by an arm apiece and frog-marched her out of tourist view round to the back street behind the Topotabo Hotel and that little Native restaurant where we have seen the Formation Swimming Team refresh themselves (none of them were in today, which was a mercy) and Helen asked for a large pot of black coffee from the waitress and an explanation from Molly.

    Oh dear, again. Molly’s meeting in Song Sodas happened to be with someone she absolutely did not want to meet, discussing a subject she did not want to remember. It seems Captain Granite has a younger sister named Karla, a vixen of conventional and respectable habits (with a husband on the island, and indeed a kit on the way) who came to hand over the adoption papers to her “niece”. I had not realised that Molly being adopted was what she calls “a done deal”, as both Macau and Boston have already signed, sealed and made final the paperwork!

    If there is one thing worse for Molly than having to live with that, it is being asked how she managed to seduce Granite and turn her heart away from evil. True, Molly was released deliberately, and from what she has shown me of Granite’s diary the Captain was planning to end her criminal career for her sake. I think this poor Karla got an awful shock with what Molly told her. Molly says Karla had been hoping to hear how as her sister’s “one great love” she turned her life around, and was heading to return to a more normal life. I can certainly imagine Molly happily persuading a friend to take up piracy, but not the other way around.

    Anyway, Molly stormed out over here arriving around two o’clock and realising she was too late to join us for lunch; she had been in the bar all afternoon. For a bootlegger’s daughter she really drinks very little, having been brought up noticing the effects of the family product on the customers. The local pineapple brandy is probably a lot more wholesome that the relabelled stove-fuel the Procyk Combine were distilling out of whatever came to paw, but it has a fearsome reputation even so.

    Having poured most of the coffee down Molly, Helen grimly took her best jacket off, entrusted it to the restaurant and announced “Project Pump-out.” I soon found out what that meant, and liked it not much less than Molly! Helen grabbed a thin rattan and with its aid in a few minutes we were all jogging at top speed along the beech, Molly’s yells of protest occasionally enlivened by Helen adding persuasion to her tail. In a half a mile Molly had to stop – although she lost all the coffee, at least she lost a good deal of the brandy in the process. Another mile jogging to the tip of North Fluke and back brought us back near the main beach near the Topotabo where we left most of the costume on the beach and “persuaded” Molly to go for a hard swim to clean up and cool off.

    An hour later after another pot of strong black coffee at the restaurant we escorted a pale-nosed and shivering doe back onto the water-taxi. Helen is furious with her – of all the ways to get herself thrown out after three years hard work, she said that must be the stupidest. Just when Father Dominicus has set every available nose on the island sniffing us for scandal, too (we know as some of them are Double Agents and are covering both sides of the fence.) It must have been an awful shock indeed for Molly to discover that whatever she may think or do about it, she is legally now Molly Cabot – ironically, about as prestigious family as Boston has to offer. She remembers signing a paper while on the Three Moons, but thought anything signed under duress would never be valid. I would think so myself, but it seems in Macao they agree with whoever pays the legal fees. The Cabots have access to well-paid lawyers who have arranged the adoption from their side – even though her Father is alive he has legally speaking deserted her, so Molly Cabot is her name like it or not.

    Molly said there had been a painting evidently based on a photograph taken of her when she was asleep in Granite’s bed. It had been a portrait with her in a wedding dress, also produced in Macao and sent back to Boston before Granite’s final voyage. Granite’s real name was Elizabeth Cabot, it seems, but Molly does not like to say the name and Helen had to practically twist a doe tail to get it out of her.

    All in all, a decidedly stressful day! Fortunately it was Li Han and Irma Bundt on gate guard, and they waved us straight in (had it been Red Dorm there would have been trouble) for us to shepherd Molly into a hot shower before packing her straight up to bed. None of our Tutors were close enough to observe much, and thankfully we are not scheduled to fly tomorrow.

    Having put an errant doe out of harm’s way for awhile, it remained a very pleasant evening and we still had hours till lights-out. I sat with Helen and Maria on the strange mound in the centre of the compound. Definitely we will have to do something for Molly, we decided – and that probably means visiting Boston on our way to Europe after we finish here. After today, none of us felt like saying “after we all graduate.” Maria had originally planned the trip back via the great-circle route she has used before, taking the Caproni Ca-60 over the North Pole and straight down the Greenland Strait passing Disko Island with its quaint folk dances. That will hardly fit with visiting Boston.

    Helen’s ears and tail were right down, as she reminded us that the FBI are still looking out for Molly after all this time – it is not so long since Miss Devinski sent an Agent on his way with a flea in his ear after he had come to demand extradition. The fact that many of the Procyk bootlegging charges were in her name is unaffected by Molly having been a young fawn at the time. Prosecuting her for something she owned on paper when she was seven years old might sound impossible, but she assures me Mr. Hoover can make it stick. After we leave Songmark we will no longer have the legal protection of being honorary Spontoonies, and if he grabs her Mr. Hoover can lock Molly onto a chain-gang and throw away the key. Another problem to worry us, just when we should be giving our studies one hundred percent!

    I had one useful thought; although Boston lawyers have changed Molly’s name, possibly the police chiefs in Washington have not been told. She now has the right to a new passport – and at any rate it is worth a try. This puts Molly in just the same predicament as I have become all too familiar with when I could not clear my name without going back to England, where the Police were waiting for me. The Cabots are determined to have her as a daughter, despite her refusing point-blank to have anything to do with the memory of her daughter. From Molly’s point of view they are adding insult to injury, just when she was trying to forget both.

    At least I can get back to England now without being arrested. Mr. Sapohatan has told me the old espionage charges Soppy Forsythe laid against me have been quietly buried when I became Lady Allworthy. It would be a nasty twist if they are still on file ready to be dusted off should I ever leave Barrow-in-Furryness in the lurch and revert to being plain Amelia Bourne-Phipps again! Stranger things have happened, and usually to me.


next