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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
15 May, 1937 to 17 May, 1937



Saturday May 15th, 1937

A fine day indeed, in every sense of the word. The sun was out full strength but a fresh breeze kept it from being too baking hot, and the Spontoonies are raking in money hand over paw as the well-oiled tourist traps spring into action. From the dining room here we can catch a sight of the central waters, with a dozen hired sailing boats already out by eight. I am legally qualified now to take a tourist party out for hire, and indeed it is highly recommended that furs hire a local Guide. The ones who insist on saving money by doing without one often find out how expensive rescue tows are when they get stuck on the sandbanks on a falling tide. The fact that the hire boats have rigid deep draft keels rather than removable centreboards like local fishing vessels is probably “just one of those coincidences.”

    Anyway, while we were already on the water-taxi heading towards Casino Island we could see the amusements all running full throttle – there were crowds on the Rainbow Bridge where young Spontoonies dive for coins, and Pirate’s Cove was as busy as old Tortuga when the fleet returned home from a successful bit of Spanish-Main raiding. From the crowds of sportswear clad figures swinging clubs the proprietors of the Crazy Golf, Slightly Disturbed Croquet and similar attractions were making up for many a profitless Winter day.
 
    We have been told by Miss Devinski to make the most of this weekend; next week we will be back on Albert Island, the nearest expanse of jungle mostly unknown to us, being hunted mercilessly by Spontoonie Guides and “certain other forces” probably from Rain Island. There is a limit to what we can learn these days on Main Island; we already know every trail there and many of us have biscuit-tin caches of food and equipment scattered around it that will no doubt delight and puzzle archaeologists for centuries to come. Albert Island is near enough to rapidly travel to (taking two days’ sailing aboard the Liki Tiki last year was more to do with giving the newly reconfigured ship a good working-up than actually getting there on a direct course) and far enough away that probably none of us have prepared the ground with caches beforehand – and springing the details on us at short notice means there is no time to do so now. We will also be clear of the Spontoonie tourist season; we will probably need to take active measures against our pursuers and the Tourist Board would not thank us for setting vine or pit traps around the place this time of year when valuable tourists are wandering off the beaten track.

    I must say, the prospect of a return to Albert Island rather makes me shiver. I at least know the areas to steer clear of, and which would be good to lay a false trails into. The only hazard in the main jungle is a particularly nasty breed of Hawaiian nettle that can sting clear through fur with dire results – one of the Spontoonie girls in the party encountered some one dark night whilst answering a call of nature, and was stung just where one least wants it. Twenty years of carefully maintaining the untouched Spontoonie jungles have mostly eliminated the plant here apart from Sacred Island.

    Today we put our worries aside for later inspection and happily threw ourselves into the dance contests. These were held on the beach, where the staff of the Missing Coconut had started early and laid on a traditional fire-pit with roast fish and vegetables. Taro leaves are a very good wrapping for fish then sealed in clay and baked in the embers, and many of the tourists were tucking into them even before we started our show at ten. One understands how they get that shape.

    It was a fine sight to see the first-years joining in happily with the dancing, notably Meera and her dorm. She has a fine bunch, not as driven as Crusader Dorm but equally adventurous in some ways. A good solid public school education has left her well placed for Songmark dorm life although there are a few things she certainly did not learn at Roedean, a most respectable school. Jasbir has not talked much about her introducing her sister to her vulpine friends on Gull Island, but evidently they all had a very fine and energetic Easter Holiday.

    As far as the tourists were concerned we were all Spontoonie girls, which legally speaking is true for another seven weeks. At least we were wearing the costume and doing the dances, and the Spontoonies are rather a mixed bunch of species anyway, so I suppose it is hard to tell unless Molly or Helen open their mouths. I fear they are already too old to easily take elocution lessons, and try as she might Molly speaks in broad Chicago tones whatever language she learns and Helen’s drawl is decidedly Texas rather than Tahiti even when speaking grammatically flawless Spontoonie.

    I used to worry about furs taking home recognisable holiday snapshots of me and possibly printing them in travel books. Since becoming Lady Allworthy (for however many weeks or months that may be) that has quite vanished. I could be quite scandalous and still look like the highest of the saints in comparison to Lord Leon and Lady Susan! Then again, I hardly have to worry about keeping an unspoiled reputation as I am legally speaking a widow already. I hardly know what to think of becoming a widow before I was even engaged let alone married from my point of view. Then again, Molly had a similar shock of being adopted at her age and into such a family. The difference with her is, the rest of the surviving Cabot family seem to be perfectly respectable (I have checked with Jane Ferris in the second year, who is from Boston and says Molly could hardly have done better if she tried). No doubt professional gold-diggers around the world are howling in frustration and grinding their teeth at our totally unplanned and unappreciated “good luck.”

    Anyway, we all waved happily for the cameras and evaded a few wandering paws with good grace – the Tourist Board might complain about grabby visitors getting their fingers broken. Then a fine half-hour swim to cool off, as indeed we had been dancing full speed under the full sun rather than the usual shade in the dance school. An excellent morning! Luncheon was most welcome, eaten on the beach in our dance costumes. One useful thing about grass skirts is there is no laundry bill to worry about if one drops greasy fish in one’s lap; the whole item goes into the compost bin when one changes back to Euro fashion.

    Thinking of fish, Molly had to head out to put her affairs in order so to speak with her “Fish log” enterprise as she will probably be busy every weekend till we graduate then the future is very uncertain. At least she now has a healthy bank account and reports that the Spontoonie banks are gaining a solid reputation. It is very strange that tourists are coming here to drop off suitcases of money rather than trusting the traditional banks in their own town – though indeed I have heard foreigners pay very little tax on money deposited here and furs such as Molly’s Father rarely like to explain to their home Government where the money came from. Perhaps this offshore banking idea may catch on after all. Molly says that “Casino winnings” are a good catch-all explanation for windfalls handed in to banks, and the banks have a policy of not asking questions that might discourage business.

    While Maria and Helen headed across the island to the Italian Embassy to “turn up the heat” on this Mr. Pettachi, I stepped onto the Meeting Island water taxi in a definitely buoyant mood. Things are looking up, and the Albert Island trip promises to be demanding but not impossible. It is like putting a final polish on us I suppose – just as one starts grinding an edge with a coarse stone that cuts most of the metal into shape, we started in the first year with a lot of rough edges to grind down and the process would be as painful to steel as it was to us. With furs such as Molly and Beryl I fear the process hardly worked, and yet they are certainly good at what they do.

    I was somewhat early for my meeting with Harold, so circled in from water taxi slips looking out for suspicious characters. I am sure the Spontoon Constabulary and less official furs are keeping a sharp eye and long ears perked for trouble anyway – but there is that grey-furred wolfhound I saw here two weeks ago still unaccounted-for, and I am sure he was involved somehow. Although for obvious reasons I could not tell the Police about him, I gave Mr. Sapohatan as full a description as I could, and he will probably have passed it on.
 
    Anyway, there was nothing suspicious to be seen and indeed Meeting Island is remarkably quiet at the weekend. To be honest there is little to come here for when the Althing and administration buildings are closed – there is one nice restaurant (Luchow’s) usually open and a couple of soup and sandwich booths for the office lunchtime trade that are shut at weekends. The embassy staff are generally off duty too, with the exception of places like the Soviet Union’s embassy and the New Haven one who are proud of ceaseless labour.
 
    I looked around Harold’s street, spotting the ever-present street cleaners who are always to be found in the unlikeliest times and places. Although I will probably never know, I expect they are looking out for a certain grey wolfhound as well as discarded durian peelings.

    Harold was very pleased to see me, and showed off his new (ancient) arrival – a veritable gasogene, to replace the one I broke. I doubt many can have been manufactured this century, and spare parts must be a problem. Finding one in working order proved quite a challenge, but this one was tracked down in the Gilbert and Sullivan Islands and arrived yesterday. We toasted each other soberly in fresh soda water, which is indeed about all the furs in the Gilbert and Sullivan Islands could do under their former teetotal governor.

    Interestingly, it seems their new governor who recently arrived on HMS Pinafore in all pomp and dignity has been found to be an impostor! He was a very convincing one, the very image of the modern Major-General who escaped from his captors and rather spoiled the plot to secretly harbour pirates in New Penzance. The new and genuine arrival is proving popular all round except amongst furs who peddle bathtub gin, swimming-pool scotch and other unlicensed and generally unhealthy products. We see little about British colonies in the newspapers here, who spend more page area on the ins and outs of Tillamook and Rain Island.

    I must say, just as last week the tea and scones were super and not the kind of thing served at Songmark. After many years’ service, Harold’s housekeeper has perfected her English baking although indeed when Harold first arrived here it was as much the local style as anything Polynesian. It is amazing what becomes exotic in three years; the prospect of sitting down in a couple of months at a Lyon’s corner tea room in England with neatly uniformed maids (“nippys” as they are called – a word I realise I have not thought of in years) now seems far stranger than eating clay-baked fish and taro root from a beachside firepit as I did for luncheon.

    Harold was in a good mood as he noted everything in the house was back in place, with a new broom, carpet, door and gasogene. He cast a shrewd eye over me and asked if Songmark trained its students in self-defence with gasogenes. My ears blushed somewhat as I reassured him they did not – although I have defended myself in class against folk armed with chairs, pipe wrenches and naturally the traditional pointed stick. Of course Harold suspects it was me, how could he fail to? I was expected to arrive exactly when I did two weeks ago, and there are not that many felines of my size and shape who have the advantage of a very physical Songmark education and who would not simply run for the police. I looked him in the eye and said that according to the newspapers he was rescued by vengeful though probably reformed Burmese Dacoits who will use whatever comes to paw. Which is true as far as the newspaper story goes.

    Still, he did say in court he was rescued by “a feline unknown” and indeed he has not seen me as Kim-Anh so could bring no solid evidence about a mysterious feline who is rather dangerous with a broomstick when needed. My using a broomstick was a jolly strange coincidence considering I am in training to be a “native witch” on Sundays, though the Spontoonie traditions are radically different. He is the first to know that speculations are not what a court needs; it was the Police’s job to work out who was who and while he was in the court last time he could only give solid facts and not allegations.

    Our Tutors told us to make the most of this weekend, and indeed I did. So did Harold – though he noted that it had taken some days to fully recover from last Saturday, at his age. Certainly a most gallant gentleman, and anyway I am agile and energetic enough for both of us. In a few weeks we will probably be far off in the final stages of our course, with hardly time to draw breath let alone do anything more enjoyable.
 
    A very pleasant afternoon, which left his leather sofa nicely polished. It is a pity Harold never married, as he would have made a very pleasing husband to someone of Laura Shieling’s generation. Most folk in his position at least have the services of a discreet native “housekeeper” though I have met Harold’s and she has hinted she does nothing more than clean and cook, rather to her disappointment. Then, a fur tends to stick with the standards they were brought up with and there were few socially suitable partners for Harold out here since the close of the plantation era when most of the respectable founding families moved away to carry on colonial life in New Zealand or the Gilbert and Sullivan Islands.

    In a way it is a relief that Harold can do nothing much more for me with my Lady Allworthy problem; I have been taking up a lot of his time and efforts recently though indeed he says he is practically in retirement as a judge and has time on his paws. Not that judges in Britain have a particular retirement age, and indeed many serve till a great age. My ears rather blushed thinking of the services he was gallantly providing Lady Allworthy. I suppose that is one of the advantages of my having the title – plain Amelia Bourne-Phipps is less impressive to someone of Harold’s station in life. What one could call my overall value is multiplied about fifty times, I should think. In Vostok they are introducing an idea of “National value” based on one’s use to the Nation, whereby everyone has an actual score (Svetlana’s will increase markedly when she graduates Songmark.)
 
    I looked around the room in the bright sunlight, for some reason impressing everything on my memory as if the Tutors would be asking me to sketch exactly where everything was; a common Songmark exercise that  teaches a girl to really use her eyes. There was a painting of a very pretty spaniel girl in Victorian costume holding a flower; I had seen it every time of course but never looked it very closely. It seemed to be smiling, which would be nothing strange had its painter finished it that way – but the smile was something that the skills Saimmi has taught me registered rather than my eyes. For some reason I found myself smiling back, and bowed.

    A fond farewell after necessary Precautions then back to Eastern Island, a definite spring in my step! I think it highly unlikely that Harold could leave me with any embarrassing “inheritance” though Mrs. Oelabe cautions unlikely things do sometimes happen, and to take care at all times. It would not be an awful thing to happen, in any case. Harold has keen wits and is of good family, and was surely a stunningly handsome gentleman in his younger days. All these are things that run in families, as I have argued with Molly a few times. She was almost horrified at my announcing that whatever the circumstances, my kitten is my kitten and is welcome. Of course some circumstances are massively preferable to others, but still.

    On the way I picked up a copy of the Daily Elele and spotted on the back page that yet more tour boats are expected in this week, one from Rain Island and one from Japan. The season seems to be getting earlier year by year, much to the delight of the hotels that used to be empty in May and bursting at the seams in August. Despite many of the more energetic Japanese being busy “exploring” China with rifle and bayonet there are plenty of civilians who are keen on more peaceful explorations though I am sure Mr. Sapohatan will be busy keeping an eye on them and exactly where they are pointing their cameras. Certainly some tourists are carrying suspiciously long lenses on their cameras, which may or may not be intended for snapping rare and distant seabirds.

    Prudence and Carmen were on gate guard, and winked as they spotted my buoyant mood. They say they are happy enough with doing the afternoon shift as our Tutors have written them an overnight pass and tonight is the farewell party as Miss Melson finishes up her current filming and prepares to head back. Her parties are famous, not to say notorious. I am not sure how authentic the current film plot with female gladiators might be, but I am sure it is filmed with energy and zeal enough to make up for any historical errors. Not that most furs know about the classical era anyway except for other film classics set there. Cecil “Beady” Milne has been known to build full scale chariot-racing film sets that owe more to art deco than classical Rome. It seems that all one needs to do is build a set with a few pillars (architectural style uncertain) and have a few furs in bed-sheet togas and chariots to call it a “stunningly authentic historical epic”.  Florence’s dorm is joining them, including Florence herself. From what Prudence has said, Miss Melson is about the only film producer where suitable starlets almost fight for a place on the infamous “casting couch” one hears whispered about so much in Hollywood tales.

    There was a letter today for me with a British stamp I had not seen before, commemorating our good king Edward the Eighth’s coronation. The letter is from Father who is still on our South Coast pointing sound mirrors across the English Channel, working with the Imperial Defence Commission. He congratulated me on my successes, and noted that he has confidence in me and was sure anything I had to do along the way was all covered by “the exigencies of the Service” which is the phrase used to in the manuals describe all sorts of military hardships. Certainly Father did not get to climb the military hierarchy to be a General in such a practical branch as the Royal Engineers without realising not everything a fur does in their career they want printed in the newspapers, whether it reflects badly on them or not.
 
    Anyway, Father says we will all be welcome, me and my whole “platoon” as he puts it. Last week Molly was muttering about those three maids from Macao probably turning up unannounced just when we had our bags packed – it is true we did get them passports, our address and an emergency plan to meet in Tillamook, which is somewhere we will probably go through on the way to Europe if we follow Maria’s route home on an Italian Ca60 over the Pole. I certainly hope not – although on the other paw, it would be getting three devoted maids very inexpensively who are unlikely to inconveniently vanish to raise families. Possibly too devoted for my tastes, let alone Molly’s. She says it is a certainty that the runner duck girl will have been “converted” by now.

    Whilst in the post room I noticed Beryl leafing through a stack of correspondence; most of hers is commercial and connected with her money-making schemes, but one of them she opened with glee, and I noticed the stamp was the same as on Father’s letter. Spotting my gaze she gave an unnervingly innocent smile and passed me a snapshot that had my tail and whiskers standing out like a wire brush.

    On the face of it there was nothing too alarming, just two nice-looking murine girls in school sporting uniform, carrying their croquet mallets “on the slope” as one might with a rifle. Then Beryl explained who they were, and this I can believe. Oh my. I thought I knew about Beryl, indeed rather more than is comfortable to think about. But she has never mentioned her little sisters, the identical twins Coral and Pearl who are graduating from Saint T’s this Summer. She gave a happy sigh and announced they were all meeting up in Monte Carlo, to spend Summer working in the family business. Considering her Father is the one they call “the Biplane Bandit” (though Beryl says he has upgraded to a faster monoplane last year) I think Interpol had best cancel any leave its operatives had planned.
 
    At least she has not said they are applying to Songmark – but as she has never mentioned them at all, that hardly means much and if they are their applications are already in our Tutors’ office, preferably in “the round file”. She mused that they have been highly successful at school, having only been defeated in their joint quest for the well-paid and respected rank of School Bully by a canine with overwhelming natural advantages in the role, a Poodlador *. They had already defeated a Sixth-form Finnish wolverine and a Pit Bull girl from a Yorkshire mining town to get that far in the contests, Beryl says.
 
    Whatever the younger Parkesson girls may do, it will not be my problem. Having coped with Beryl these years our Tutors certainly know what to expect and indeed identical twins have been accepted before now. I remember Ethyl and Methyl in the senior year when we arrived – but unlike them, with Coral and Pearl I doubt one will always be wondering which of the pair is the good one.

    Back to more revising of textbooks, lying on the grass outside in the shade of the dorm. We have a test on Monday as we are told our Albert Island trip will be a “holiday” which to our Tutors means anything we cannot take textbooks with us. The Alaskan trip was a holiday according to that measure. Certainly a Songmark graduate works hard to earn her Certificate.

* Editor’s note: a pup with Labrador and Poodle parents is generally born as a “Labradoodle”, a (half) breed generally regarded as the soppiest dog on the planet. Presumably there is a small chance of it being quite the reverse, probably a Poodlador. For some Snarks they are Boojums, you see.
 

Sunday May 16th, 1937   
   
Another fine day and another tour boat coming over the horizon, just visible past the Southern tip of Main Island after breakfast. The Spontoonies must be rubbing their paws in glee, and getting ready the grass skirts and questionable postcards.
 
    Out to South Island, five of us including Saffina who has been busy with Jasbir’s dorm on a project we still know little of, except that it has finished. Saffina has said she did not mind being a live decoy in a worthy cause. I am not sure what exactly she did, but I imagine Father Dominicus is one of the furs who would hold her in special hatred. Her Mother being a Euro missionary’s daughter marrying a native African Prince and converting to his three-thousand year old religion is not the sort of thing that is not supposed to happen according to conventional viewpoints, especially if they are of different species. Various furs have opined that Saffina has no right to exist.

    Anyway, she is a jolly fine second-year and I could wish we had more like her, replacing Red Dorm for a start. We were all well received by Mrs. Hoele’toemi then Saimmi arrived, looking worried. She gave Helen and Saffina some familiar spiritual exercises to do then signalled to talk with me privately.

    Oh my. Saimmi has looked into her fires and spotted trouble coming for us – especially Molly and myself. We will have to be very careful on Albert Island, I think. Saimmi showed me a ritual that basically fixes an image of the inner me, my true self, away from any of the spiritual knocks that may damage it. She says she wishes she could do as much for Molly and the rest, but of them only Helen would be able to perform the ritual.

    When Helen and Saffina joined us, Saimmi demonstrated another useful ritual whereby any Warrior Priestess can find another whether they are awake or not. It took us all morning to learn, then we rested for a very welcome luncheon with Mrs. H assisted by Molly and Maria in the kitchen. Not that a longhouse has a separate kitchen, exactly. Fresh-caught fish and sweet potatoes, baked in taro leaves; an excellent luncheon. For a change, Saimmi took us back afterwards and “drilled” us jolly hard in the new rituals, making absolutely sure we had them perfect. I have not seen her this worried since December when we prepared to head off with Priestess Oharu to recover the Krupmark Island cursed fragment. Considering the awful risks that trip involved, I rather wonder just what she has seen for us in her fires. If she thought it would be useful to explain directly, she would tell us.

    Still, at least Molly and Maria had a relaxing afternoon helping Marti Hoele’toemi down on Haio Beach itself, crewing the “tourist” canoes. In practical terms the best fishing is around dawn in these waters, but the tourists are not up that early and they need to see stalwart Natives paddling through the surf to photograph for their album. There was quite a considerable surf today, and some Spontoonies were on those ten-foot wooden boards showing that rare and probably dying sport of surf-riding. I can hardly imagine any Euros taking it up. Beryl claims she has practiced it back at Saint T’s, some locations of which have been on or near the coast (the school buildings have a habit of getting “accidentally” burned down, so that institution’s exact address varies over the years) or at least I think that is what she means although she calls the sport “water-boarding.”

    We said farewell to Mrs. H, who hugged me and Molly very thoroughly, something she rarely does. I think Saimmi has been sharing her concerns about us. I wonder just what Albert Island has in store this time? Then back across the island to the water-taxis, feeling rather sombre.
 
    It was a good thing Molly was not in a volatile mood, having been pretty much worn out with all the paddling today. Just by the water taxis we saw a Spontoonie we know well, and Florence knows rather better. Gilda was wearing a very nice lava-lava wrap and a flower in her head-fur, and nothing much else – unlike the rather large bear in full tourist rig with roll-up shorts, newly bought straw hat and a flower lei.
 
    It is a good thing Florence is not here too. Of course she knows what Gilda does for a living, but I think she would not like to see her obviously taking a stout and perspiring tourist out for an evening stroll in the jungle. My ears dipped in sympathy – naturally most of Gilda’s customers are furs who she would not date on her own time, so to speak. Girls who actually want a Hunting License must put up with a lot, and I feel more sympathetic than shocked. No wonder Gilda encouraged Florence so much; a pretty and athletic Songmark girl must have been such a welcome contrast to her usual Tourist Season customers.

    My ears were blushing somewhat as I recalled that unsigned License for Kim-Anh still in Nuala Rachorska’s office safe. I could have asked Nuala to destroy it, but someone paid for it – I never have discovered whom. Someone evidently thought I would have liked to have one, and it would be like burning an unwanted Christmas present; simply not done. Still – looking at Gilda’s “date” I had to admit there is no appeal at all in such a life, as Kim-Anh or otherwise. I should ask Nuala for the paper after I graduate; it is not going to get signed and there is no point in her hanging onto it forever. Few furs know who Kim-Anh is anyway, and since she tackled Harold’s assailants she can hardly appear again on Spontoon.

    Back to Songmark, and a chorus of groans greeted the cooks serving one-finger poi for supper. Molly and Maria ate it dutifully, having had a strenuous afternoon rowing for the cameras. Poi is at least filling and not so bad if one adds some of Helen’s Cajun Extra-hot Sauce (“Would boil a bayou dry!” according to the label on the bottle).They report that Beryl’s partner in crime Piet was on one of the other boats, keeping his Native paddling technique in practice no doubt. Molly knows him better than I do, having often been to the Temple of Continual Reward, and says he is looking forward to travelling round the world with Beryl after she graduates. I imagine they will not need to send our Tutors any postcards of their trip; the newspaper headlines in “True Crime Weekly” will chart their progress all too clearly.

    An evening with our books and memorising maps of Albert Island; all four of us have wished over the years for a photographic memory like Susan de Ruiz has. In lieu of which we have to work hard at it. Hard work is something a Songmark girl gets used to.

   
Monday May 17th, 1937

Definitely a day of preparations – unlike in the Aleutians we are travelling light tonight as a lot of our task will be running and hiding which is not helped by a full pack. Our Tutors used to offer advice, but today it was just Miss Cardroy taking notes on what we took from the equipment stores. My dorm decided on two waterbottles apiece, two pounds of dried fruit and nuts and a dozen Songmark bars between us. Very light rations and we expect to be hungry at the end of it – but foraging for food takes time and leaves evidence. We have tracked furs before by the trail of stripped berry bushes and dug-up wild roots.

    Just before luncheon a card arrived for Molly. It seems the American Embassy has her replacement passport, and invited her to collect it. This is a tricky one. Molly is officially wanted by their police and FBI, and if she sets a hoof inside their Embassy compound they can seize and deport her as embassies run under the laws of their home countries. Furthermore she wants nothing to do with the Cabot family, and even if she could pick it up she does not want it.

    It is always a struggle persuading Molly to do anything; one would think she was the bovine as “bullish” describes her better than it does Maria. But over lunchtime Helen and I talked her round. We are scored at Songmark for facing up to and dealing with facts, however unpleasant, and it is a legal fact that her name has been changed to Molly Cabot. She might as well have the passport, especially since the Cabot name might not be listed everywhere as being hers, and Mr. Hoover’s eager G-Men just possibly might overlook the name change for awhile until the news spreads. Helen went off with her to Casino Island and they were back inside an hour; Molly wrote her an authorisation to pick up the passport and Helen went into the Embassy to pick it up.

    I could tell Molly was still seething when she returned; of course she had to sign her name “Molly Cabot” on the passport and Helen’s authorisation, which she was loathe to do. I am sure she would have refused point blank had I not become Lady Allworthy under not dissimilar conditions and about as unwelcome, and she has seen how I dealt with the problem. Getting out of a bad situation, our Tutors have often told us, first needs one to acknowledge that one is in it. Hiding one’s head under the pillows will not score any points around here.

    (Later) Well, we have packed and re-packed our kit half a dozen times, thrown half of it out and agonised about how little we can get by with – and how much we can carry while running at speed through three-yard jungle. Jasbir’s dorm has put together a sort of waistcoat each, covered in strapped-down pockets with internal drawcords pulling it tight to one’s figure in which one can carry several pounds of kit without it swinging around one’s ribs like a battering ram. It has no external straps or loops, as we know from bitter experience how they tangle in branches and thorns especially when one is in a hurry and/or trying to keep quiet.

    I must say, what with Saimmi’s predictions and our previous experiences on Albert Island I am not looking forward to this trip – it is vastly safer than Krupmark or Cranium Island, in fact tourists go there for a “wilder” experience with real (ex)cannibals and no luxury hotels, but still my tail is down at the thought. Maria is cheerful, noting that the climate is nice unlike the Aleutians, the Natives friendly unlike Krupmark, and unlike our previous trip we will not have the Sturdey boys to run after. Molly growled that she would run after them if there were no witnesses, and hopes their family has quicksand or sea-cliff insurance on them.

    Still, play up and play the game! There will be only a few more trips like this one before we graduate, and we have got through them all so far. “What does not kill us, makes us strong” as my old school motto had it. When I repeated that, Helen immediately reminded me of the crippled Gunboat Wars survivors in their secluded hospital on Meeting Island, and indeed Henrietta who lives below the mound on Songmark or at least her body does.
 
    Helen is certainly on course for top marks at Songmark if being hard-headed and pragmatic is all the Tutors go by. I hear Ioseph Starling is the current world record-holder on those lines, and fursonally I am not keen on competing. Beryl is another hot contender, I must admit – today she surprisingly declared “the meek Shall inherit the Earth” – but quite spoiled it by adding “when nobody else wants any.”


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