And On That Note
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)
Thumbnail art by  RockBaker


Twenty-five.


Reggie and Willow Buckhorn’s suite at Shepherd’s Hotel had a balcony that overlooked the street in front of the hotel and faced the lagoon. Tourists and racing enthusiasts cast covetous and envious eyes on it as they strolled along the promenade, because the balcony offered an excellent vantage point for the imminent competition.

“You’re kidding me,” Willow said to her husband. They were seated outside on the balcony, a pitcher of well-iced lemonade and two glasses sitting on the table between her and her mate and dressed for the tropical weather. An umbrella was shielding them from the worst of the sun. “You were in the Schneider Cup? When was this?”

The whitetail buck smiled. “Well, not the Schneider Cup, meantersay,” he replied, “but a few weeks – I think – before I first met you I got involved in an air race, as a bit of a ringer. One of the organizer chappies had gotten it into their heads to have a flying boat race using some of the big commercial planes.”

Willow took a sip of her lemonade. “I’ll bet that was a sight to see.”

“I’m sure it was. Two young ladies approached me and asked me for my help – “

“And you being a very gallant buck, how could you refuse?”

Reggie nodded, an easy grin on his muzzle. “Just so. It transpired that the pilot of an Italian plane had gotten so thoroughly blotto that he couldn’t fly the plane. I wasn’t as sozzled as he was – a moment of weakness at the time, so I was talked into wearing his uniform. But,” and he raised a finger, “I was firmly told to keep my paws off the controls.”

“And you followed instructions?”

“To the letter. Things actually went very well, until I discovered that there was some class of skullduggery going on, and I straightaway made myself scarce for a few days.” He raised his glass to her in a toast. “When I emerged, I was at the Long Bar when I saw you and Les du Cleds.”

“And the rest is history,” Willow said as she raised her glass.

“Thank the Lord for that,” and they both drank and as they lowered their glasses, their ears swiveled at the sound of drums. “They must be getting ready to go,” Reggie remarked.

“I hope they’re not too noisy,” Willow said.


***


The 1939 Schneider Cup Air Races began with music provided by a k’roopa drum band, with a welcoming hula and an invocation by a Spontoonie priestess. The priestess stood on the fantail of one of the harbor’s towboats facing the entrants, and the crowd held their peace until the prayer was finished. As soon as the feline lowered her arms there was a roar from the crowd as two members of the Racing Association took her place. One carried a green flag, and the other a megaphone.

“PILOTS!” shouted the fur with the megaphone. “START . . . YOUR . . . ENGINES!”

There was a chorus of high-pitched whines as electric starters began bringing the engines up to speed, with Seamus and Paddy roaring exhortations in a mixture of Malay and Gaelic. K’nutt joined in with shouts in stuttered Spontoonie.

There was an echoing roar of guns from outside the lagoon as second hands on carefully-synchronized watches signaled for the cruisers to fire, and the planes began to move forward as the towboat sped away.

The Fingal’s Folly started forward, dipping its right float slightly. Its propwash was blowing a stiff breeze toward the watching crowd.

It suddenly paused, the propeller still turning.

Two blobs of sooty pink emerged from the two exhausts and gradually swelled to the size of medicine balls.

“ROVERS!” someone in the crowd screamed, and the spectator shoved his way through the throng and ran off.

Distracted momentarily by this, few in the crowd noted the exact second that the two bubbles burst.

This rather unusual occurrence had the effect of rendering a portion of the crowd, some of whom had paid exorbitant sums to be closest to the action, a combination of sooty and sticky. Screams started to be heard as Seamus and Paddy both turned to look at K’nutt.

“O-o-o-oops, t-t-too m-much g-g-g-gum,” the young tod-fox said.

It began to occur to K’nutt that he had probably done something wrong, and therefore it fell to him to help Timmeen get the plane in the race.

With a flash of insight, he knew what he had to do.

K’nutt had been in native dress, and the beagle and the wolfhound gaped as he shed his grass shirt and dove into the water toward the Irish East Indies plane. “Faith, K’nutt!” Paddy shouted. “What are ye doin’?”

The fox turned only long enough to yell, “W-We g-g-gotta g-g-give it a p-p-push!”

Paddy looked at Seamus.

Seamus looked at Paddy.

“Lad’s a bluidy genius,” they said at the same time.

The two canines solemnly doffed their flat caps, shed their tweed jackets, dropped their sarongs, and dove in after him.

The Folly’s electric starter whined piteously as K’nutt swam up to the left pontoon, grabbed it, and started kicking.

The crowd caught on to what was transpiring and started laughing as the two canines reached the plane’s right float and began kicking as well, pushing the plane forward.

To the sudden surprise of everyone, the engine stuttered, caught, belched thick black coconut-scented smoke, and started up with a roar that caused K’nutt, Paddy and Seamus to stop pushing and swim frantically away from the plane as it began moving.

The Fingal’s Folly reached the start line and soared into the air, intent on joining the rest of the racing planes.

K’nutt bobbed in the lagoon, treading water, and grinning happily as Seamus and Paddy swam over to congratulate him. A rescue boat chugged over to haul the trio out of the water while the crowd returned their attention to the race.

Some spectators paused to try cleaning the gum off their binoculars as the planes completed their first lap of the course.


***


“Look there,” Willow said as the planes moved through the fourth lap. She pointed as she gazed through her binoculars. “There.”

“Oh, my,” Reggie remarked as he squinted through his own binoculars, “that can’t be good.”

The object of his observation was the midair argument between the Japanese Navy and Army aircraft, who were apparently trying to see if was possible to dogfight while flying a marked race course at breakneck speed. They were utterly ignoring the French entry, which was a short distance ahead.

“I suppose,” the whitetail buck said, “we should be grateful that they don’t have guns.”

Almost unnoticed, the Tsarist entry had dropped out, landing in the lagoon near the smoking remains of the plane from the Sultanate of Sinatra, the Flying Semprini.

Partway through the fifth lap, the Japanese Navy entry executed an exultant barrel roll as the brown Army plane, smoke trailing from its overtaxed engine, headed for the western end of the lagoon. Two crash boats were pursuing it at full speed.


***


Cheers erupted from the crowds of spectators as the blue dart of the French entrant crossed the line first, followed by the red Italian in second place. Hot on the heels of the Breda was a white plane bearing the hinomaru symbol sported by the Japanese Navy’s entry.

The American plane, white with a blue stripe, was the fourth across the line. It was followed, to the consternation of the crowd, by the crazy quilt of colors that adorned the Fingal’s Folly from the Irish East Indies.

Rain Island’s chief designer, Stavros Kypriakos, frowned as he scribbled in a small notebook. The goat did a quick sketch of the pusher-propelled Irish East Indies plane before stamping off to have words with the pilot of his latest design.

“Pardon me sarong,” Seamus said as he shouldered his way through the crowd, the wolfhound acting as an effective bulldozer through the throng of well-wishers as he led Paddy and K’nutt to where the pilots were being applauded. “Timmeen! There’s th’ lad hisself! Well done ta ye!”

“You came in fifth,” one British spectator pointed out.

"Ah, shure an' it war a CLOSE fifth, 'twere!" Paddy said.

The British fellow was undeterred. "You finished seventeen minutes behind the Yanks."

"Which, Oi would point out t'ye, is seventeen minutes bether than last time," Seamus said, “since this is th’ fairst time we’ve tried this.” He craned his neck, looking over the crowd. “Sure an’ we’ll get th’ roight of it next year.”

“For losing,” another spectator pointed out, “you’re acting very happy.”

Paddy grinned. "Oi of course we're happy. The Irish're only happy when we're LOSING, aren't we?" He gave an insouciant shrug. "It t'isn't wheythar ye win or lose, it's how many points ye thrink afther."

Seamus frowned. "Arrah, Oi'm not hivin' any more points. Not today."

"An' whoivvir not, man? Are ye afther feelin' ill, then?" Paddy asked solicitously.

"No, begob, but sure as Oi have oyes in me head, Oi'm seein' whoite squirrels with wee red oyes, Oi am," the wolfhound said, nodding to where K’nutt had paused to talk to a few white-furred squirrels.

"Is that a problem?" Paddy asked.

"'Tis when thim lads are afther spaykin' Gaelic t'ye."

"They have the Oirish?" Paddy crossed himself. "Sure an' the Lad Upstairs moves in quare ways, he does."

Two pairs of canine ears perked as a fight broke out between the Japanese Army and Navy pilots, while the Soviet and Tsarist pilots satisfied themselves with glaring at each other.

“Arrah,” Paddy remarked, “imagine if ye will, how bad that donnybrook’d be if they weren’t in-laws.”

“Aye,” Seamus said.

The two canines and K’nutt finally reached Timmeen, who looked more morose than ever. “Excuse me,” a reporter asked, “Any plans for next year?”

“N-N-Next year?” K’nutt asked.

“Yes,” the feline reporter said. “What are you going to change for the next race?"

"Sure an' we're afther raysearchin' bether class o' gum," Seamus said with a hearty chuckle, resting a big paw on K’nutt’s shoulder.

Timmeen glanced at his ground crew.

“Nope,” he said, and he walked off.





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