“The New Year’s Eve tradition” (a short story)

New Year’s Eve. The Janus day – like the ancient god, looking both ways, Forwards, at the coming year, with all the inherent hopes and fears; reflecting back.

And nowhere more so than at Wetherington. By mid-morning, the girls were busy in the grounds as they cut their switches from crisp, cold December trees, before returning to the great house to huddle in front of the warming fires and bind the rods together. They worked in silence: disturbing Sir Charles was inadvisable, on this morning more than on any other.

Birches prepared, they disappeared back to their bedrooms, a final hug, a final word giving courage where it might be needed. They each changed into their thin blue dresses, then sat on their beds alone. And waited.

Thomas rang the gong at midday sharp. The library had been prepared, as usual: the furniture re-arranged, the shutters closed. Even the two new girls knew what to expect, carefully prepared as they had been. They filed in, birches in hand, and lined up.

Their benefactor sat behind his desk, at the opposite side of the room – far enough away that any conversations that might take place would remain private, inaudible to the others in the room. All that stood between Sir Charles and the girls was an expanse of wooden flooring, covered in the finest Persian rugs, and solitary wooden chair. He stood as they entered, welcoming them and reminding them of the purpose of the proceedings. “I take great pride in the achievements of my girls. By giving a home to the twelve of you here who might otherwise not have had the opportunity to benefit from the finest education, and sending you to the finest institutions in the land, I hope to turn you into the most successful young ladies in the North of England. I pray that you want for nothing here. I ask for little in return, other than for you to repay my generosity by investing every effort in your studies and good behaviour.”

He scanned the line up, and beckoned to his butler. The gentleman spoke softly, too quietly for the girls to hear; it was Thomas who walked across the room, paused, then stepped up to Emily. “Sir Charles would like to see you now.”

Whilst the girls were brought forward at random, it was traditional to start with the oldest girl. In her final year at University, Miss Shelham was destined, no doubt, for great things after graduation. After she left Wetherington this coming summer, as she would be required to do on completion of her education. She approached Sir Charles’s desk nervously: that this was her sixth New Year in the house scarcely made it easier. She felt the weight of the bound rods in her hand: prayed that he would find no fault.

He drew a manila folder from the top of the pile, opened it and studied the papers. “A most accomplished performance, it seems. Your examination results are most impressive, Emily. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, would you like to remind me of the resolutions that you made this time last year, Emily?”

“To study as hard as possible, to gain a first in my second-year exams,…” she hesitated, “and to continue singing in the University choir.”

“And you have kept to those.”

“Well, sir…”

“Well?” The question-mark hung in the air.

“I haven’t quite had time for choir this past term, sir. What with all of my studies and…”

He paused, looking her in the eyes. A look of disappointment. “No ‘ands’. You made a resolution. A promise. To me, and to yourself. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir Charles.” As she well knew.

He stood up. “Then you understand what must happen now.”

A tear trickled down her face: “I do, sir.” Understood, acknowledged, accepted. Was grateful for. Remembered, from previous years. Needed?

“You have done well otherwise, my dear girl, and I shall take that into consideration. You will therefore receive three strokes. Please hand me your birch, then take up position behind the chair.” She passed the rod over the desk and turned, avoiding the eyes of her fellow residents and she turned and walked back to the designated spot.

“Please lift your dress, Emily, and bend over.” Baring herself – “dresses, only dresses” being the well-rehearsed code for the day – she took the position, reaching out to hold the front legs of the chair. The other girls would have a clear view of her backside, though most would advert their eyes, knowing that their turn would shortly follow.

The strokes, when they came, were applied with his habitual force. She kept her composure as best she could: the senior girl had to set a good example. Yet she could not help but cry out, sotte voce as far as she could control herself, at each burning blow.

“Please stand when you are ready, young lady, and come back to my desk.”

By the time she had raised herself up gingerly, and smoothed down her dress, he had recorded what had transpired with his fountain pen on his embossed paper, and added it to her file. He smiled: “You took that well, Emily, as you have always done in those years where I have had to flog you. Now, for this year’s resolutions.”

“I… I just want to work flat out to get a first-class degree, and get a good job, Sir Charles.”

“‘Just’? I do so hope you will, my dear.” A fresh sheet of paper was inscribed, and added to her folder. “Now, you’ll be leaving us in the summer, so we will review your performance on your final day with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And would you ask Caroline to join me when you return to the others?”

“Yes, sir. And thank you.”

“No, thank you, Emily. Having you with us here has always been a pleasure.”

And with that the senior girl walked back to the line-up, and smiled as reassuringly as she could at the next girl, who stepped forward for her review…