Caught in the web

1. The Mistake

“You didn’t…..?”

Ruth stared at the floor, the other girls’ eyes upon her. Slowly, she nodded her head. “I mean, I thought it was what we agreed….?”

The chorus of disapproval from her friends left her in no doubt as to her mistake. Ruth looked round, in panic. “But last night…? When we were in the common room? We all said what a good idea it would be…?”

“It was a joke, Ruth.” Isabelle, the eldest of the four girls, shook her head in amazement. “Only now you’ve gone and taken it too far. Really, you are unbelievable at times, you know? Why can’t you grow up?”

“That’s not fair, Isabelle.” Amanda walked over to Ruth and gave her a supportive hug. “We did all talk about it last night.”

Isabelle protested. “I can’t believe you’re sticking up for her. Sure, it was a funny idea. Sure, it’s been cool working on it. But what a stupid mistake to make. As if we would have meant to do it for real. Jenkins will crucify her if he finds out who did it.”

Bernadette, the fourth girl, looked pale. “Crucify us, more like. After all, we did all help with the design.”

“But only for fun – not for real, Bernadette. You can’t really say things like that on the school’s website.”

“That’s true. Ruthie, can you change it back?”

She shook her head. “Not without access to the network. And the computer room’s locked now until morning. I’ll go down after assembly, as soon as they open it up, and change it all back. And we’ll just have to pray that no-one notices in the meantime.”

2. The Dormitory

None of the girls slept well.

You wouldn’t, would you?

3. The Headmaster Discovers….

As the girls had rightly predicted, the Headmaster of St. Matthew’s College, was hardly delighted when his secretary showed him his school’s updated Website the following morning.

It hadn’t taken the school long to find out what had happened – a surprised parent had called in before morning assembly, having logged on to check the dates for the forthcoming Christmas carol concert, and been faced with a rather different set of information.

‘Surprised’, or rather ‘horrified’, might be a fair description of the Headmaster’s reaction too. The photo of the Victorian school buildings was still there at the top of the page; the layout looked the same. But the text…..

It should, of course, have started: “One of the UK’s most prestigious girls’ boarding schools, St. Matthews was founded in 1845. Set in 30 acres in the Wiltshire countryside, we balance tradition with progress, helping every girl in the school to realise her full potential.” And so on…

Instead, version 2, as we might describe it, presented a rather different take: “If you want to inflict a prehistoric ‘education’ on your daughters, St Matthew’s is just the place. Founded in 1845, many of the original staff still work here…”

The syllabus description had been replaced with a short and highly unflattering analysis of the College’s teaching methods. “Our English lessons draw on a lively selection of novels, plays and poems to develop the girls’ understanding of language and society” had converted into “English: read dull texts by boring dead white men, and remember that this is good for the soul.”

“Economics” no longer discussed the curriculum, but instead informed prospective parents that “If you’re not outrageously wealthy, stop reading immediately.” The link to “French” led to an obscene story about French kissing. The school crest had been replaced with a skull and crossbones. The contacts page said simply, “Don’t.”

As for the Photographs page; well, the young ladies in the new version were hardly exhibiting the type of behaviour that was expected of St. Matthews’ girls. Well, they were exhibiting a fair amount, to be honest, but…

Dr. Jenkins switched off the monitor on his secretary’s PC in fury. “I’ve seen more than enough of this nonsense. Tell the head of IT to get this changed back immediately, and to find out who did this. And tell him I want him over here in an hour with the names of the culprits.”

4. The Assembled Masses

The Headmaster looked down over the girls, whose giggles at what had happened had now given way to a deathly hush – particularly in that small section towards the back of the school hall, where four exceptionally nervous sixth-formers stood trembling in silence, as if convinced that everyone in the room knew their secret and was looking directly at them.

“The computers are being checked as we speak, and I will know the name or names of whomever is responsible within the next hour.” He leant forward over the lectern, scanning the faces of the pupils below, and finished his lecture quietly: “I would suggest that she, or they, should excuse themselves from their first lesson of the day, and report to my office immediately if they have any sense whatsoever. The assembly is dismissed.”

Jenkins gathered his papers, and walked down the steps from the stage. His gown flowed behind him as he strode towards the rear of the hall, four hundred pairs of eyes following him as he left. And then the murmuring started – a buzz of surprise, amazement, and curiosity: who could have done it?

Ruth, who had, looked pale. “What….” But Isabelle interrupted her: “Shhhhh. Not here…” The four girls tried to look inconspicuous, like the sweet innocent well-behaved students that they had always been – at least, up until now. They waited until it was their row’s turn to file out of the hall, and turned towards their common room as usual, until Amanda suddenly took Ruth’s arm and steered her into the girls’ changing room. The others followed.

Bernadette spoke first: “We’re in for it, aren’t we? My father’s going to kill me if he finds out about this.”

Ruth looked up at her. She spoke surprisingly calmly. “Listen, I know we all worked on the design. But I’m the one who published them on the school site. So Jenkins needs never find out that you helped.”

“Will they be able to tell it was you?” Isabelle asked.

Ruth nodded. “Yeah… there’ll be logs that showed whose account was used. Oh goodness, this isn’t happening to me.” And suddenly, her face crumpled into tears.

Again, it was Amanda who reached out and embraced her friend, trying to calm and re-assure her. But what re-assurance was there to offer? The group all knew that there was only one way that the Headmaster would deal with something like this.

“I’d better go and own up, hadn’t I?” Ruth asked. “I mean, it will only be worse if they wait until they’ve checked the logs?”

The others nodded. Undoubtedly, Jenkins would take a far dimmer view of the offence if he had to summon the culprit to his office.

“But what if the computer logs show that we were involved too?” Bernadette asked.

Ruth reached out and squeezed her hand re-assuringly. “They won’t. They’ll only be able to see my name on the update log – don’t worry.”

“Do you want us to come with you?” Amanda asked.

“Thanks. But that would only risk getting you caught up in it. So I’ll go on my own.”

“C’m here, then.” Bernadette reached out and hugged her friend, and the others joined in.

Ruth stood in contemplation for a moment, then scanned her friends’ faces. She spoke softly. “You know? I’m scared. Do you think it will be awful?”

There followed one of those silences in which one could hear a pin drop. It would be awful; they all knew that. They’d all heard Mary Watson talking about her punishment for playing truant just two weeks before.

The question went unanswered, replaced instead by as much encouragement as the other three girls could offer. “Be brave, Ruth.” “Good luck.” “We’ll be thinking about you.”

And the condemned lass wiped her eyes, and walked unsteadily to the door.

5. The Classroom

Lower Sixth A. Room 17.

Double English. Eighty minutes of dead, white men.

Twenty-five desks. One of them empty.

And three ashen faces, as they thought about what must be happening to the occupant of that empty desk.

6. Ruth

The school secretary looked up. “May I help?”

“Ruth Norton. Lower Sixth A. I’d like to see the Headmaster, please.”

Mrs. Beeston raised he eyebrows. “About what?”

“Er… something he talked about in assembly this morning.”

“Right, of course.” The older woman picked up the phone, and pressed a button. “I have a girl to see you, Headmaster. About your comments in assembly…. ” She looked up at the girl. “You should go straight in.”

Ruth paused, trying to compose herself, then opened the door. She’d never sent the inside of the Headmaster’s study – few girls did, fortunately for them: a visit there was rarely good news. She took in the spacious, comfortable room: the books, the leather chairs, the solid oak desk. And Jenkins, still in his gown, pacing backwards and forwards in front of the window.

“You’d like to talk to me, I understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What about?”

“About… the web site, sir.”

“Yes, Ruth. Do tell.”

“It was me, Sir.”

He raised his eyebrows, then leant forward over the desk. “Tell me, are you unhappy at St. Matthew’s?”

She sounded surprised. “No Sir?”

“I see. It’s just that the comments you made on the site weren’t exactly flattering about the College.”

“It… was meant to be a joke, sir.”

“I’m neither laughing nor smiling, young lady. Fortunately we appear to have discovered your prank before too many people noticed.”

“That’s good, Sir.”

“Was it your own work?”

Ruth felt the colour rising in her cheeks as she lied: “Yes, Sir, it was.”

“Well, at least you were honest enough to come and own up. Which helps. Although I have to say that of all of the students who might have walked through my door a few moments ago, you were not one of those I would have expected.”

She looked downwards. “No, Sir.”

“You realise, of course, that I am going to have to deal with this severely?”

She bit her lip. “Yes, Sir.”

“I can take a good joke, but this wasn’t one. It was immature, and could have caused real damage to our reputation. As it is, I already have an embarrassing letters to write to one distinguished parent who telephoned me in amazement this morning. And the least I can do is re-assure him that the guilty part has owned up, and been punished.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Six strokes of the cane, then. Let’s get this over with.”

“Please, sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Indeed. Most girls are by the time they reach my study. Now, move a few paces forward until you’re just in front of my desk. Good…. Now remove your panties, lift up your skirt and bend over.”

Shaking, Ruth slipped down her knickers, and edged them over her shoes. She looked around, unsure where to put them, so left them on the floor. She reached down to the hem of her grey school skirt, and lifted it up, over her green pullover. And leant forward, quickly, squirming with embarrassment. Feet together, heart pounding.

Was this a bad dream? A nightmare, from which she’d shortly wake? If only… “Be brave, Ruth,” she remembered from the locker room hugs from her friends. Be brave. Remember that it would soon be over.

Jenkins had walked behind her now. “Feet apart, and touch your toes. And you should remain silent and in position throughout your punishment. Should you fail to do so, I shall administer the stroke again. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.” She shuffled across the carpet, and stretched further forward; right down now, her fingertips just reaching the neatly-polished black leather of her regulation school shoes.

“I’m always sorry to have to do this to girls like you, Ruth. Girls who are usually well-behaved.” She felt the cool touch of the rod across her buttocks, and bit her lip. Any moment now…

And how it hurt… Oh, how it hurt. No wonder this was how the naughtiest girls got punished. No wonder the cane was so feared…. No wonder….

Oh goodness, that one was worse. Far, far worse. That was agony. Oh please, please, let it be over with soon. Please, please….

Ouuuuuuuuuch. In all her worst nightmares, all she’d dreamt about last night, when she had finally slept, in all those hours of tossing and turning in worry and fear, she’d never realised it would be this bad. Although these pauses, between the strokes; as the pain spread out; the gaps between the blows were almost worse than the impacts themselves.

Whack! Lower, searing across her. Oh please, sir, no more. Please sir, I’ve learnt my lesson. I’ll be good. You’ll never see me here again. Please.

Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww…… the tears were dripping onto his carpet. Don’t let him see her crying. Be brave, Ruth. That was the fifth, right? Oh thank goodness, only one more. Get it over with. Please. Only one….

Crack! And she was standing, her hands reaching behind her, unable to bear it. And, remembering his instructions, she started to panic. “I’m sorry, Sir. Please…”

“What did I say about remaining in position, young lady?”

“But Sir, please…” He couldn’t. Please. It would be impossible to take.

“I shall pretend that I didn’t notice that. But if you ever find your way back here, I shall add it to the total. Now get dressed, then stand up straight with your hands by your sides.”

As if she would find her way back. As if she would ever do anything that might give this man even the remotest chance of flogging her again. She wiped her eyes, and dressed clumsily, whilst Jenkins walked back around his desk. He placed the cane across his desk, and reached into the top drawer as he sat down. “Now we have to complete the formalities.”

He drew out a heavy, leather book and flicked through the handwritten pages as the girl shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, so wanting, so needing to reach behind and soothe the pain. Wearily, the Headmaster sighed: “You’re far from the first girl whose name I’ve entered into this book, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. But I hope that you will have learnt your lesson. Now then… Ruth Norton, Lower Sixth A, 23rd November, six strokes. And I suppose we’ll record it as ‘hacking’; that is certainly a new one.”

He looked up at her, and offered a gentle smile: “You’re a clever girl, Ruth. Just don’t be too clever. You won’t have enjoyed this morning, and I doubt you’ll forget it in a hurry. But I hope that it’s served its purpose. Now get on to what’s left of your lesson.” And he pointed her to the door.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, sir. For all the trouble I’ve caused. I mean…”

“Your teachers will be waiting for you, Ruth.”

“Right, yes, OK, sir, thank you, sir.” And flustered, she turned and left. Back out through the door, shame-facedly past the formidable Mrs Beeston. Wondering what she would have heard. Knowing that she must know.

And there, too, Mr. Collins. Head of IT. With a sheaf of printouts in his hands, and something of a look of surprise on his face. Well, she thought: at least I got there before you.

She had to get to English. It wouldn’t do to be late. And yet – that pain, in her behind. She had to… she couldn’t not… she turned into the bathrooms, and headed for a cubicle, sliding her hands down the back of her skirt, inside her panties. Feeling the heat. Feeling the raised marks. Feeling the tears well up again. And controlling herself. I must go to English….

7. Dead White Men

“So it’s in the fourth act that Shakespeare brings out the contrasts in behaviour, the moral dilemma facing his main characters. As an audience, as readers, we find ourselves caught up in the debate, the morality play, if you like”.

Mr. Rankin was in full flow. Yet for three of the girls in his class, early seventeenth century dramatic technique was not exactly at the forefront of their minds. Every minute or two, Bernadette glanced at Isabelle. Isabelle would glance at Amanda. Each lost in their imagination; knowing what must be happening to their friend, and yet at the same time only able to guess what she must actually be going through.

The knock, when it came, was faint. The teacher walked over to the door, interrupting his monologue. “Ah, Miss Norton. So nice of you to join us.”

Ruth looked down, clutching her books to her chest, not wanting to meet his gaze – or look at her fellow pupils, knowing that if she did so, tears were not far away. “I’m sorry I’m late, Sir,” she murmured.

“Would you care to explain where you’ve been? What could possibly have been more enjoyable for you this morning than our little discussion on Mr. Shakespeare?”

“I… I had to go and see another member of staff, sir. It couldn’t really wait.” She moved towards her desk.

“Now hold on a minute, young lady. You had to go and see another member of staff? Pray, do tell us what it was about? What was so important that it couldn’t wait until morning break.”

At the back of the room, Bernadette, Amanda and Isabelle winced. They knew, of course. And they knew how much Ruth would want to keep it quiet; to put what had happened behind her, so to speak. And they could tell, from her face, that the appointment with the Headmaster had not gone well.

Ruth paused, composing herself, then plucked up the courage and looked Rankin firmly in the eye. “I had to go and see the Headmaster, sir.”

There was an audible gasp in the room, girls turning to look at one another, and then back at Ruth. Surely…?

“About what, may I ask?”

“There was something I had to discuss with him, sir.”

“Don’t play games with me, girl, or you’ll end up in as much trouble as I suspect you’ve already been in this morning. About what?”

Ruth drew a deep breath. “About the school web site, sir.”

“Well, who would have thought it. Our Miss Norton appears to be a cyber-criminal,” Rankin sneered. “And did you have an enjoyable… discussion… with Mr. Jenkins?”

Ruth scrunched her face up, shaking her head. “No, Sir. Please….”

“OK, girl, go and sit down. If you can, that is.”

Her friends, and the rest of the class, watched intently as – almost in tears – Ruth walked over to her desk, and gingerly lowered herself into her chair. She was not the only one to wince as she sat down; the rest of the class drew breath, those few who had been unfortunate enough to precede her into the Head’s study only too familiar with the discomfort she must be feeling; the rest scarcely daring to imagine.

Rankin turned back to the class. “Well, ladies, I think we’ve all seen enough of Miss Norton’s predicament. Perhaps we should return to Mr. Shakespeare’s brilliance. Now, where was I….?”

8. Friends

What had it been like?

Was she OK?

What had he said?

How many?

How hard?

Had she cried?

The three friends could scarcely concentrate on Rankin’s lesson, their eyes and minds drawn to their friend. Indeed, they could see her discomfort, by the way in which the punished girl lifted herself up, ever so discreetly, to sit on her hands rather than the hard, wooden seat. Bernadette, who sat behind to Ruth, managed to pass her a note. “Was it awful? Hugs follow after the lesson.” Without turning, Ruth nodded.

There was still three-quarters of an hour to sit through. Squirm through, in Ruth’s case. And the English teacher was at his pompous, unbearable worst.

At least they’d be able to talk after the lesson. Give her the cuddles that she so clearly needed. Hear what had happened. Comfort her. Help her. Be there for her, in a way that none of them had been when she had faced the Head alone.

9. Lesson, Interrupted

“Well, we are being steered of course today, aren’t we?” Rankin commented, as the door swung slowly open. “Ah, Mrs Beeston. So good to see you, dear lady. Tell me, how may we help? Anything to be of assistance, as always.”

At the sight of the school secretary, Ruth sat bolt upright. The other three girls glanced nervously at each other.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your lesson, Mr. Rankin, but it’s an urgent message from the Headmaster. He’d like to see a number of pupils in his office right away, and has asked me to take them there in silence.” She looked down at the paper in her hand, and read the list. “Ruth Norton, Bernadette O’Connor, Amanda Watson and Isabelle Galbraith.”

“Stand up.”

Terrified, the friends rose to their feet, their classmates staring from one to the other in disbelief.

“Well, girls, you heard. And having seen Ruth’s face earlier, I rather suspect you’d better not keep Dr. Jenkins waiting for too long. Now, out here, and follow Mrs Beeston. Single file. In silence, as you heard. And do come back after your visit, and tell us what happens – I’m sure we’re all fascinated to find out.”

10. Once more…

“Miss Norton, you are to go straight in. You other girls are to remain outside, in silence, until you are called for.”

Ruth stepped forward, glancing round as she opened the Headmaster’s door, but the look on her friends’ faces scarcely re-assured her. This wasn’t happening. Surely…?

The cane still lay on his desk, the punishment book open beside it. As if time had frozen, some half-hour before. Jenkins sat behind his desk.

“Why did you lie to me, Ruth?”

“S…sir?”

“I asked why you had lied?”

“But… I didn’t, sir?”

Jenkins pointed to the stack of papers that lay on the side of his desk. Startled, Ruth remembered the documents that the Head of IT had been carrying as she’d left the study earlier – and the look of surprise on his face.

“I asked you if your escapades with our web site had been all your own work, and you told me that that was the case. Yet from Mr. Collins’ analysis, it appears that the files were created on four different accounts, and e-mailed between them on several occasions.”

“But….”

“Do you have anything to say before I cane you again?”

She sobbed. “Sir, please, don’t. I was the one who put them on the site. The others hadn’t intended to do that. It was just a bit of fun. Honestly, sir.”

“But they were involved? Thank you for confirming that.”

“No, Sir, I mean…”

“I think you know the position by now, Miss Norton. Let’s get started with without any further ado, shall we?”

“Sir, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”

“Now.”

Ruth stood still, rooted to the spot. She looked at the Headmaster, and at the cane, the temptation to turn and flee rising inside her.

“I said now.”

“Yes, Sir.” How could she take it? This was too terrible, worse than her worst nightmares the night before. And her friends…. They were surely for it, to. And it was all her fault.

As if on autopilot, she slid her panties down, lifted her skirt and assumed the dreaded position once more. Pray God he’d be gentle this time.

“Just before we parted a little earlier, I took pity on you, and told you that I would only administer the extra stroke you earned for flinching if you found yourself back in here for a further caning. I hadn’t imagined it would be quite so soon.” And Jenkins administered a whack quite unlike those she’d received before; twice as hard, three times, almost knocking off her feet, the pain of the new blow matched by the re-invigorated burning of the earlier strokes.

“And now, young lady, you can remain there whilst I talk to your colleagues. And might I suggest that you hold onto your ankles for what is about to follow.” Cane in hand, Jenkins swung open the door, the draft cool against Ruth’s behind, and beckoned the three others into his room. Petrified – the sound of the previous stroke having been all-too-audible through the non-too-thick door, they stepped inside, and drew breath as they saw their friend’s position, and her well-striped buttocks.

Jenkins spoke. “”As you’ll see, your friend here has already been severely disciplined for her work with our Website. And whilst I admire her loyalty for seeking to cover up your roles, you’re about to see what a dim view I take of dishonesty. Miss Norton, you are to receive a further six strokes. You others are to watch closely. And then I’ll deal with the three of you for your involvement.”

He turned away, and positioned himself squarely behind Ruth and to her side. He measured the rod against her, and swung it back, the breathtakingly-hard stroke raising one sob from the victim and three gasps from her friends.

This time, the Headmaster applied the strokes quickly, scarcely giving Ruth time to draw breath before the next scorching blow hit its target. The girl clutched her ankles, desperate not to move, the waves of pain and her sobs mingling together, her mind’s humiliation at being thrashed in front of her friends, even her memory of how many strokes she’d received, overwhelmed by her the sheer intensity of the pain.

And then, abruptly, it was over. He was telling her to stand up, to get dressed, pointing her to the side of the room to stand with her hands on her head. Unsteadily, she followed his instructions, half turning through the veil of tears to look at her friends’ shocked faces.

11. The Web Widens

Jenkins now stood tall in front of the others, looking them up and down. “So what do you have to say for yourselves?”

Silence.

Pure silence.

Interrupted only by the sniffling from the doubly-whipped girl.

“Well let me give you my perspective. All four of you participated in designing this so-called joke. Your friend here actually displayed it on the Internet. And she offered to carry the can for you all. About right?”

Amanda nodded, glancing at the other girls. Eventually, too, they murmured their agreement.

“So Ruth here was brave enough to face the music on her own, whilst the three of you hid away and tried to escape the consequences of your actions.”

“Yes, Sir.” Times three.

“Take care of Ruth, girls. Friends like that are rare. Friendship like that is to be valued.”

Again, the yes-sir-chorus.

“So she has been punished for her part in your little escapade, and again for lying to me earlier to try to protect you. It would appear that the three of you, on the other hand, need to be disciplined both for your contributions to the work, albeit somewhat lesser than Ruth’s, and for trying to avoid your share of the blame. Cowardice is something of which I take almost as dim a view as lying.”

Jenkins paused, and looked each of them in the eyes in turn. “This is not a pleasant part of my job running this school. And as I said earlier to your friend” – still crying to the side of the room – “it is doubly unwelcome when I have to punish girls who should know better. I shall give you eight strokes of the cane each. Any questions?”

Silence once more – any bravado, any bravery, long since left outside the study door.

“Ruth has gallantly demonstrated the position that you should take, although as with her first caning this morning, you are to touch your toes rather than hold your ankles. You will remain silent throughout, and you will remain in position; you may have heard, just before coming into the study, that your friend experienced the consequences of breaking the rules. Now, I’d like you each to remove your panties.”

Bending down, inelegant, three pairs of knickers found there way over their owners’ shoes, and onto the carpet.

“Now who wants to go first?”

Wants? Who wants to take those four, five paces forward, to cross that invisible line on the carpet that separates spectator from participant? Who wants to be punished?

To go first? To get it over and done with? To start to forget? To stand next to Ruth, offering her some support? To hope that Jenkins might be more lenient, if one volunteered?

To go last? To delay the pain? To avoid standing for too long, hand on head, in the same discomfort that Ruth so evidently now displayed? To hope, vain hope, that the Head might change his mind? To pray that he might have tired? (Or worry that he might finish off with harder strokes? And to have to watch, the fear growing, gnawing at one’s insides?)

“Well, if none of you will volunteer, we’ll have Miss Watson.”

Amanda tried to look brave, but the trembling of her legs as she leant forward into the punishment position gave away her terror. Jenkins whacked her, and watched as the red line branded its familiar path across her backside; strange, he thought, how no-one could predict how a girl would behave, how she would re-act, when it came to being thrashed.

The girl’s attempts to control her reactions lasted until the fourth stroke, when she let out a loud gasp. “Please, sir….”

“I shall pretend I didn’t hear that.” Half-way through; if he added strokes at this stage, he thought, she’d ever make it. Yet when she cried out again at the next blow, her tally increased by the inevitable one.

Ruth looked on, her eyes swimming with tears, as Amanda’s suffering increased. Amanda, the one of her friends who’d hugged her the night before; who’d tried to make her feel better. Who even now was trying, oh so hard, to bear the pain, to make it through to the end. And Ruth watched in horror, the sight of Amanda’s backside making her realise just how her own, throbbing posterior must have appeared as the others looked on.

Jenkins delivered the final strokes quickly, and ordered the suffering student to stand in the row of the recently-flogged, hands on head. As he turned to the two remaining girls, Amanda and Ruth cast furtive glances of support at each other, then turned back to the middle of the room.

Isabelle had already stepped forward, the next volunteer trying to look calm, whilst casting a furious glance at Ruth. Why had the girl been so stupid? If it hadn’t been for her, none of them would have been in this predicament. Well, she thought; he won’t break me.

She lifted her skirt, and took her position, the Headmaster watching her. Remarkable confidence, he thought; he wondered if it would survive the next few minutes?

Yet survive, it did. Jenkins measured the strokes, pausing between them for just long enough for the pain to reach its climax; yet no whimper, no movement, no reaction. Even the fifth stroke, unusually hard, failed to move the girl. Well, he thought, if she wants the challenge? If she wants him to have to demonstrate that a caning will get through to even the most obstinate girl. Lifting the cane high, he cracked it down at full strength, before lifting it back and whipping it again over the same path, and lining the eighth stroke once more directly on top of its predecessors.

He made the point, of course. Isabelle held her position, but it was a tearful, dishevelled young lady who joined her punished friends.

And then there was only one student left. Standing alone, rooted to the spot.

The Headmaster gestured to her to step forward.

“Please sir….” Bernadette murmured. “I can’t take this.”

“I’m not offering you a choice, Miss O’Connor.”

“Really, sir. Please…”

Jenkins looked her in the eyes. “Have you received corporal punishment before, young lady?”

She hung her head, shame-faced. “Yes, Sir. I…. I mean… if my sisters or I misbehave in the holidays… in our bedrooms…”

Jenkins gazed at her again, more kindly now. “What’s about to happen will be over in a few moments, Bernadette.”

“Please, sir.”

“Trust me, Bernadette.”

“Sir?”

“You have to be punished, or it wouldn’t be fair on your friends. And the sooner this is over, the sooner you can go and give each other some hugs, which I guess you’ll all need.”

“Sir…”

“So lift up your skirt and bend over.”

“You won’t tell my parents, will you, sir?”

“What happens in this room is between the five of us. No-one else.”

So, sobbing, as if sleep-walking, the youngest of the girls walked forward. She bent over, forgetting to lift her skirt up, and reached back to bare herself.

And Jenkins caned her. Striping her, like the others, with eight punishing strokes. But this time, listening to her sobs, applying the discipline quickly and more gently. Realising, perhaps, that young Bernadette’s all-too-obvious prior acquaintance with the rod meant that her very presence in this room was almost punishment enough.

And then it was over, and the girls were dressed, and their names were recorded in the old leather book. Four more names; four more girls who would look back, one day, with a wince, but perhaps too with the recognition that they had left the Headmaster’s office that morning a little wiser, a little more mature, than they had been when they had entered it a few minutes before.

Jenkins looked at the row of girls. “I do wish that hadn’t been necessary. But it’s now, and forgotten. You’re all bright girls – amongst our best; please don’t make me do that again.”

They nodded back at him, their “sorries” and “we won’t”s mingling in the air.

He smiled gently. “You’ve all been brave, and I admire you for that. Now go and wash your faces, and give each one a hug, and compose yourselves. And then go back to your lessons.”

So they turned to leave, heads held just a little higher. To leave, to hide, to cry, to cuddle… and to know that what had happened would unite the four of them in an even deeper friendship than before.