The sound of soft sobbing stopped me in my tracks. My first thought was surprise: who was up here in their study bedroom at this time of the afternoon, when the girls should all have been closeted away in class? Surprise, rapidly surpassed by concern – who, why?
I retraced my steps, listening carefully.
Natalie? No…
And yet the label on the door was clear, in its neat black ink. Room 6-14. Natalie Kesterson. Lower Sixth Classics.
I tapped twice, murmuring gently, ‘A quick word, if I may?’
A pause, before the door crept ajar. The sound of running water at the sink. A face peering round. Natalie. Putting a brave face on whatever had been troubling her – but a brave, tear-stained face at that.
‘I was passing. You sounded upset.’ Re-assuring, not prying, I hoped.
‘No, honestly. I’m fine.’ Just a fraction too quickly.
I paused, raising an eyebrow quizzically.
Silence can work wonders, I find, in getting to the truth. We waited, each anticipating the other’s next comment. ‘Well….’ she muttered, hesitantly.
‘Go on, what’s up, Nat?’
She ushered me into the room; I left the door ajar, of course. The girl looked down, shamefaced. ‘Sometimes things don’t seem fair, sir. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Life often isn’t, unfortunately. Do you want to share?’
She bit her lip. ‘It’s… embarrassing.’
‘I am fairly unembarrassable, if that helps.’
She nodded, breathing in deeply, plucking up courage. ‘I… well, I’ve been doing some work for the school office: showing parents around when they’re thinking of sending their kids here.’ I smiled: they couldn’t ask for a much more positive impression that the one they’d get from this lass. She continued: ‘Only, a few weeks ago, I forgot that I was supposed to show these people around, and they were left standing for hours, and the Headmaster got really annoyed with me.’
So I’d heard. Word travels fast in a boarding school common room.
She hesitated.
‘So tears today, Nat?’
‘I forgot again. What with the exams, and the school play coming up, and…’
‘And?’ Oh dear…
‘He caned me. Mr. Watson, I mean.’
What? Nat? ‘You… you can’t be serious.’
Why was I so shocked? A caning? For such a bright, good girl? For Nat? Watson – the Head – was renowned as a tyrant to the staff, never mind the girls. But this…
And then she was in tears. Floods of them. Did she hug me, or did I hug her? All I know is that I held her very, very tightly. Not behaviour that one should probably expect from a respectable public school Latin scholar, to hold and comfort a distraught eighteen-year-old girl.
We talked like confidents, co-conspirators. She’d been caned once before, it turned out, to my astonishment: two years before, with her dorm mates – talking after lights out, for the second consecutive night. Bent over the ends of their beds, to take three swift whacks each across pyjama-clad backsides, from their irate Housemaster.
But this… oh, this was worse, much worse. Six of what sounded like his very, very best, and two more since the poor girl couldn’t cope. Nat, sweet, bright Nat, bent over clasping her ankles, as the rugby-playing Headmaster whipped her till she bawled. inviting his secretary in afterwards, publicising her shame as he dictated a letter to Mr. Kesterson explaining his oh-so-heartfelt regret at having had to thrash his daughter.
I perched on her bed, and cuddled her head in my lap. Inappropriate behaviour? The door was ajar. She needed comfort. It could serve no purpose making her suffer alone, surely? Stroking her hair gently, calming her fears, quelling her tears. Telling her everything that she needed to hear: what a good girl she was, respected and admired. Cared for. Not a lonely, beaten girl. Holding her until the shame receded and the pain subsided. Preparing her to re-enter her world…
