It’s late on Christmas Eve. Dinner’s finished, the silverware cleared. The master sips his port in the library, and rings for his butler.
“Bring in the girls, Thompson.”
“Yes, my lord.”
They arrive, freshly-scrubbed, dressed in their best neatly-pressed uniforms: the parlour maids, the chamber maid, the laundry and scullery maids. He stands and takes the sheaf of paper from the butler, and reads out the first name: “Hattie…”
She steps forward, nervously, bowing her head. “A very good year, Hattie. Thank you.” And he reaches under the tree, passing her a brightly-wrapped present. She beams with delight, with pride. “You may go to your room. Merry Christmas.”
“Edith.” A younger girl, in her first year in the household. “A good start. Generally…” He lays down the papers. “Yet I’m told there have been times when you’ve not been quite as diligent as you might have been. Thompson: a birch, please, and put the girl in position…”
Twelve strokes: hard, as she bends over – skirt lifted – and clutches her ankles. And then, as she sobs, he passes her gift – “for all the good you’ve done, now the other matters are dealt with and forgotten.”
And so it continues. Each girl presents herself in turn, trembling before his judgement. As he peers down at Thompson’s reports, some are praised – and others first punished.
Soon, only one girl remains. The master turns to Thompson: “I can deal with this from here.” He hands over the largest gift under the tree, with smiling thanks, and sends the butler on his way, locking the library door.
One present remains. ”So, Charlotte…” He reads the paperwork, before setting it down, and then stands before his favourite maid, lifting her face gently to his. “Naughty, or nice?”
One birch…
“I think… naughty, sir.”
Gently: “In what way?”
“In… not always working as hard as I should, sir. In… in sometimes breaking things, sir… In sometimes not waking up on time. And I snapped at one of the new maids…”
“Then I have to deal with the nicest of my girls in the same way I’ve dealt with the others who’ve transgressed, don’t I?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry…”
And so he beats her. Slowly, talking all the time: how she’s the best of his girls, how she works so hard, how he knows she tries hard. But how she mustn’t let herself down. Is it her imagination, or is he flogging her harder than the others?
And when he’s done? When she’s calmed herself a little, managed to stem the flow of tears? After he’s stretched out his arms to hold her? Well, then it’ll be the same as last year for his good girl, as buttons are undone and garments removed, as she’s bent over the arm of the leather armchair, as he’s first gentle with her and then so much rougher. Afterwards, he’ll hold her tight; kiss her gently; whisper sweet and caring thoughts. And then he’ll hand her her gift from under the tree, and send her on her way.
