JANUARY, 1983
She hadn’t wanted to be chosen. The anonymity of her first term had suited her just fine. Make a few friends – not too many, not being the overly-gregarious type. Try and work hard: the teachers seemed to like her, their praise felt good, and her parents had been so proud of her school report at Christmas.
She was never going to be a star on the hockey pitch, but why not put her heart and soul into it on those cold, wet November afternoons when others less enthusiastic dreamt of the library?
And mix into school life as best she could; the choir was fun, and the History Society’s two trips to local country houses had been wonderful. An escape, for an afternoon at a time – not that she really wanted to escape.
Pretty perfect, all in all.
—
“Have you seen the notice?” Pippa had asked on the first evening back in the new year.
She hadn’t. Looking back, she wished she never had. But there, outside the prefects’ room, on the list of “Fagging Duties – Lent Term” was her name, next to that of James Miles. The Head Prefect. Aloof, arrogant, feared.
There’d been a note in her pigeon hole at morning break the following day. It simply read: “Where were you this morning? My study: 1pm sharp. J.M.”
—
He’d made her wait, of course, in the corridor. Alone. Panicked.
When he finally arrived, and ushered her into the surprisingly large, surprisingly untidy room that served as his quarters – study, adjoining bedroom – he came straight to the point: “My fag is supposed to be here at seven each morning, to make my toast and coffee. You failed to show up.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Of course you will. That hardly need saying, does it? Nor do I need to spell out that I will beat you for your absence this morning. Now, I suggest you go and talk to Jennifer: she looked after me last term. She will tell you all you need to know. Or most of it, at least… Off you go.”
And off she went, hoping that the seemingly-forgotten threat to beat her had been an idle one.
—
6pm. Waiting outside again, for that was the hour at which it seemed he expected to be attended to before dinner. “Never be late. Never knock. Stand facing the wall. He’ll let you in when he’s ready for you.”
Listening to the sounds from inside, of a girl crying as she was caned.
The door opened. She glanced to her right: Jennifer, leaving, in tears. “He wants to see you now,” mumbled resentfully as she passed.
The cane was on his desk. He made no mention of it. “There’s a pile of papers in the corner. Tidy them. And then make my bed. Oh, and a cup of tea would be nice to start with.” (Strong, one sugar, only a little milk – she’d learnt that from her predecessor. Was that the faint flicker of a satisfied smile when he sipped it for the first time?)
The bed: take off the sheet each day and put it back on neatly. Shake out the duvet. Make sure it was straight – not tucked in at the bottom. The two pillows on top of one another. “And when you’re finished, with anything he’s asked you to do and anything else you should have done, go and stand facing the door and wait for further instructions.”
Was it five minutes, waiting there in silence for his command? Ten? An eternity, it seemed, when trying to imagine what it would be like to be punished. She should have done her research. Should have known. Shouldn’t have been such a fool.
“Go to dinner… Shut the door behind you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Expelled into the corridor. Alone. Unpunished. Confused.
—
He flogged her that night. Her 10pm duty. Showered, in her pyjamas and dressing gown. Ready for bed, save for his needs.
Stripped. Naked. Trying to cover herself; to protect her modesty. Bent over his desk, having to reach up slightly onto tiptoe.
“I gave Jennifer twelve strokes earlier for failing to show me the courtesy of seeking you out to proffer her advice. I feel the same would be appropriate for you.”
—
Feeling the stripes, later, as she lay face down on her bed trying not to let the others in the dorm hear that she was crying. Raised weals. Perfectly parallel. “A taste of things to come if you don’t buck up your ideas,” he’d told her afterwards.
—
The slipper – or plimsoll, to be more precise – across a recently-caned bottom is almost too much to bear. Especially when the toast wasn’t really burnt. Especially when, by her watch, she had been there a minute before seven. But when did fairness and fagging ever go together?
—
7, 1, 6, 10. Her days became defined by her hours of attendance. By the fearful desire to please. Re-enforced after a few days, when he perceived that she had again been late: “So tomorrow I’ll give you seven strokes at seven, one at one, six at six and ten at ten. Twenty-four in total: seems like a fair number to teach a girl a lesson.”
It would be unfair, mind, to say that the beatings were daily. He was more discerning than that: as he commented a few weeks in, “It hurts more when you’ve not been caned for a few days, doesn’t it?”
Fetching other girls for their punishments became part of her routine, too. Hunting them down, knowing that if she failed to bring them back, she herself would be the one being beaten in their place. Sometimes he’d have her wait outside whilst administering the thrashing to the lass she’d led to her fate; sometimes inside in her usual standby position facing the door; occasionally, watching (to her mortification, and that of the girl being disciplined).
And then there was the blessed week after half-term, when he suddenly seemed pleased with her. No comments, no jibes, no beatings fair or unfair. When she finally began to relax, and to hope that she could enjoy school once more. Until after chapel on Sunday when – as she left – he told her to report immediately to his room.
“But I thought you were happy with my work,” she’d pleaded, as he stood before her flexing the cane. That he’d merely been keeping a list of her transgressions, to deal with in one go, had never crossed her mind. “Face down on the bed, skirt up, knickers down,” he’d ordered. She’d found his pillows positioned midway down the mattress, lifting her buttocks high for him to whip. “How many strokes,” she’d asked in terror. “Enough to make you a very sorry girl indeed,” he’d replied. And he had. Sorrier than she had ever been before.
“I’ll try harder, I promise.” Such a catalogue of errors. Not good enough for him, he’d explained. Should be ashamed. He owed it to her to try to help her.
—
And then the following afternoon. Hands shaking with want-to-do-well nerves. Tea spilling. Papers covered.
“Please… please… I can’t take another caning.”
“Then I shall have to punish you in another way.” Standing up. “”Kneel down in front of me…”
Unzipping. Grabbing her hair. Forcefully overcoming her reluctance…
—
SEPTEMBER 1986
“I promise to uphold the dignity of the office of the prefect, to be just and fair, and to serve in God’s name.”
The traditional vow. Her vow. In front of the whole school at the opening assembly of term.
In front of him.
Again, it had been a simple notice, back before the summer holiday, that had brought the bad tidings:
NEW MASTER
It gives me great pleasure to announce that Mr James Miles, a former Head Prefect of the school, will be joining us on the staff from the start of the Michaelmas Term as a member of the English department. Mr Miles has recently graduated from Churchill College, Cambridge with first-class honours. We are delighted to welcome him back.
A. Chesterton MA (Cantab)
Headmaster
But it would be different now, right? He would have forgotten her. And it was long ago. So long ago.
… so very, very fresh in her memory.
—
Strong, now.
Not really that strong.
—
The first lesson of the new term was with him; the gods (or devils) were laughing at her that morning.
“So lovely to see you all again,” he’d said, “but in such a different context. I have happy memories of some of you from your first and my last year here.” Did she imagine that his eyes rested on her for just a few moments too long?
A lively debate ensued for their forty-minute class. Him. Her. The other six girls were almost incidental.
Shakespeare formed such an important part of their A Level syllabus, and he proved to be a lively and insightful teacher. “Just as in ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor’,” he’d pointed out to her at one point. “I’ve not read it, sir,” she’d explained.
“So, ‘Titus Andronicus’.” he’d enquired of her later. “A favourite?”
Again, the confession that it hadn’t yet been on her list. How could he do this? Nigh on forty plays that the bard had penned; perhaps half a dozen she’d not seen or read; two of those picked out for debate.
Little girl. Failing to live up to high expectations. Not good enough.
Older now. More confident. Don’t give in…
—
His letter, delivered by an obedient pupil to the prefects’ room at morning break. She would recognise that handwriting anywhere.
“I have been reflecting on our lesson this morning. I had been looking forward to renewing our acquaintance, and had been led by my colleagues to expect high things of such a star pupil.
Needless to say, I was more than a little disappointed by your lack of diligence in studying texts that I would expect a high-flyer to have absorbed far earlier in her school career.
As I recall, you always used to have a ready excuse. But I know how to make you focus on your work, don’t I?
It appears that a short discussion would be in order. Please report to my rooms in the staff quarters. 6pm. Sharp. I am sure you understand the nature of the conversation that I intend to have with you.”
—
Her reply, delivered by a different, equally-obedient girl to the staff common room at lunch time:
“Thank you for your earlier letter. As I mentioned, I have studied the overwhelming majority of Shakespeare’s plays. The two somewhat more obscure ones to which you referred this morning are on my reading list, but are perhaps less directly related than many others to the texts on which we will be examined next summer. I therefore accorded the pair a lower priority than more important works.
I am extremely motivated and think you will find that my essay and examination marks speak for themselves. So, whilst I am grateful for your offer of assistance and a meeting this evening, I respectfully decline it. I am a prefect now, and I think you’ll find that things are necessarily rather different between us than in the past.”
—
The words sounded less clever when read back to her by the Headmaster that afternoon. She’d been plucked by the school secretary from her early-afternoon French class, and marched around the manicured lawns to his office.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever read such a disrespectful, insolent note to a member of staff.”
Staring at the carpet. “No, sir.”
“Were this from a more junior pupil, I would give them six very hard strokes of the cane.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Since it is from you, and mindful of the office that you hold – one which, after some consideration, I shall allow you to keep – I will double that. Would you step outside and ask my secretary to let you have the senior cane, and then come straight back in to be punished.”
—
Knickers in blazer pocket. Blazer removed and folded neatly over the arm of a chair.
Bent over touching her toes. Skirt lifted clear, and tucked into its hem.
And then the consequences. Of her actions. Of his return. Of her response to his return. Delivered methodically, the room silent save for the swish of the descent, the crack of rattan against taut skin, her involuntary gasps, her eventual (once she had recovered her breath) count of the shocking strokes. “One, thank you, sir.” “Two, thank you, sir…”
Ashamed, afterwards. Not much of that ‘dignity’ she had vowed to upheld present in such circumstances – save for the way in which she took her punishment without flinching.
“Hand the cane back on your way out,” he’d told her. “And consider this your final warning if you wish to remain one of my prefects. Disappointing; very disappointing…”
—
The note, at afternoon break. Curt:
“My office. 6pm, as previously instructed. J.M.”
—
No argument, this time.
No mercy, either.
“You are clearly still a very disrespectful young woman,” he stated, “for all your achievements and high office. Some find that being appointed as a prefect rather goes to their head; it appears to have done so for you. Now, I understand the headmaster had words with you this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And he punished you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did he give you?”
“A caning, sir.”
“You are used to those, though.”
“Not since my first year here, sir.”
“How many strokes?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“Then it would only seem appropriate, as it was me whom you insulted, that I apply the same number.” He pointed to his desk.
“I think you recall the position. And bare, of course. Although you may leave your clothes on other than your knickers.”
Sotto voce: “Bastard.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“You’ll pay for that.”
“I’m sure I’m already going to. Sir.”
Twelve stripes from her earlier encounter. And from Mr Miles? Each of his dozen laid directly on top of its headmasterial counterpart, working slowly from top to bottom.
Her silence lasted for the first four, before he broke her. Before she allowed herself to writhe and howl at each stroke. Before she had no choice but to do so.
Before the dozen was done.
Before he was standing behind her. Unzipping. “You’re right that things are rather different now.” Pressing her down against the desk. “As I recall, you used to have a very obedient little mouth. I think now you’re older that it will take other methods to guarantee your good behaviour…”
