It had hurt – horribly, each of the six carefully-executed strokes quite simply agonising. Her classmates had watched in silence: wincing as he’d punished her, watching the neat red lines tracing their lesson across her pale skin whilst she’d stretched, tight, over his desk.
She’d walked – ashamed, hurting – to the back of the classroom, pausing to summon up the courage to lower her bottom onto the hard wooden chair. She so wanted to cry, but knew that her tears must be kept for later, in private – after she’d presented the punishment slip to her doubtless-disapproving housemaster, to be added to her school record.
Millie, next to her, squeezed her hand. Other girls flicked supportive glances her way, silently mouthing their are-you-OKs. A note passed surreptitiously from desk to desk – Erin, her best friend, seated at the front of the class, offering her condolences and her love: “My darling Poppy. That looked awful. He was a right bastard: you were so brave. Hugs later. You alright? xxx”
“Yeah. Fine. Not as bad as it looked. Didn’t hurt much. Old fool must be losing his touch! xxx” – a reckless reply, given the need to convey the folded paper back across the room. The master had spotted the reply winging its ill-fated way almost as soon as it had left the punished girl’s grasp; he’d monitored its progress, choosing his moment to pounce.
He unfolded the missive; read the correspondence slowly to himself, shook his head as if in sorrow – and beckoned Erin to stand.
“I simply won’t tolerate that sort of comment.”
“Sorry, sir.” Meaning it, her whispered apology tinged with dread.
He turned, picked up the cane. “I think you know the procedure…”
“Please…?” But he merely rapped the desk with the rattan and waited. She stepped forward, paused, looked at him in the vain hope of a last-minute reprieve – and then lowered her knickers, lifted her skirt and leant forward.
Poppy averted her eyes as her friend was punished. Punished! For the very act of friendship. She bit her lip, counting the six, knowing how Erin – far less used to the taste of the rod – must be suffering. And then her friend was being dismissed, the master’s hastily-scribbled report of her strokes clutched in her trembling hands, and he could turn his attention to unfinished business.
“Poppy Reynolds.”
“Sir…?” He couldn’t… He wouldn’t…
“Stand when I’m talking to you, young lady!”
“Yes, sir.” She rose to her feet, heart pounding at the realisation that standing was merely a prelude to another long, lonely march to the front of the classroom.
“You’ve just seen what happens to pupils who insult me. And this time, I shall make sure it hurts. Come out here and bend over, and we’ll see whether the old fool can get his touch back…”
In memory of Alex Birch
