The next time

A girl, slight, shaking, standing before her Housemaster’s desk, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He studied a piece of paper intently, then set it down on the desk.

He peered over his reading glasses: “Do you dispute Mr. Watson’s account?”

Shamefaced: “No, sir.”

“Then we have something of a problem, Alice, do we not. What did I tell you would happen the last time one of my colleagues sent you to my office?”

Hopes shattered: he hadn’t forgotten… “That you would send me to the Headmaster, sir. But please, I…”

“Indeed.” He raised a hand to silence her. “You’ve had two Saturday detentions already this term; if the second-most serious punishment in the school’s having no effect, then I’m afraid you leave me with no choice.”

“But I won’t do it again. I mean, I know I’ve not been as good as I should have been. But I’ll really try…”

“If I had a tape recording to play back, I think you’ll find that’s precisely what you said last time. And we agreed quite unequivocally what would happen were there to be a ‘next time’.” He reached into his desk, drawing out a sheet of paper. Taking up his fountain pen, he started to write: not a long note, but long enough. He paused for the ink to dry, folded it, placed it neatly into a crisp envelope; inscribed the Headmaster’s name.

“You’ll take this to the Headmaster at afternoon break. It explains the situation, and asks him to give you four strokes of the cane. I’m sorry it’s come to this, Alice, and I sincerely hope it teaches you the lesson that I’m afraid you so evidently need to learn.”

And with that, he walked around his desk, handed her the letter, and opened the door to show her out into the corridor, where the other waiting girls stared at her, and at the letter, and deciphered her fate.

—

The following morning: early, cold, crisp. Gossiping girls queuing for chapel, falling silent as a gaggle of gowned masters walked past; Alice’s Housemaster called her over.

“And? Did you go and see the Headmaster?”

“Yes, sir.” She looked downcast. “I’m sorry for all the inconvenience I caused.”

“Well, fresh leaf turned over and all that. You’re a good girl, Alice; you just need to remember that at times.”

And with that, he was gone, heading to the Master’s pew to sing the morning’s hymns with his usual vigour.

—

It was during that afternoon’s Geography lesson that her worst fears came true, that her gamble was shown to have so spectacularly failed.

The knock on the door; Susie Jones, the deputy head prefect entering with a note for Mr. Green, their teacher. The apologies for disturbing him, the wait whilst he opened the envelope, digested its contents.

“Alice Barnes.”

All eyes turned in her direction, as her world turned dark.

“The Headmaster would like to see you immediately. Would you accompany Miss Jones to his office?”

—

Scarcely a word passed between them as they walked around the quadrangle: prison officer, leading the guilty party to the scaffold. It was only after he’d beckoned his, “Enter”, and she’d reached for the door handle, that Susie whispered a faint “good luck”. The prefect turned, her job done: there was no need for her to accompany the victim to meet her fate.

Headmaster and Housemaster stood side by side, sternly watching as the offender entered the room.

“Please… I was scared…”

The Headmaster spoke first: “Every girl who’s sent to be caned is scared, Miss Barnes. But at least they’re brave enough to face the consequences of their actions.”

“I’m sorry, I…”

But the Headmaster had turned to the desk behind him, and had already picked up the cane – longer, thicker than she had pictured it in her nightmares the previous night. “You can count yourself lucky that I am merely going to double the number of strokes that your Housemaster awarded you yesterday. Now, you know the protocol.”

And know the protocol she did. Two years before, she’d vowed never to return as she’d fled in tears, admonished together with Gemma and Mary for their summer afternoon’s frolics in the park. So much nicer than double Maths, until they’d been spied on their return and taken straight to the Headmaster, whose displeasure at their failure to heed that morning’s lecture in assembly had found its expression in three strokes each.

Hands shaking, she reached under her skirt to remove her knickers. She folded them neatly into the pocket of her green blazer, which she hung on the back of the door where all those other blazers had waited for their owners to be punished. Blinking back the tears, avoiding her Housemaster’s gaze, she walked to the side of the dark red armchair.

Alice lifted the hem of her skirt; bent forward, bared, stretching across, right over the opposite arm. Yes, she remembered the procedure, as she tried to forget what would come next.

“Eight strokes, to be taken in silence. If I were feeling less lenient, Alice, you would be about to receive twelve for your dishonesty.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He made her wait. Let her heart pound some more. Time to reflect, to regret, to pray for forgiveness in advance of the retribution.

And then it began.

Time dulls the memory. “Oh, it hurt, but it wasn’t that bad really.” The first stroke broke that spell, reminded her as it burned its mark that it was that bad: that it was awful, unbearable. And that was before the second: far, far harder, as if he’d watched the first and deemed her squirms insufficient.

And last time? Last time, at this point, it was almost over: she could brace herself: just one to go, I can survive it, breath deeply, be brave. This time he’d scarcely started.

Time stands still when you’re being caned. The world outside ceases to exist, and the world inside the room focuses vividly into life. Sights – that carpet, its slightly-worn pattern, gazed on by so many girls from this unfortunate angle. Sounds: the swish as the cane cut the air, preceding the impact of the third stroke, low, biting. Emotions and feelings, the shame and pain running wild.

He didn’t speak during the punishment: silence ruled, until the cane next descended and a stifled sob (despite her best intentions) filled the air. Four strokes: half way.

Yesterday, at this point, she’d have been dressing, wincing, apologising, leaving. The Headmaster’s pause seemed to reflect this: allowing her to compose herself sufficiently after the fourth that her thinking could clarify, could disassociate itself momentarily from its focus on the searing stripes.

And then the fifth took her back, a girl being punished, a girl wanting it to be over, wanting forgiveness, wanting to run and hide.

Three to go. Her entire previous caning, so often remembered, now about to start. She gulped, holding onto the chair, knuckles whitening. And waited… waited…for the sixth… waited… waited… for the seventh, unbearable, as if it had cut straight through her… waited…. waited… and then the final blow and the final crescendo of pain was being talked over with a “Please stand and get dressed.”

There was little more to say, once her blazer was back on, her knickers pulled up ever-so-gingerly. She was sorry for what she’d done, for the inconvenience she’d caused; Headmaster and Housemaster alike were disappointed, were sure it wouldn’t happen again. But the Headmaster has said that last time, and so had she.