The schoolmaster smiled. “Well, Jim, there’s bad news and there’s worse, and then there’s worse again, and worse still.”
His colleague laughed back, enjoying the banter of the staff common room. “Thanks, Mike. You’re just so encouraging! Go on – tell me what’s going on.”
“Well the bad news is that I saw two of your girls out of bounds earlier. I was looking out of my office window, and they were hidden away behind the back of the Music block”.
“Gee wow, Mike… that’s just terrible….”
“OK, OK, no need for sarcasm. So the worse news… they were both smoking.”
“Mmmm… more serious: especially after the Headmaster’s lecture to us all in the staff meetings the other day – what was it? ‘We need to stamp out this evil practice.’ “
“Absolutely. NOT a good time to then be caught with a ciggie in your hand!”
“So who were the culprits?”
“Well… I couldn’t make it out from the window, so I nipped downstairs to go and confront them, but one of them had gone.”
“And the one who was left was….?”
The teacher paused, as if for dramatic effect. “Becky Staunton.”
“Becky?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “My goodness – but she’s such a upstanding member of the community.”
“I know. Shame really, to end up in trouble a week before her A Levels start.”
“Absolutely. OK… so the bad news is they were out of bounds, the worse news is that they were smoking, the worse worse news is that you only caught one of them. You had one more circle of hell to put me through!”
“Yeah. Well – this one is serious.”
“Let me guess? She wasn’t smoking a ciggie, it was best quality cannabis?”
“Er… not quite. Possibly worse.”
“Worse?”
“When I caught her, she had a piece of paper in her hand, and she kept trying to make sure I didn’t see what was on it. So I insisted that she handed it over.”
“And?”
He paused, and looked his colleague in the eye. “Can you give me a good reason why she should have had a copy of next week’s A Level French Literature paper?”
“WHAT?”
“Next week’s A Level French Lit paper. Cambridge Schools Examining Board. 25th May.”
“But… no, there must be some mistake. She couldn’t have – the papers are all locked away in the safe in the common room. It must have been her mock exam. Or a past paper. Or something.”
“Or the real thing. I’m telling you, Jim, this was the genuine article. No doubt.”
“God.” This WAS bad. Having a copy of the following week’s public examination paper. How on earth had she got hold of it?
“Well, Mike, I give you one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You were right about it being serious.”
“I know. And Becky knows too.”
“Where is she now?”
“I sent her to her study bedroom and told her to wait there.”
“Thanks. Bloody hell. I mean, I could do without this hassle.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Well… I don’t know. I mean, if it was just a matter of the smoking and out-of-bounds, I guess Miss Staunton might not be quite an “upstanding” member of the community when she bent over and touched her toes.” His colleague laughed, as Jim continued.
“But this exam paper business. I’m not exactly sure – I’ve never come across something like this before. I mean, I suppose if I took her over to the Headmaster, he’d probably expel her. But… I don’t know. That seems so harsh, so soon before she was due to take her exams. And what would happen to her place at Oxford – the University would never take her if she’d been kicked out of school for this sort of thing.”
“She should have thought of that.”
“I guess so.” A bell rang. “Oh well – thanks for that. Damn, damn, damn. I’ve got to teach now, but I’m free after one lesson – I’ll have to deal with this then. Why did this have to be a girl in my House?”
“Your problem, Jim, your problem!”
“Gee thanks.”
They walked over towards the staff room door. “Have fun then, Jim!”
“Mmm.. not sure fun is the word I had in mind. We’ll see.” As they stepped out into the corridor, Mike turned to a passing pupil: “Anna – do me a favour would you? Go and find Becky Staunton’s study bedroom – she should be there. Tell her to wait there until 1.40, and then come up to my study.”
—
A bad lesson. Exams coming up. Hot weather outside. The girls hardly in the mood to do a long, hard Latin translation. And their schoolmaster with his mind more on his subsequent appointment with young Miss Staunton.
The bell rang, and he paced along the corridors and up the stairs to his office, deep in thought. He turned the corner towards his study door, and immediately saw her standing there, leaning against the wall. She straightened up immediately. As he walked closer, he could see that she had been crying. Just you wait, he thought, just you wait.
“Rebecca.”
“Sir.” Sniff.
“Come inside.” He unlocked the heavy oak door, and swung it open, the girl following him into the large, untidy study.
He walked around his desk and sat down, gesturing to the chair opposite him. She perched nervously down, the light from the window behind him making her blink.
“You have some explaining to do.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well? Go on.”
“I just… I just found the exam paper lying around, sir. And was going to hand it in.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Really? You were going to hand it in.”
“Yes, Sir. I mean, it shouldn’t have been left out, so I was going to give it back.”
“You were going to give it back… after sitting and having a quiet cigarette.”
She looked shocked. “Well……”
“Let me give you another spin on your little story, shall I? Somehow you steal next week’s exam paper. You wondered where to go to look at it, and decided that the place you go to smoke would be good. After all, you’ve never been caught smoking there before, so it must be safe. But this time you get caught.”
Silence. She blinked back tears.
“Do you realise the seriousness of this?”
She nodded.
“You could get the whole school banned from sitting this year’s A Levels. Press coverage. Angry parents of the other girls.”
“I… I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t think.”
“Well. I will have to sort the Exam Board out. Find some sort of excuse.”
“Thank you, sir. But… I didn’t steal the paper, sir, honestly.”
“No? Well to be honest, Becky, I don’t really care how you got it. If you did… find it… you should have walked straight up to the staff common room with it, and handed it in. And frankly, as you didn’t do that, whether it was you who stole the paper or not, the very act of you being in possession of it is enough to land the school in all sorts of trouble.”
Trying not to cry: “Suppose so, sir.”
He looked sternly at her. “Who was the other girl?”
“What?” She sat bolt upright.
“The other girl? Mr. Clifford saw two people from his window. By the time he got downstairs, you were the only one left.”
Again, silence.
“Who was the other girl, Rebecca?”
“He was wrong, sir. Really. I was on my own.”
A look of anger on his face: “Now is not a good time for you to be lying to me, girl. Tell me.”
“I can’t say.”
“I’m not asking you to tell me, I’m ordering you to.”
“No. No, I can’t.”
“Well I will find out sooner or later, and it will be worse for you if it’s later, so you might as well tell me know.”
“No. No way. I can’t land someone in it.”
“Oh? So you admit that there was someone else now do you? Well, as you’re obviously not going to tell me without a little more incentive, we’ll see how firm your resolve is in a few minutes. You do realise the seriousness of the position that you find yourself in, don’t you?”
“Y…y…yes, Sir.”
“And you do know what the options are in this school in cases of this gravity?”
Quietly “Sir?”
“The most likely punishment is that I take you across to the Headmaster, and ask him to expel you.”
“No Sir, please. PLEASE.”
“Or I do have the option of dealing with you myself, now. With the cane.”
“Please sir…” Pitifully. The worst of her fears as she had sat alone in her study bedroom. She’d never even been smacked as a girl – her parents didn’t believe in it. But to be caned?
The Housemaster continued. “As you know, the cane is only used in this House on very rare occasions. And I haven’t had cause to use it for over four terms now. But in this case, I have to say I can see no alternative.”
She looked down at the ground. “Yes, Sir.” Resigned. Nervous. Scared. Feeling very alone, very vulnerable.
“But before I use it, I’m going to give you one last chance to tell me the name of the other girl.”
Silence.
“Right then, it looks as if I am going to have to beat it out of you.” He sounded genuinely annoyed now.
Panic on her face.
“Let’s work this out, Rebecca. Firstly, you have been caught out of bounds, smoking. For that, I am going to give you two strokes of the cane.”
He continued: “Possession of a stolen examination paper is an incredibly serious offence, which merits a further four strokes, making six in all.
She gasped. “Please, sir….”
He walked over to the cupboard at the side of the room, and reached behind it, pulling out a long, thin cane. Clutching the pale wooden stick by its curved handle, he turned back to the terrified looking girl. “And once those six are out of the way, we can have another conversation about who the other girl was. Now – I want you to bend over and touch your toes, facing my desk.”
Becky stood up, almost in a daze, and leant forward, arching her back slightly. She was shaking so much it was hard to keep her balance.
“I said touch your toes!” She stretched forwards, fingers reaching out towards the ground, straightening them out to make contact with her plain black leather shoes.
“For the first strokes, I am going to be generous, and beat you across your skirt. Later on, I may not be so kind.”
He stepped back, measuring the rod across her backside, then quickly drew it back and smacked it forward, hard, the swish followed by a sharp crack as it made contact with her. She squealed, the blow of the stick shocking her, and then the pain starting to stretch out across her buttocks. “Silence!”
He paused, and again drew back the rod. WHIP! “Owwww” She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself.
“Those two were for smoking. Now for the exam paper.” CRACK – landing perfectly across the target, rocking the girl forward on her toes with the strength of the stroke. Her breaths were getting deeper and deeper, as she tried desperately to keep in position.
He stepped back, and lifted the rod higher. A quick dance forwards; the cane thwacked down. CRACK! Much louder than before – really making contact, bringing a sharp from the girl.
A repeat performance. THWACK! “No Sir, please, please, I’m sorry.”
THWACK! “Owwwwwwwwwww.” Sobbing now, her body trembling.
“One more and you will have had the six.” The cane higher than ever. All his force. THWACK!
Silence….the girl trying to compose herself. Not wanting to make a sound, not wanting to incur further punishment. Silence… except for her heavy, regular breathing, trying to gasp back the tears.
“Stand up.”
She obeyed, her face wet with tears, her hands rushing to clasp her buttocks.
He paused, and laid the cane down on the table in front of her. “Now, Rebecca… we turn to the question of who the other girl was.”
She looked at him through tearful eyes: “No, sir, please. I really can’t tell you, Sir.”
Angrily, he picked up the cane. “In which case I shall have to flog it out of you. Skirt up, bend back down.”
“No Sir, please….”
“Tell me the name.”
“I CAN’T.”
“Well we’ll see how long your resolve holds then. Lift up your skirt and touch those toes!” He walked behind her, grasping the bottoms of her skirt in his hands and pulling it roughly up over her back, looking down to see the fierce red lines stretching out from under her thin white knickers and stretching out across her backside.
“I am going to give you a further stroke of the cane. And then ask you to tell me the name of the other girl. And if you don’t you will get another stroke, and I will ask you again. And so on, until you tell me who she was.”
“Please sir….”
“And once you do tell me her name, we will count up the extra strokes you have had, and I will give you the same number again. So tell me after one stroke, and you will still have one more to come. Tell me after two, and take another two. And so on. So for every stroke you get, I want you to think about all of the extras that you are earning.”
She sobbed. “You can’t make me tell you.”
“Can’t I?” He stepped back, and whipped the rod down. CRACK! “Aaaaaaargh!” The extra pain of being caned just on her panties clearly shocked her, the weal that raised up angrily looking much clearer and brighter than the previous marks through her skirt. “Tell me her name.”
“No sir.”
THWACK! “Name?”
“N…n… no”
THWACK. “Well?” Silence. Loud sobs now, her body racked with pain.
“Going to tell me?”
“No.”
Silence.
CRACK! The hardest stroke yet. A scream. “Please. Please, sir – don’t do this to me.”
“You can stop it as soon as you choose.”
“I can’t…. Please, I can’t. Please.”
He walked back, several paces now. Ran forwards. THWACK! “Noooooo”. She leapt up, her hands again reaching for her behind, and then fell slowly forwards to her knees. “Please sir…”
He walked round in front of her, looking down at her. “Tell me.”
“But… but… please…”
“Or get into position. And remember that you already have five more to come anyway.”
Still she stayed on her knees. Staring at the floor. Then, faintly. “Helen Macintosh.” And she broke into uncontrollable sobs.
“Helen?” The Head Girl of the House? The School’s Head Prefect? And Becky’s best friend. Surely not…
She nodded. “Yes, Sir. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”
He looked down at her. “Well. I admire your bravery, and hope she appreciates your loyalty.” He thought quickly. “Now… You have five strokes left. I am going to ask you and Helen to come back here at 4.30 this afternoon, and we will deal with the rest of this matter. Stand up!”
She staggered to her feet, pushing her skirt back down, trying to restore her clothing to order.
“4.30 p.m., Becky. I’ll speak to Helen. I don’t want you to mention a word to her bout this beforehand. Oh – and I suggest you go and wash your face before you go to your next lesson.” He pointed to the door. “Out… until later.”
And as she left, he moved round to his desk, sat down, and contemplated what was to follow.
—
4.30. A knock on the door.
“Enter!”
Becky. Looking subdued. Very subdued.
He pointed to the side of the room. “Stand over there.”
She stood there, staring at the ground.
A minute passed. Two.
Another knock.
“Enter!”
And the other girl walked in. Helen. Head Prefect. Paragon of Virtue. Universally popular. Intelligent. Never in trouble… until now.
“You wanted a word, Sir?” And then, as she walked into the room proper, she noticed Becky. She stopped, suddenly, in her tracks, as if she had seen a ghost.
He walked round the desk. “I think you might be able to guess why you are here, Helen.”
Almost lost for words. “S…s…sir?” He looked at her, and waited for her to continue. “But….” She looked accusingly at Becky. “You TOLD him?”
“I… I…”
“…she had no choice. Your friend was incredibly brave earlier this afternoon, Helen. Let me tell you what happened. I flogged Becky very hard this afternoon: I gave her two strokes of the cane for smoking and going out of bounds, and a further four for possession of next week’s French Exam paper.” The Head Prefect looked stunned. “And then I kept caning her until she told me your name. She took five more strokes before she told me, and as a result has five more to come.”
“Oh God. But… oh God, Becky, I’m sorry.”
He continued. “Sorry? Oh don’t worry about that. You will be. Very shortly. Now… clearly I need to give Becky the final part of her beating. The last five strokes for having withheld your name. And I thought it might be appropriate for you to witness the punishment your friend is taking for you. But clearly I also need to decide what to do with you.”
“Sir?”
“This afternoon, I have spoken to the Examination Board, and explained to them that a member of our admin staff accidentally left the envelope with the French papers on a table in the library, and that although we don’t think they were tampered with, we thought we should let them know of the risk. They were most grateful to me for telling them, and have arranged to send out a substitute exam paper. Of course, what I think happened is that as you have a full set of the school’s keys as Head Prefect, you probably simply took the papers from the safe.”
She looked down, shamefaced.
“Now. I am going to deal with you as severely as I can. There’s the two for the smoking, and four for reading the exam papers, like I gave Becky. And as I think you are the main culprit here, I’m going to add another four on for you, for having taken the exam papers in the first place – and, for the fact that as Head Girl you should have know better. So that makes ten strokes in all.”
“No…..”
“Silence. And then there are the five extra that your friend has received so far, and the five more that she has to come. Which I feel it is only fair for you to receive as well. Making another ten. Or twenty in total.”
“You can’t.”
“Can’t I? Wait and see.” He picked up the cane that had been lying across his desk, and barked an order at them: “NOW… both of you. Take off your clothes.”
“What?” (In stereo)
“You heard. I am going to make sure you don’t forget this in a hurry. I’m going to beat you on the bare, just to make sure I really make my point. STRIP!”
The girls looked at one another. Then, slowly, they started to undress – Becky taking off her white blouse first, Helen starting by kicking off their shoes. As they peeled off the layers, they both glanced nervously across the room.
When they were both down to bra and pants, they stopped. The Housemaster looked at them: Becky in her regulation school white, Helen in black. “I thought the rule was white underwear?”
“Sorry sir.”
“On this occasion I will overlook it. Now, what are you waiting for?”
They looked at one another, and at him. “I told you to strip.”
Helen spoke first: “Please, Sir?”
“NOW!”
Thirty seconds later – both girls stark naked in front of him. Hands trying to protect their nudity, their innocence from his gaze.
Humiliated.
“Becky. Go and stand in the corner and face the wall.”
She turned, and walked away. The Head Prefect gasped out loud as she witnessed her friend’s already-thrashed red buttocks, the horror of what a caning can do suddenly hitting home. And that was Becky after 10 strokes – she was going to get 20!
The Housemaster walked up close in front of Helen, and looked her in the eyes. “You have let me down, young lady. And you have let yourself down. And as I thrash you, I want you to think very clearly about the trust that has been put in you as Head Girl, and about what it means to betray that trust. And I want you to think about friendship, and the value of that, and about how Becky tried to protect you earlier today, and about how you have let her down too. Do you understand me?”
She looked downcast. “I do, sir.”
He continued: “Let me be very clear on this, Helen. I don’t often get annoyed – really annoyed – like I am with you. And I hate to be let down. So I am going to beat you as hard as I possibly can, and I genuinely hope it teaches you a lesson that you will never, ever forget.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Now: feet twelve inches apart, and bend over and touch your toes.”
“Yes, Sir.” And without any ado – straight down, assuming the position: legs perfectly straight, head down, staring at the carpet in front of her.
He measured the rod across her backside, pressing it in slightly against the bare flesh. “I want you to count the strokes out loud.” And drew back the stick, keeping it absolutely level, and with drove it forward, with a flick of the wrist, giving the girl her first taste of what it is like to be beaten. The line of the stroke reddened, perfectly across the centre of her buttocks, absolutely horizontal, swelling and forming crystal-clear red tramlines.
Coolly, in a clear voice, she counted: “One.”
The second stroke was harder, more forceful. Touching the first, just above it. Really cracking against her naked skin. Again, her voice was clear: “Two.”
Lower, next time – really whipping it through the air. Slightly further across, still tracing a parallel mark perfectly across the buttocks, but managing to wrap the tip of the stick around her side. “Three.” Still no emotion.
He walked back, towards the door of the study, and raised the cane as high as he could, galloping forward and laying it on her with all of his might. She took a breath, audibly, but still her voice did not waver. “Four.”
The next stroke: the same again. Directly on top of the fourth. Hard. SO hard. Loudly, confidently: “Five.” This was turning into a real battle of wills, of strength: him against her. The girl not wanting to give in, to submit to the pain that was washing over her, beaten but not beaten.
He would show her! WHACK! Low-ish. Hard. The weal building immediately, angrily. “Six.” And quickly the next – a direct hit on the previous one, even harder. And followed immediately, before she could speak, with the next, again watching as the stroke landed perfectly on its predecessors. She rocked forward slightly, this time a very deep intake of breath.
Paused.
Composed herself. Then clear as can be: “Seven. And then eight.”
He positioned himself behind her, and flogged it down again, angling it slightly across the previous strokes, and then delivered the next sharp blow low down, almost on her thighs. An audible intake of breath, and then she counted again: “Nine, sir. Ten, sir.”
“Stand up.” This was turning into a battle of wills. “Hands clasped on top of your head. Go and stand in the corner where Becky has been, facing the middle of the room so you can watch what your friend is going through for you – and Becky: over here. Now.”
They swapped places, and the Housemaster turned his attentions back to the girl he had whipped earlier in the day. A very frightened girl, who stood in front of him now, awaiting the second part of her punishment, trembling.
“You know the position.”
Slowly, gingerly, clearly still in considerable discomfort from his earlier attentions, she lowered herself down, presenting him with a perfect view of his earlier handiwork. Most satisfying! And now: “The final five.”
THWACK! A howl, immediately, filling the room, as the stroke re-lit the flames of the pain from the earlier strokes.
THWACK! Again, a yell: the girl realising how much more painful a flogging on the bare was than one on her skirt or panties.
THWACK! Openly crying now.
THWACK! Her hands straying back to touch her buttocks, soothe them: he rapped her knuckles with the cane. “One more…”
And back he stepped, lifting the cane up, and driving it down on its target, knocking her forward, off balance, and bringing her sobbing to her feet.
“Hands on your head, turn and face me.” Tears streaming down her face.
“Now, Becky: I want you to watch the remainder of Helen’s punishment, and realise that she is only getting these ten to match the strokes you got for withholding her identity. Perhaps you could reflect on that as you watch her being beaten? Now swap places.”
Helen walked over towards him, passing her friend, looking him straight in the eye, unashamed of her nudity. Goodness, how determined he was to break this girl! Without being asked, she bent forward, her pale ass striped by the first ten blows.
The Housemaster laid down the cane for a moment, and rolled up his sleeves. “Keep counting, young lady.”
Yet still she stayed calm: hard strokes, as hard as he could: “Eleven”, “Twelve”, “Thirteen”, “Fourteen”.
And then…. the perfect stroke: a four step run-up; the cane audibly cutting through the air, tracing a perfect arc, whipping across her at just the right angle, just the right intensity. Met with silence. Then, after a pause, soft crying. Muffled: “Fifteen.”
The next: even better: right on the point where he had earlier landed three blows on top of each other, bringing forth a cry of pain. “S..s…sixteen”.
Lower, next time, a confident stroke, again causing the now sobbing girl to cry out. “S..s…seventeen, Sir.”
As he walked back to prepare the next stroke, he caught sight of Becky, to the side, also sobbing – her own pain mixed with shock at the suffering of her friend. And he noticed Helen – not touching her toes now, but holding her ankles, making sure she didn’t flinch.
The next again hit home with a satisfying WHIP, and this time there was no response: Helen was crying so loudly now, her body shaking with the sobs, that she forgot to count.
“I think you’ll find that’s eighteen, young lady.”
“Y..y…yes sir. Eighteen”
Two to go – and were these going to be good ones! He made sure the nineteenth wrapped itself around her side, hard… and watched as her hands reached back to try to quell the pain.
“DON’T touch your buttocks.”
She leant back down, muttering: “No, Sir…. And nineteen, Sir.”
And then… there was one small strip of white flesh across the centre of her buttocks, between the red weals from the strokes she’d taken. A perfect target… to lay the rod on.. to draw it back… to lash it forward, right on its mark, filling the gap, completing the pattern of a perfectly caned backside. She shrieked, and loudly finished the tally: “Twenty, sir.”
She stayed in position, until he invited her to stand up.
“Now – get dressed, both of you. Quickly.” As they did so, he put the cane away behind the cupboard, wondering to himself when he would next have the occasion to use it, and sat down behind his desk.
The girls finished dressing, and stood before him downcast, still crying. He picked up his fountain pen, and wrote carefully in a large, leather-bound book, before turning the book round to the girls. “Sign here!”
Becky took the proffered pen, and read the entries in the book: “17th May: Becky Staunton: cane: 16 strokes; Helen Macintosh. cane; 20 strokes.” Hands trembling, she signed her name, acknowledging her beating for posterity in the school’s records, and passed the pen to her friend to do the same. She couldn’t help but wonder how many other girls had preceded her: what stories lay behind their punishments?
The Housemaster turned the book back round, and closed it to with as thud. “You may go.”
“Thank you sir.” From Becky.
“Sorry sir.” From Helen.
They opened the door – as he spoke again: “Oh, and by the way. I almost forgot to mention it. Good luck in your A Level French exam next week.”
