Martin Watson glanced up at the clock above his desk. One o’clock. Time for the dreaded meeting.
The knock on the door, spot on time. How he wished he could have flicked the clock forward an hour, to have passed the meeting in an instant. Oh, but he hated these endless internal arguments, these debates with dull bureaucrats for whom the annual budget round was the very pinnacle of human endeavour. Rules were there to follow, of course, but these dullards seemed to glorify in the endless minutiae of the finance department’s procedures.
—
The three girls glanced up at the clock at the end of the corridor, ticking away the minutes as it had for generations of their predecessors.
One o’clock. Time for the dreaded meeting, feared since they’d been caught yesterday; a cause of sheer terror since the note had been handed to Mr. Watkinson in French this morning, demanding their presence immediately after lunch.
The door swung open, spot on time. How they would have given anything at that moment to have been able to turn back that clock, to have laughed off Olivia’s idea rather than foolishly opting to demonstrate their bravado. Oh, they’d tried to look brave, as they’d lined up for the Headmistress: the selfish “Don’t let me be the one to show weakness” instinctively mingling with the more caring, “I must stay strong for the sake of the others.”
—
Lazing on the grassy bank the previous afternoon, overlooking the madness of the playground with its ball games and fighting and endless flirting. The three of them: best friends, aloof from the masses.
One of those hot summer days, just short of the break for the long indolent weeks of holiday. The sort of day when cooping girls up in classrooms was akin to caging animals in a zoo. “We should be out in the park” “I’d like to be on a boat.” “Let’s skinny dip in the river!”
“Forget the river,” Olivia had suggested. “What about Starhaven?”
“What about Starhaven?” The nearby public school, oh-so-much-posher than their own meagre Grammar, for all the state school’s stunning academic record.
“They’ve got a pool. And they’ve already broken up for the summer…”
And so it was that the girls had found themselves creeping up the long driveway from tree to tree to avoid detection; circumnavigating the grand building and shimmying up over the locked gate; plunging into the cooling water of the Olympic-sized pool, surrounded by its easily-climbed walls.
And then he’d appeared. The Headmaster of Starhaven was instantly recognisable – tall, severe, in his dark suit and bow tie even on this hottest of July days. They’d shaken his hand earlier in the year as he’d handed out the prizes at their Speech Day, honouring the Grammar school girls with his presence. They’d not anticipated a repeat meeting in quite such different circumstances.
He’d spared them no glances as they’d clambered out of the water and pulled their uniforms back on over dripping wet skin. He’d led them in silent procession back to the boundary of his premises, and then told them curtly never to return.
But he wouldn’t tell. He’d caught them, sent them out. That would be it, wouldn’t it?
Or so they prayed. Until the messenger appeared and Mr. Watkinson read out the note.
—
“So, the agenda. Budget timescales: Simon.”
Nods all round.
“Assumptions underpinning the first draft budget submission: Angela. Review of potential cost savings: me, but I’m happy as things stand. Timescales and responsibilities for draft two: all. Everyone happy?”
—
“I have rarely been so unhappy with the conduct of a group of girls at this school, nor so embarrassed by my pupils.”
Apologies, excuses, so carefully rehearsed were silenced as the Headmistress raised her hand. “And, frankly, nothing you can say can convince me that there is any justification whatsoever for such calculated truancy and cynical trespass. And from three young ladies who should most certainly know better.”
She was standing now, walking to her cupboard, taking out… a cane. No longer used, but instantly recognisable from tales of the older girls when these three had joined the school.
Surely not? She couldn’t? Desperate glances flew from each offender to the next, as the Headmistress flexed the rattan.
Miss Devere sat back down, the rod placed carefully on the table in front of them. “A few years ago, the three of you would have been about to become acquainted with the cane here. I’d have given you each three strokes for the truancy; five, maybe six for your visit to our neighbours. Indeed, Starhaven still has the luxury of correcting misbehaviour using a method that is, sadly, now denied to us as a state school. Frankly, that’s a state of affairs that I regret greatly, and I suspect that had the deterrent been in place, we might not have been having this particular conversation at all.”
They didn’t reply. It was clear that none was expected, no matter how much their hearts were agreeing.
“So,” the Headmistress continued, pulling a sheaf of papers from her desk drawer, “I am left with only one option, to suspend you for the remainder of term. I can only rely on your parents to make sure that you are left in no doubt as to the severity of my displeasure. Wait outside!”
The clock as they re-emerged into the corridor showed three minutes past one. If those three minutes had seemed long, it would be nothing compared to the hours ahead. They could hear the Headmistress’s voice inside; imagine their respective fathers’ shocked reactions on the other ends of the phone lines.
—
Damn these parents who didn’t answer their calls. Oh, Mr Watson, Mr Watson, pick up for goodness sake.
—
“Yet we need to reduce costs by at least two million…”
The phone was ringing on the desk outside his office. Where on earth was Elizabeth? His damned PA seemed to have a permanent watch malfunction – a timepiece that showed nine prompt at a quarter past nine each morning, yet miraculously reversed and arrived at five o’clock at least ten minutes early. And, as was the case at the moment, ticked so slowly in the middle of the day that an hour occupied at least eighty minutes of real-world time.
He would have to speak to her sternly. What if the caller had wanted to discuss something important?
—
Ten past one: she emerged, a crisp hand-written white envelope for each girl. “Miss Watson. I was unable to speak to your father. I’m sure the letter will tell him all he needs to know. Now, remove your ties.”
Trembling hands undid neat knots. They understood the tradition: suspended, ineligible to attend school, the right to wear its colours removed for the duration. The Headmistress whisked the ties from their grasp, checking that each displayed the regulation nametag on the reverse. “You will rejoin your colleagues on the first day of the new term, and be waiting here at 8 a.m. for me to return your ties.”
“Yes, Miss Devere.”
“And now, as you will be away for the remainder of the school year, you will go and empty your lockers and leave the premises. Without speaking to any other students. They will find out everything they need to know when I announce your suspensions in assembly tomorrow morning.”
—
“My dad’ll murder me.”
“You’ll be all right, Erin.”
Their unconfident attempt at optimistic re-assurance was firmly rebuffed. “No. You didn’t see how hard he punished my sister when she was suspended two years ago. And that was only for one day.”
The other girls looked at each other. “Ah….” And the three of them drew each other close, a tear-drenched huddle in the corner of the corridor.
They didn’t need – dare – to ask Alex about the reception that would await her. They’d wiped away enough tears, offered enough cuddles, soothed enough stripes since her stepfather had moved in and established his firm authority three years previously.
And Poppy Watson remembered the look of disappointment on her father’s face the previous school year, as he’d absorbed her end-of-term report at the start of the Christmas holiday. Recalled how he’d winced as he’d reached the Headmistress’s written comments: that “whilst Poppy is generally a credit to the school, some discipline is now sorely needed in her approach to her studies and her life in general”. Felt the memory of his arms around her, holding her as he’d given her a final, final chance. And as he’d left her in no doubt that he would, if he ever had to, resort to the sanction that he’d always threatened, never applied.
—
It was a long afternoon. Spreadsheets dissected, numbers discussed, trivia debated as the budget process edged forward.
—
It was a long afternoon. Perched on the leather sofa in the living room, staring blankly into the distance. A tear-clouded view.
The house often felt lonely, now it was just the two of them. It had never felt quite this empty.
She’d picked up a well-thumbed volume of Harry Potter, tried to lose herself at Hogwarts. Without success. She’d flicked on the TV, but the children’s shows seemed too trivial, the music videos too cheerful.
She picked up the phone to call Alex, Erin. Scrolled down the directory; been unable to bring herself to dial.
And she’d sat and stared blankly into the distance once again.
Waiting, waiting, for daddy’s return. Waiting, waiting, to break his heart at his girl’s behaviour. Waiting, waiting for the unimaginable consequences that would soon become all-too-real.
—
Elizabeth left her desk with her usual alacrity as the clock hinted at five. Martin Watson took the cue to wrap up the mathematical marathon, showing the accountants to the door.
Poppy’s photograph on his desk brought a smile back to his face: the perfect antidote to the afternoon’s drab affairs. A glance out of the window confirmed that the recent good weather continued to bless them; he reached for his jacket and permitted himself the rare pleasure of a prompt escape and a long evening at home with his daughter.
—
Cars passed without a blink; she’d recognise the purr of his Lexus. She jolted once at the familiar sound, only to peer from the window and see that it was Mrs Hatherton from the end of the Close. Fate deferred, for at least a few more minutes. But the next time the familiar engine was heard in the distance, she knew that the moment approached, and burst into tears.
—
“My darling, what is it?” Tight parental hugs, wishing the ills of the world away from his dearest.
She could scarcely bear to remove herself from his protective embrace, to save his suit from her tears, to point to the letter on the table. “I’ve been in trouble, daddy.”
He sat in his usual armchair. Read in silence, his face darkening as he absorbed the news, pausing periodically only to glance up at Poppy, then back down at Miss Devere’s spidery scrawl. At the end, he laid the letter down, and sat silently as if in disbelief, as if in confusion. Poppy’s sobs, her ‘sorry’s, filled the room
He patted his knee. “Come here, my darling,” and she flung herself into his arms once more. Don’t hate me, don’t despise me, don’t…
Two minutes, more, he held her there, before speaking very softly: “I love you too much to let this go, Poppy.”
“I know, daddy.”
“You know what we said the last time you were in trouble?”
A loud sob sufficed as her response.
“So let’s get this over with. Go upstairs to your room, swap your uniform for your pyjamas, and I shall join you in a few minutes.”
—
When he whipped her, he did it with love. But love is no barrier to severity. Indeed, there are times when severity is love, is protecting, is showing how much one cares.
She was waiting for him, of course, perched on the edge of her bed. He lifted her face in his hand; dried her tears; told her how proud he was of everything she had achieved at school. How strong she’d been, these past, difficult years.
How he’d thought long and hard before ignoring Miss Devere’s judgement the previous time, and wouldn’t, couldn’t make the same mistake twice. How he wanted her to be happy, successful. How much he loved her.
And then he unbuckled his belt.
Doubled over the wide, black, heavy leather. He had her bend over the foot of her bed, arms outstretched, her face buried in the soft pink duvet.
Ran his hand reassuringly through her hair, before stepping back. Pausing. And then whipped his daughter for the first time.
Pain, oh the excruciating pain, mingled with an emotion she struggled to identify. It was… it was… not shock, but relief, relief that the wait was over, relief that daddy cared. And then the pain came again and overwhelmed her.
The strokes were slow, purposeful, oh so hard. The thin cotton of her striped pyjama trousers offered no protection as he seared his displeasure across her backside. An image of Alex’s red weals, painful to the touch, after one thrashing crossed Poppy’s mind: that’d be her, now.
Still the thrashing continued, mercilessly loving, her mental count of the lashes long forgotten, his voice distant as he chided and lectured, words mingling with blows and tears and pain. Always pain, growing and burning and correcting.
And then a pause, and she could feel him stepping back, hear him sliding his belt back into its loops.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to compose yourself, then come downstairs when you’re ready.” He ruffled her hair as she lay in position still; closed the door behind her.
So it was over. She’d had her flogging. And yet it was only starting, this new life with a daddy she’d let down so badly. A daddy who’d tried to avoid this, protecting her, praying she’d be good. A daddy’s who’d had to whip her.
When finally she rejoined him, the short walk downstairs the longest of her life, he held her tighter than ever before. Told her she was a good girl; that she’d been so brave. Kissed her, promised it was over, vowed never to speak of what had just passed.
Swore that he never wanted to have to punish his girl again.
Swore, in return, that she would never make him have to.
Her daddy. His daughter. Knowing that what had happened would never be forgotten.
