It finished as it had started, with best friends cuddling in their shared study bedroom. Only it ended in tears, having begun with such glee.
Castleton was strict. Many argued that that was its strength, the discipline leading the girls to behave so impeccably, to attain such excellence in the classroom and on the games field.
If a new girl dared to hope that the crook-handled cane hanging next to the blackboard in each classroom was merely for show, her first taste of its biting cut would certainly correct her misapprehension. Not that the masters chastised indiscriminately: only particularly poor behaviour would find a girl called to the front, to hold out her hands as the rattan scored its mark. But few were the fortunate pupils who escaped unpunished.
“So let’s break the canes,” Emily had proposed, in that ill-placed moment of bravado.
“You’re not serious? Surely?”
But she had been, and so Alice had joined her – the unlikely rebels darting between classrooms, under cover of darkness, hearts pounding. The rods snapped suprisingly easily, the fragments left under their scrawled chalk message: “Revolution!”
The Headmaster had been furious at that morning’s assembly. Those responsible would be caught and soundly punished: would the misguided ‘revolutionaries’ care to own up? They hadn’t, and had listened aghast as he’d announced his plan. The canes had already been replaced, and would be used to punish any infringements of school rules, any shortfall in standards, until the culprits had come forward.
A late assignment, a test mark deemed too low? Standing up too late as a master entered the room? A tie tied too loosely, shoes scuffed not shining? Whatever the reason, zero tolerance was the new mantra: even girls who’d escaped punishment in the past found their trembling hands tasting the cane for the first time that morning.
They’d had to own up, of course. Knocked at the Headmaster’s office; been told by his secretary that he was busy. Nervously left a message acknowledging their guilt. Returned to their classes, to wait the inevitable – and to dread what it might actually be.
The walk to the front of the hall, during the special assembly at the end of the school day – watched in knowing sympathy by their compatriots – had been the longest of their lives, and yet far too short.
They’d climbed the stairs, listened as he passed sentence. Twelve strokes each on the bare – not that their light summer dresses would have offered much protection. Alice, to the right of the stage, touching her toes for the Headmaster. Emily to the left, as the Deputy Head picked up his cane.
Twelve strokes. Delivered slowly, in unison, canes raised high, the audience biting their lips as the rods descended, striped, as the girls struggled to hold their position, to count (quietly, tearfully).
And then they were walking back to their places in the crowd, the Headmaster’s final admonishments ringing in the punished girls’ ears as the pain seared across their backsides.
