by Tom Simple
Amélie ran down the corridor of the school, scattering pupils out of her way.
“Nicole! Nicole! Where are you? Quick – amazing news!” She was, of course, speaking in French (or what passes for French in Corsica) because the school was located in the sunny port city of Ajaccio.
She swung into one of the classrooms.
“Nicole – there you are! Guess what! We got it!”
“Got what?”
“The exchange! To the English school! You and me! It’s on the notice-board.”
“Magnifique! Oh, we’ll have such fun!” They threw their arms around each other and hugged.
“When do we go? And where is this school?”
“The term starts next September and it’s in a place called Bexhill. Let’s look it up on a map.”
They rushed to the glass-fronted cupboard where the classroom’s books were kept and pulled out an atlas.
“I think it’s on the south coast somewhere.”
They traced their finger along the map.
“Weymouth, Bournemouth, Portsmouth. How many ‘mouths’ do they have? They must spend the whole time eating.”
“But English food is supposed to be revolting. They don’t use garlic.”
“Keep going. Bognor Regis – what a weird name. Brighton: I’ve heard of that one. Eastbourne, Hastings. Oh – that’s where we won a battle, isn’t it?”
“Look, you missed it. Here it is in small letters, next to Hastings. Bexhill. I can just imagine it. There must be cliffs and everything. I bet they have tea-shops. Do you like tea?”
“No, it’s disgusting. Maybe they serve coffee as well.”
“I shouldn’t think so, the English like tea. We’ll have to learn their customs. Oh, isn’t it exciting!”
The bell rang to mark the end of the break, but the girls were still poring over the atlas when the teacher walked in. Professeur Dubois taught maths. He wore an ill-fitting grey jacket and baggy grey trousers. His thinning hair was grey and so was his droopy moustache. He lacked any sense of humour. His whole being was grey.
“Amélie, Nicole, what are you doing?”
“Oh, sorry sir. We were looking at a map. We’re going on exchange to England. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“I don’t suppose so. Why would you want to leave a French school? Anyway, this is a maths lesson, so put that atlas away and go to your places.”
Nicole took the book back to the cupboard and then she and Amélie went to the desk they shared at the back of the class. The lesson began.
“Algebra,” intoned Prof Dubois. “A very interesting subject.” Twenty pairs of eyes began to glaze over. Eighteen pairs, to be more precise. Four eyes still glittered with excitement.
Amélie picked up her pencil and doodled a double-decker bus.
“Do you think they have those in Bexhill?” she whispered to Nicole. Prof Dubois turned round from the blackboard and frowned at the class. After a moment, he returned to face the board and continued to copy out an equation.
“No, only in London, I think”.
“I hope we see London, too.”
“Yes. We must. It has palaces and everything. I want to see the Tower of London. It’s where they keep people before they cut their heads off.”
“Do they still do that?”
“I’m not sure.”
Dubois turned round again.
“I can hear whispering. Now settle down. If I catch anyone talking, they’ll be in trouble.” The chalk squeaked as he added some brackets to the formula on the board.
Nicole took Amélie’s pencil and drew a strange picture. It looked a bit like the sun rising over a curved horizon. She passed it to Amélie, raising her eyebrows. Amélie studied it.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“It’s a chapeau melon. I think they call it a ‘bowling hat’. It’s what Englishmen wear. They also carry their umbrellas all rolled up.”
“What if it rains?”
“They don’t unroll their umbrellas. The bowling hat keeps them dry, I suppose.”
“How strange.”
Prof Dubois swung round, scowling.
“I can still hear whispering! Who was it?”
Silence.
“Nicole, Amélie, if it was you, this is your last warning. Keep quiet and pay attention. Now, how do we reduce this equation?” he pointed to the formula on the board. As the teacher looked around the class, hoping for an answer, Nicole put her hand in front of her mouth and muttered “Put it on a diet!” Amélie disguised her snort of laughter by pretending to sneeze. Prof Dubois glared at her.
“Very well. Open your text books at Chapter 10. It explains how we simplify formulae. You were supposed to learn it for your homework last night.”
For a few minutes there was silence as the class read the impenetrably boring text, most of them for the first time.
Prof Dubois cleared his throat.
“So, ladies and gentlemen,” it was a mixed school, “suppose we amalgamate these two brackets, this is what we get.” He struck a line through one side of the equation. “Therefore ‘a’ plus ‘b’ squared now equals...”
Amélie took the pencil and sketched a stick man holding what looked like a plank. A blob was flying towards him.
“What on Earth’s that?” whispered Nicole, looking amused.
“It’s a man playing ‘croket’.”
“What’s ‘croket’? Do you mean croquet?”
“No, ‘croket’. It’s their favourite game in the summer. Lots of them take part, but they mostly just stand around. It lasts all day, sometimes five days. My cousin went there on holiday last year and told me all about it.”
“Five days? For a single game?”
“It’s called a ‘Test Match’. I suppose that’s because it tests the spectators’ patience.”
“How weird. Don’t they play tennis like we do?”
“Amélie! Nicole! I warned you. Stay behind after class, both of you.” Prof Dubois glowered at them; there was a flinty edge to his voice. “Now, Amélie, you change places with Pierre. I don’t want you sitting next to Nicole again for the rest of the day.
Amélie and Nicole had paled. They had an intimation of what was coming. Amélie slid out of her seat, gave Nicole a nervous look, and changed places with Pierre. The boy who now sat beside her at Pierre’s desk put the back of his hand across his mouth and, looking straight ahead, murmured “Swish! Thwack!” It was his interpretation of the sound of a martinet. Nicole shuddered.
The lesson dragged on interminably. Neither Amélie nor Nicole could really concentrate. Their eyes kept turning to the locked wooden cupboard below the glass bookcase. They knew what it contained.
At last the school bell rang, announcing the end of the day’s classes.
“Very well, you can go. But do your homework diligently this evening.” The teacher started wiping the blackboard clean, little puffs of chalk emerging from the felt face of the board-cleaner. “Amélie and Nicole, you wait here please, in front of my desk.” The girls made their hesitant way to the front of the class.
Professeur Dubois was in no hurry. He cleaned the board fastidiously, returning to go over every tiny smudge. He was smiling. Not visibly so, of course: his thin grey lips were set in their usual thin grey line. But inside he was beaming at the thought of what he was about to do to these two miserable girls. Not that he was a sadist, or that he got any sensual pleasure out of beating girls – or boys, for that matter. Far from it – sex was not something that remotely impinged on his life. Rather it was a question of empowerment. These girls would bare their bottoms because he told them to do so; they would bend over in the manner he prescribed; he would decide how many lashes they received and he would determine how hard those were administered; he would tell them when they could get up. He would be in total control. There would be no glazed eyes now, no fidgeting while he tried to explain some astute mathematical point, no bored or smirking faces.
He walked unhurriedly over and closed the c
lassroom door. Then he took a bunch of keys out of his pocket, carefully separated the one, and walked slowly and deliberately over to the cupboard. The scared eyes of the two girls followed his every move. He bent down, unlocked the wooden door, and opened it. From the dark interior, he withdrew what the girls had been dreading – the classroom martinet. The wooden handle displayed the patina of age and use; the dozen leather thongs dangling from it, like black and brown bootlaces, swayed seductively as he carried the implement back towards them.
“I warned you two to stop talking. What a pity you didn’t listen because now you are going to learn what happens to those who can’t resist chattering. Which of you wants to go first?”
Nicole and Amélie glanced at each other. Amélie stepped forward.
“Very well. Go to that form there, put your legs under the seat and bend over the desk.”
Amélie did as she was told, gripping the wooden crossbar that ran along the front of the desk. Her long, fair hair fell down in front of her face; she could see the end of her striped school tie swinging loosely below her. The Professeur moved round behind her, slipped her knickers down to the top of her thighs and tugged her skirt up until it lay bunched across the small of her back. She had to stand on tiptoe to stay in position. She felt the thin wooden seat pressing into the back of her legs, just above the knees, while the edge of the desk dug into the top of her thighs. Her bottom felt very exposed, which – she assumed – was the whole idea.
The teacher laid the leather cords across her buttocks, inching them towards him until he had placed them where he wanted them to land. He raised the wooden handle until it was level with his ear, and then brought it sharply down. The braids wrapped themselves around Amélie’s bottom with a loud crack. She jerked and let out a very French ‘Pouf!’ of exclamation. Prof Dubois left the martinet’s strands to linger on her cheeks for a few moments and then lifted the whip again. Nicole, watching from in front of the backboard, felt her stomach knot.
Ten times the martinet flayed down, each stroke leaving Amélie’s backside decorated with yet more pink stripes. As the flogging progressed and the later lashes criss-crossed earlier lines, streaks of magenta and purple appeared. Amélie uttered small cries as each blow landed, sniffing as she wept.
“You can get up now,” the teacher grunted. “I hope you’ve learned a lesson. Nicole, your turn. Take Amélie’s place.” The two girls passed without catching each other’s eyes. Nicole stuck her legs under the seat, but pulled her own panties down and lifted her skirt before bending over the desk. She held on tightly to the wooden crossbar, noticing how warm it was from Amélie’s grip.
Professeur Dubois, still expressionless, laid the thongs of the martinet across Nicole’s cheeks in the same way that he had done with Amélie. Nicole winced. He raised the wooden stock, paused, lashed it down. Nicole yelled with pain. Amélie put her hand to her mouth and bit on her thumb, shocked at her friend’s reaction. Amélie had managed to stay more or less still throughout her ordeal, but Nicole reared and bucked and squirmed, squealing and howling as each stroke landed. At last Prof Dubois whipped down the tenth and last blow. Nicole was blubbering, tears running down her cheeks and splashing softly on to the floor.
“Get up, Nicole. Let that be a lesson to you, too.”
Nicole extracted herself painfully from the desk, carefully pulled up her pants and smoothed down her skirt. She felt in her pocket, took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
“You may go. Goodnight, girls. I trust your behaviour will be better when we next meet.”
“Yes, Professeur. Goodnight, sir.” The girls let themselves out of the classroom. The old cleaner was mopping the corridor. He must have heard what was going on. He stopped working as the girls approached, clutching their backsides. As they passed him, he mumbled, almost as much to himself as to them: “Touch of the old martinet never did anyone no ‘arm.” The girls gave him a hard look.
As they left the school gate, Amélie put her arm around Nicole’s shoulder.
“Ooooh lala lala lalaaa! It’s the first time I’ve had it from ‘Deadly’ Dubois. I didn’t think he had such strength in him.”
Nicole’s sobs were now under control. “I’m sorry I was such a baby. I’m really embarrassed at how I behaved. You were much braver.”
“It was worse for you: you could see how awful it was going to be. I’d have hated to have had to wait while you got your thrashing. That’s why I volunteered to go first.”
“Let’s go to my house and see what our derrières look like.”
Ten minutes later they were in Nicole’s bedroom, pants around their ankles, skirts held aloft, examining their bottoms in her mirror. They both sported an impressive display of thin pink, red, purple and blue stripes.
“Have you got any of that cream for bruises?” asked Amélie, tenderly fingering the most vivid marks.
“Yes, I think so.” Nicole rummaged in a drawer. “Here we are. ‘Bruise relief, external use only’. Why do they say that: do they think we’re going to swallow it? Shall I put some on for you?”
“Yes please, but be really gentle.”
The girls took turns lying face down on Nicole’s bed while the other massaged the cream into their friend’s glowing buttocks. They started to feel better.
Amélie wiped her fingers clean. Nicole sat up.
“Wow!” she looked at Amélie and smiled. “Where were we? Oh yes, Bexhill. Do you think they have the martinet in English schools?”
“No, I don’t think so. I heard they use a cane. Apparently they love it.”
“What, you mean the teachers enjoy caning the pupils?”
“No. The English enjoy being caned! Haven’t you heard? It’s called the vice anglais.”
“How can they like being caned? Are you sure about that?”
“Well, we’re going to find out.”
They were both silent for a moment.
Amélie glanced at Nicole: “I wonder if it’s worse than the martinet?”
“I don’t know, I should think so. Maybe it’s one of those things which we can try out – you know, like fish and chips and lumpy custard?”
“They have custard with their fish and chips?”
“No, of course not! But you know what I mean: we have to experience all these English customs for ourselves. So maybe even the cane.”
“Well, perhaps, but I think I’ll leave that until last...”
At the thought of the adventure that awaited them across the Channel, the two girls quickly cheered up. Nicole switched into English.
“Would you laike a naice cup of tea, Miss Amélie?”
“Sank you, zat would be delaightful!”
They giggled and hugged each other, and then made their way down to the kitchen. There was no tea in the house, so they drank coffee instead.
Afterword
All right: time’s up. Close your books. You with the big mouth – did that hiding teach you something? Good, now sit still and stop snivelling. If you thought that hurt, I can assure you that many of the girls who will appear in the next books would gladly have exchanged places with you.
Now, take notes.
Book 1 in the Bexhill series is called ‘By the Cane Divided’. It starts with a ‘flash forward’, revealing Debbie at her scheming worst; ruthlessly exploiting for her own ends a severe thrashing to which poor Catharine is subjected. All this is because of the two girls’ competing ambitions to be Head Girl, a position that entitles the holder to carry (and use) a cane.
If anything positive comes out of this whole wretched episode, it’s proof that the entente cordiale exists when we find Catharine’s two French friends standing up (or I should say ‘bending over’) for her.
Then we ‘flash back’ again to find how once Debbie and Catharine had been best friends, even sharing together their first spanking at Bexhill, and its unexpected and painful aftermath.
That aftermath leads directly to the founding of the Bexhill Spanking Society by four gir
ls with, I must say, rather bizarre interests. I certainly hope that none of you will be tempted to follow suit.
Now, I know that you’re all at a difficult age, but hormones don’t stop raging around just because you leave school, as our efficient secretary, Miss Holloway discovers to her embarrassment.
I’ll gloss over the frightful episode of that school inspection – too dreadful having to recall those poor girls getting whacked in front of the awful little man. I suppose we all live and learn, even teachers.
And then finally we come to the end of the first term and a bit of uncharacteristic behaviour by Catharine which sows the seeds for some unpleasant events in Mrs. Winchester’s study. When Debbie finds out how difficult it is to be brave during a caning, the first rift between the two girls appears: a theme, which will keep recurring for the rest of their time at the school.
Very well, get online and download your copies in time for tomorrow’s lesson. Don’t forget the title:
By the Cane Divided, Bexhill School, Book 1
And whilst you’re at it, you might as well order the next two books as well.
Book 2, ‘Six Across’ continues the story of Catharine’s and Debbie’s first year.
As the new term begins, falling standards of behaviour and effort mean that the Bexhill classrooms have been equipped with brand spanking new oak paddles. The girls doubt whether any of the teachers will have the nerve to use them. What a surprise awaits!
Head Girl Flo and her cane keep order through the institution of Sunday evening ‘Assizes’, for which there is usually a small but unhappy band awaiting their fate in the corridor outside the Prefects’ Common Room. When Sally and Linda get it into their heads to display their disapproval of a boring lecturer, they have to pay the penalty not only for their cheek but also for some equally ‘cheeky’ graffiti.
Girl meets boy when Algy, from the school next door, agrees to show off his prestigious Dragon cane stripes to Catharine and her friends. Alas, Debbie spots them. Her denouncement of the voyeurs leads to a predictably painful outcome, which fully meets with Debbie’s approval.
Shortly afterwards, disgraceful scenes surrounding the regional school hockey finals leave not only faces that are red. Even the local police constables get swept up in the spirit of things.