Alice Under Discipline, Part 1

by Garth ToynTanen

  Taking care not to trip she reached for the blouse and fastening the first few buttons at the bottom drew the tiny skirt around her waist, zipping up the side fastener and relieved that its hem did indeed hang past the thick, broad leg elastics of those humiliating knickers. The juvenile-looking pleated school games skirt did little to lift her spirits but it did at least cover those awful knickers, if only just, and she fiddled with the double button fastening to the side of the waist band.

  Having fastened the majority of the remaining buttons up the front of the overly-crisp and fussy school blouse with little trouble, it was nevertheless with the self-conscious unease of someone who had never worn a shirt-blouse and tie in her life that she struggled with the final collar button. The latter was of course, given the absence of any mirror in her room, or any other source of reflection come to that, out of sight, being tucked away beneath her chin and had to be dealt with first before moving on to dealing with the tie. Cursing herself for her stupidity, in addition for so weakly kowtowing to her stepmother’s wishes in this manner, she now found herself embroiled in desperately attempting to replicate from memory the knot which she had unthinkingly unfastened in its entirety when removing the diagonally striped symbol of childish repression from around the blouse collar when still on its hanger.

  In her mind’s eye Alice could see an imaginary second hand sprinting around a clock face like the proverbial white hare in Wonderland, stopwatch in hand, though in truth she had little idea how long it had been since her stepmother had withdrawn. With one eye on the still as yet unused commode and with that imaginary second hand now taking on the guise of a rapidly emptying hourglass she struggled on. Tears of frustration were now developing in the corners of her pretty almond-shaped eyes and self admonishment growing steadily in her heart. That she should have been beaten so easily and yet still be trying so hard - it was a bitter pill to swallow.

  She was still struggling - and that commode still languishing unused - when the key rattled in the lock, her blood curdling as the door burst inward. Her stepmother marched straight up to her, tut-tut-tutting and arching her eyebrows, her jodhpurs rasping together and her stride accompanied by a rubbery clumping indicating that she had now exchanged her polished riding boots of earlier in the day for the equally pampered designer Wellington-type she habitually wore around the stable yard when not actually intending to go out riding.

  A tinkling little giggle escaped her red- glossed lips at the sight of her stepdaughter’s obvious plight, The frustrated, frantic discomfiture that was presently etched across her stepdaughter’s face was a delight to her eyes - it was an insight that she was quite at ease about betraying. There were times when it paid to play the inscrutable enigma, keep the girl guessing, struggling to tease friend from foe from the tangled little web she had woven around her. There were other times when there was advantage to be had from having neglected to turn the page with sufficient rapidity - not quite the ‘open book’, for sure, but perhaps a leaf or two glimpsed in passing? Well, this was one of those latter times. An apparently clumsily fumbled guard, a momentary slip, and an even more rapid re-attainment of equilibrium - it all served to undermine the poor thing’s grip, that was the point. Cruel, for sure, but so, so exquisite in the execution.

  “Oh dear, come here honey; I can see you’re going to need a little help with that.” To Alice her stepmother’s sudden adoption of this uncharacteristically helpful, almost friendly, tone seemed both strangely disarming and more than a little disorientating. Confused and befuddled through the terrible mental weariness that seemed to have become her permanent companion in latter times Alice found herself stepping forwards to where her stepmother was pointing at the floor.

  “Come along, silly. Put your arms down by your sides out of the way and let me get a look at the mess you’ve made of that tie.” Alice complied automatically, without thinking and was instantly annoyed at herself for her complacency in the face of this ever increasing domination of her will and the ever-mounting pile of regulations and restrictions she found herself labouring under. Despite her undeniable natural rebellious streak it was becoming more and more automatic, more and more natural, for her to do as she was told - it was becoming almost a reflex action. Her stepmother was taming her, just as she tamed and schooled her horses - she was becoming tamed, just like one of the fillies in the stables.

  With a condescending, haughty smile etched across her beautifully made-up face Karen Lamberton-Marchment gazed deep into her stepdaughter’s satisfyingly panicky widening eyes as her hands and fingers slipped around the girl’s collar, flipping it up and looping around the tie before expertly forming a perfect tie-knot and sliding it up underneath the girl’s chin to sit squarely over the uppermost of the three collar buttons. Stepping back for a moment as if to admire her handiwork she nodded approvingly before reaching forward and turning down the collar. Running a slender finger between it and her stepdaughter’s neck, checking that all was neat and tidy, her smile broadened at the observation of how the snugness of fit made inserting a fingertip so satisfyingly difficult and the way in which the integrally stiffened collar effectively forbade the girl to lower her chin to her chest.

  Her stepdaughter would be obliged from now on to hold her head proudly erect, no matter how crestfallen she might feel inside. And she would ensure - with Daphne Larkspear’s aid and the clinical complicity of Dr Anne Ecclestone - that young Alice would be left feeling more than merely crestfallen by the time she was finished with her. But for now that side of her intentions had to be buried away: this was a time for praise. Punishment had its part to play, but so did praise - that was how it worked, that was how one trained a filly.

  “There’s a good girl!” She affected a chirpy yet gentle singsong tone, just as Daphne Larkspear had suggested she do under such circumstances when there had been uncomplaining compliance or capitulation had taken little more than coaxing words: ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little coaxing; one should not have to fall back on the cane all the time’ as Daphne had said. ‘The idea is that she should be led by hand down a path leading to her becoming more malleable, to the point at which it becomes possible to remould her ideas, thoughts and beliefs to the extent that she can no longer even envisage of a life outside of the type of domestic servitude I know you would like to see her reduced to. The cane should be there to break resistance, to get past those sticking points. Where there is no resistance then there should be reward. And your words alone should eventual suffice for that. If she is to receive the cane, if that should be your will, then by all means give her something to resist, something to fight back against - there is always one more peg down for a girl to be taken even if she herself might think she has reached rock bottom’. Such a wise woman, Mrs Daphne Larkspear - she had already partaken of the joys of that woman’s protégé’s tongue. She wondered how that moist velvet appendage would feel in her present condition. Her ‘monthlies’ were never particularly pleasant, nor light - now that would take the girl down another rung or two of the ladder in self-respect terms, that would be worth baring the girl’s bottom to the attention of the cane! Idly she wondered just how many strokes or repeated sessions it would take to wrest that shred of pride from the girl - not that Mrs Daphne Larkspear’s girl had much left in the way of pride or self-respect from what she had seen of her. Almost reluctantly she returned her attention to the task at hand:

  “Right lets have a proper look at you. No, don’t fidget; keep you hands down at your sides. If you’re standing up straight properly you’ll notice that your fingertips just come level with the skirt hem. You’ll also notice that there is a seam running down either side of your skirt and I would like to see your thumbs lining up with this seam, if you don’t mind; thank you! Yes, very smart; I think you look very smart in your new school uniform. I’m actually very pleased with you. Yes you made a bit of a hash of knotting your school tie but I’m not that surprised really. I expected you w
ould and so I have set up a video disc for you to watch upstairs and you can spend the rest of today sitting in front of it, watching it over and over while practising putting on and trying your tie. Then, tomorrow, there will be no excuses; mess it up tomorrow and there be a few strokes of the cane, I’m afraid.”

  She smiled again, watching at first the relief wash across Alice’s face as the realisation that she was not to be punished sunk in and then the wince that wiped off that expression as the girl took in the manner in which she was to spend the rest of the day. Poor Alice was becoming somewhat accustomed to these short looped films prepared by Daphne Larkspear on various subjects - it was to form an important part of the girl’s re-education. She had set up a flat screen TV in the corner of her study for that very purpose with a hardwood upright chair set before it on which Alice would be obliged to sit.

  With a dense black curtain pulled around, hanging from a curved runner screwed to the ceiling, the corner became what amounted to a little darkened booth lit only by the flickering light from the screen. A pair of headphones placed on the girl’s head circumvented any disturbance being caused to her work, while a small webcam mounted above the screen and angled back at the viewer allowed her to keep an eye on the girl via a small window kept open on her laptop. The threat of the cane, backed up by the additional threat of withholding Alice’s medication if necessary, did the rest, ensuring Alice pay complete and continuous attention throughout.

  “Actually I’m quite impressed that you dealt with the corselet alright. I don’t suppose you’ve come across one of those before either but I can see by the way the skirt hangs and the blouse is filled-out - or rather the way in which it isn’t...” she gave a little giggle at her own joke at her stepdaughter’s expense “...that you have got that right at least.” Indeed, though Alice’s waist and hips had been drastically reduced, so similarly had been her bustline. Along with the efforts of crisp blouse, which of course, being a genuine school uniform blouse, was not fitted, the corselet had resulted in a delightfully immature flat-fronted profile. Just as delightful to Alice’s stepmother’s way of thinking was the fine, sparse downy blond covering that could just be made out on the girl’s legs now that waxing was out of the question and the coltish way the girl’s bare legs tapered from her slightly over-plump thighs down to the little white nylon fold-over top anklets, each threaded through around the top with a length of bottle-green ribbon that tied at the front in a little bow.

  “Right! Come along - follow me; don’t dawdle.” The door was wide open, pressed back against the wall, and Karen Lamberton-Marchment was already through it and waiting on the far side, out in the passage, the key poised between her fingers waiting to lock the door after them. Ahead lay a day of tediously repeated video instruction and inhumanly tiresome repetition practice revolving around knotting, arranging and tying a school tie - over and over and over again.

  CHAPTER 6

  ARRIVAL AND INSTALLATION OF A STRICT GOVERNESS

  Karen Lamberton-Marchment hurried to the door as soon as she heard the tires crunch on the gravel, having been given advance warning by Mrs Wilson, her housekeeper. The latter’s hawkish eyes had picked up the garish golden-orange Fiat Punto glinting in the early spring sun as it snaked across the fields following the meandering course of the narrow, unmetalled road that ran up from the village. A four-door hatchback it was a compact, modest affair - a real ‘lady teacher’s’ car; there was one for every generation, it seemed. It looked positively miniature swinging around alongside the 4X4 ATV ‘battle-bus’ she favoured.

  Mrs Larkspear looked her usual ‘tweedy’ self as she clambered from the diving seat. Without as much as acknowledging her onlooker she brushed down her trademark business suit ensemble of tailored greenish-brown check tweed jacket and matching knee length skirt as she extracted herself from the vehicle. Her ‘sensible’ dark-tan built-up heel brogues crunched on the gravel drive as she turned to close the car door behind her, the shoes appearing a little incongruous juxtaposed against her sheer fully-fashioned seamed stockings, the latter being of a similar hue. From between the lapels of the three buttoned jacket peeked one of those 1980s blouses of the type that typically possessed a large frilly bow at the neck. The latter added a singularly feminine touch that along with the nylon stockings was working hard to counterbalance the rest of the otherwise butch ensemble.

  Bending and reaching back inside for a moment, she retrieved a hat, apparently made of a similar fabric as her suit, and unceremoniously plonked it on her head with one hand, her mannerism decidedly masculine. Styled as a sort of feminised trilby and decorated with a pheasant’s feather inclined up along the crown to one side, the hat seemed to naturally come to rest at a suitably ‘jaunty’ angle, instantly softening the masculine effect while retaining an element of prim authoritarianism.

  For a moment her dark beady eyes met those of Karen Lamberton-Marchment and she smiled that dangerously thin-lipped smiled of hers, her head tilting back as she glanced up at the imposing house. Then, moving round to the rear of the passenger side of the vehicle and turning her back, the leather elbow patches on her jacket conspiring to reiterate that tweedy image of hers, she swung open the rear door, bending as she helped a smallish, hunched figure out and into the sun.

  Karen Lamberton-Marchment had expected the ex-teacher to be bringing along that girl of hers along, of course. They had negotiated the situation at length, Daphne Larkspear eloquently arguing that she could hardly leave the girl alone after all the time she had been living under her roof under her close supervision. The way she now had the girl she would be lost without an authority figure to tell her what to do and quite frankly could no longer be expected to be capable of fending for herself.

  Then she had suggested employing the girl as a classmate, role model and companion for Alice, She had explained the advantages and all the pieces had seemed to suddenly fall into place - in fact the girl was the missing piece in the psychological jigsaw.

  She was surprised to see that the girl had been decked out in ugly, plain-framed pebble glasses, the lenses so thick that they magnified the girl’s cornflower blue eyes to the point that they appeared like watery, swimming, pools. For a moment she was puzzled as to why the girl should require such strong lenses; certainly when she had previously seen her at Mrs Larkspear’s home she hadn’t noticed the girl suffering any particular deficiency of eyesight.

  Then all became clear - if that was really an apt phrase, considering what happened next. As the girl began to make her way from Mrs Larkspear’s car, she saw her stumble uncertainly, then watched astounded as the girl turned to head off at a tangent to her original path as if disorientated. She was rescued within a couple of steps and turned back towards the house by Mrs Larkspear, the woman protectively wrapping one of her arms around the girl’s shoulders.

  “This way, silly. We don’t want Mrs Lamberton-Marchment to think you are some sort of retard, now do we? I’ve told her you’d make a good classmate for her stepdaughter - don’t you let me down, now.”

  “No Miss Daphne, I’m sorry Miss Daphne.”

  Karen Lamberton-Marchment was taken aback; far from being necessary for clear vision, wearing those awful, thick spectacles actually seemed to reduce the girl’s eyesight down to a few inches in front of her face.

  The other thing that struck her was the girl’s voice. She hadn’t heard the girl speak before, not as such, but now it became clear that the poor thing suffered from some sort of awful speech impediment. There was a childish simpering lisp to the girl’s enunciation. Worse than that, though, was the fact that the girl also seemed inflicted by a sort of stumbling incoherence.

  The poor thing’s impediment almost put her in mind of a character she had seen in a movie once and who was supposed to have had his tongue cut out, although this was nothing like as severe. Despite this latter reservation, though, it did make her decidedly difficult to understand - and
yes, it did unfortunately make her sound just a little retarded. Mrs Larkspear’s strident tones, on the other hand, suffered from no such impediment - she continued to lecture her protégé even as the pair approached and she listened, entranced.

  She was entranced, too, by the girl’s revamped appearance - but that was another story. At that distance there was still little to note of detail other than that the girl’s customary maid’s cap had been replaced by a grey felt boater-style hat that was bracketed either side at around collar height by greenish ribbon bows that floated in the breeze like outsized butterflies. The girl’s pretty head, at that distance, seemed as if mounted on the apex of a sharply defined triangle of billowing greyish fabric that came to a wavering halt just above her knees at which point there was a pink break of flesh before glossy white socks drew the eye down to what appeared to be grey T-bar sandals, seemingly teetering as if possessing significantly elevated heels.

  “The girl you are going to meet is named Alice. But remember what I have told you - you are not to speak to her or communicate with her in any way unless under my strict supervision. Should she attempt to communicate with you in any manner, you are not to respond but must report it to me immediately - otherwise it will be your bottom feeling my cane across it as well as hers. And you know what it’s like to have my cane across your fat behind, don’t you.”