"N-no, Miss..."
"Here, take this." I passed her my handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and cheeks. "You'd better keep it. You can hand it to Matron later."
"Thank you, Miss." She blew her nose noisily.
I flipped through my work book while Morgan calmed down a bit and gathered herself. After about a minute, we heard another cane stroke followed this time by a louder and more agonised cry. That was four, and I suspected that might be the last, given the implement in use, and my suspicions were confirmed when the Head's voice could be heard followed by the sound of footsteps approaching the door. Morgan gulped and I felt her tensing up.
"Brave," I reminded her just as the door opened and the imposing figure of the Headmistress appeared.
"Ah, Miss Bainbridge - have you been waiting to see me?"
"Yes, Headmistress. I came to give you this," I said holding out the exercise book, but she had turned to Morgan and was eyeing her sternly.
"So, Morgan, I hope the wait has taught you a lesson?" Morgan gulped again. She seemed unable to speak and just nodded several times. "Very well. Come in. I have something to show you before I decide how you should be punished." She turned to me. "If you could come in too, Miss Bainbridge, I have some papers you can take back to the staffroom for me. If you wouldn't mind waiting a little longer?"
"Of course, Headmistress." I followed Morgan into the study, a large, high-ceilinged room divided into two: the area nearest the door forms the study, walls lined with bookshelves, with a large leather-topped desk in front of the first of two tall bay windows. The other bay window lights the far end of the room where armchairs and a sofa are arranged around a coffee table. A large fireplace, not in use on this May morning, faces the desk which is flanked by a large chest of drawers on the left and a tall teakwood cupboard on the right.
My attention was most immediately drawn to the sight of Verily Markham who, for a reason about to become clear, was still bent forward across the desk, her head towards the window. Her skirt was up over her back, her dark green knickers were crumpled at her ankles and her bared bottom faced the room.
"Over here, girl," Miss Bentley instructed the young fourth-former, walking over to stand behind Markham. Morgan followed sheepishly. "I suggest you have a good look at what happens to girls who deliberately ignore school rules." The long, slightly curved brown cane lay on the desk to the right of the unfortunate Markham whose hands still gripped the far edge, and whose head was turned away from us. Her torso shook slightly with silent sobs. Approaching closer myself I saw the results of Miss Bentley's handiwork displayed vividly: four distinct, parallel stripes, purplish red at the edges. The lowest traversed the base of her buttocks just above where her thighs began, and the other three cane strokes had fallen at one inch intervals above.
Morgan's wide eyes betrayed horror and fascination in equal measure.
"Right, Markham, you may get up and replace your undergarment." The fifth-former eased herself up and her skirt slipped down her back. She winced at the contact but reached down quickly to pull up her knickers. Her face was still wet with tears and her brown hair dishevelled - a strand was stuck to her forehead. I must say my heart went out to her!
"Now Markham, you will stay and witness the consequences for Miss Morgan of letting you tempt her into breaking school rules. Morgan, go to the chest of drawers over there and open the middle drawer. On the left you will see a black plimsoll. Bring it to me." Miss Bentley walked over to the sofa and waited. It took a moment for Sally Morgan, having pulled open the middle drawer, to identify the intended plimsoll from among an array of canes, straps, hairbrushes and two other plimsolls, one brown and one white. Luckily, the black one which she picked up appeared slightly smaller and lighter than the others.
"Bend over the arm of the sofa ... right over." Morgan did as she was told. Miss Bentley lifted her grey skirt out of the way and stood back. "Markham, come and stand closer." She raised the rubber-soled shoe high above her right shoulder and brought it down with a determined twist of her body to smack with a loud report into Morgan's right buttock. Morgan screeched, and her head started to rise. Miss Bentley's voice made all of us jump, so sharply did she address the girl.
"STAY DOWN! This is your punishment. You have earned it, you will receive it, and you will accept it without a fuss. Do I make myself understood?" Morgan subsided immediately back onto the sofa with a pained "Yes, Miss."
Miss Bentley delivered five more, energetic, stinging whacks to alternate buttocks, eliciting howls and sobbing from the young fourth-former, but the punishment was complete within less than a minute and I felt Morgan had got off lightly by the Head's standards.
Ordered out of her sight, as the two girls reached the door I noticed that Markham took Morgan's hand and whispered a sorry in her ear. Miss Bentley then commented,
"Remarkable girl, that Markham. Jolly brave. Awful scamp of course, but weren't we all at her age? I wouldn't be surprised if she rises to a position of great responsibility one day."
---oOo---
August 24th 1953 (continued)
I bumped into Sir Wilfred yesterday in the village and relayed to him the gist of this incident, and Miss Bentley's remark.
"Ah, yes, my wife has mentioned Molly - "character-forming" is how she described it, but she does have a way with euphemism. And of course the redoubtable Heather Bentley ... remarkable woman. Frightened the life out of me! Still, she's turned out to be quite prescient, hasn't she? And, who knows, perhaps the dreaded Molly played a part?
"You may be right, Sir Wilfred," I replied. "You may well be right."
2. A Mother's Wrath, a Consoling Kiss
"Sssshh!"
"Shush yourself," whispered Susan. Both girls were giggling as they attempted drunkenly to haul themselves in through Rachel's father's study window. "Your shushing is making more noise than I was."
"Yeah," said Rachel, "but you're not the one who'll get it if we're caught."
"True," chuckled Susan. She was the slighter of the two girls, the boyishness of her figure contradicted only by the femininity of her buttocks which filled her jeans generously, especially at this moment as she launched herself head first over the window-sill, landing in a heap on the parquet floor of Dr Thomas' study. They were the same age but Rachel's greater confidence and maturity often made Susan feel younger. As a result she pushed herself to be the more daring, instigating and leading them into a number of hair-raising scrapes in the year or so since they'd become friends. Tonight's drinking had been at Susan's urging, and expense.
Picking herself up now off the floor, she looked a mess. Her shirt was half-untucked and there were cider stains on her jeans. Her short blonde hair seemed forever tousled, as if in solidarity with the confused disorder she often experienced in her mind. She wasn't stupid, she just got things mixed up a lot, not untypically in a girl in mid-teens. Also not untypical was the fact that she had a huge crush on Rachel Thomas.
Rachel had already stood up and was swaying slightly as she brushed herself down. Only 16 like her friend, she had the figure of a woman in her twenties. Her curly brown hair framed a perfectly proportioned face, with rich brown eyes set off by long lashes. Wobbling unsteadily, she tiptoed over to close the sash window, the lower half of which they had raised in order to climb in. It was past midnight, over an hour later than the curfew her mother had insisted on, and as for the booze - they'd polished off four pints of cider between them - her father was a doctor and a teetotaller prone to frequent outbursts against what he called the "demon drink". Rachel had never really understood why he was so passionately opposed to what all her friends' parents - including Susan's - treated as a harmless and natural part of daily living. Having grown up listening to his lectures though, she couldn't now help feeling a bit guilty. Nor could she really blame Susan. It hadn't been Rachel's idea, but at the same time she was her friend's host. Susan had come to stay for the last two weeks of the summer holidays, and they were determined to have as good a
time as possible before the new term back at "Cropton Hell" as they called it.
Window successfully closed, the two friends were shuffling woozily towards the study door when they heard footsteps. They froze, looking at each other wide-eyed. The handle turned, the door opened and there stood Rachel's mother. She paused a moment, eyes adjusting to the dim light, before she registered them standing there, mid-step, two foolish statues.
"Did you really think, Rachel, I wouldn't notice you weren't back by eleven?" She stared angrily at her daughter. It wasn't really a question worth answering and Rachel looked down, as she usually did in these situations, hoping to appear humble. The presence of Susan, a guest, complicated the situation from her mother's point of view.
"You'd better both get to bed right away," said Mrs Thomas after a pause. "And quietly please - your father's asleep. He's very busy at the moment and shouldn't have to put up with this kind of nonsense."
Rachel was about to move past when her mother grabbed her arm and leant in close, sniffing.
"Have you been drinking?" Her mother looked really furious now. "You have, haven't you? I can smell it." She released her grip on Rachel's arm. Rachel's stomach twisted and her heart thumped. This was trouble. "Susan, would you go upstairs, please."
Susan muttered, "Yes, Mrs Thomas," also looking humbly at the floor, and moved past her towards the staircase. Mrs Thomas waited till Susan was out of earshot before turning to her daughter.
"You stupid girl," she hissed. "You thoughtless, foolish..." Lost for words, she shook her head. Rachel was shocked at how angry her mother was. She felt stunned, and realised how completely sober she was all of a sudden. "Your father..." Again Mrs Thomas struggled to find the words. She seemed close to tears, but then another surge of fury swept through her. "I won't have it!" she said in a rising voice that she quickly checked. She carried on in a forceful half-whisper. "And I won't have him worried sick and forced to punish you himself." She thought for a moment. "Right. I'm going to deal with you myself. Go to the kitchen and wait for me there." Mrs Thomas disappeared into the hall and a moment later the front door could be heard opening and closing quietly behind her.
Rachel was astonished. Not since she was about six had her mother spanked her. Her father had always been the one to administer punishments, with his hand when she was younger, with the back of his clothes brush in more recent years. As she made her way to the kitchen, it occurred to her that it was the room furthest from her parents' bedroom hence whatever noise was made would be least likely to disturb her father's precious sleep. She shivered with anticipation.
She felt awful - not just because of the trouble she was in, and the embarrassment of this happening while Susan was staying - but also because she felt genuinely guilty about hurting her Dad. She knew he loved her, his only child, more than he could express; her mother had always acted as the interpreter of his behaviour and feelings, explaining her father to her in a way that made her feel loved, even if he struggled to show it himself. And now she was worried about him - if her mother was this angry, her father must be in quite a bad way. But she also felt something else: that same excitement she had felt every time she was going to be beaten - it was a kind of sexual thing she didn't fully understand. She just knew that afterwards she loved the feeling of the pain in her bum and was fascinated by the marks. These were the times, since she'd been fourteen, when she'd fingered herself to the most intense orgasms. She wondered if there was something wrong with her that she felt this way, and the thought of anyone knowing made her blush with embarrassment.
Rachel stood as if in limbo by the large, refectory-style kitchen table, waiting. Why had her mother gone outside? What was happening? Rachel reflected wistfully that five minutes earlier she'd been giggling on her way home with her friend, only vaguely concerned about the danger of getting caught. Why hadn't she been more careful? Better still, come home on time?
She started at the sound of the back door from the garden opening and turned to see her mother entering. Then she saw the stick she held in her right hand, and the pruning shears in her left.
"Mother?" Rachel couldn't quite believe what she was witnessing. Her stomach took another turn.
"Yes, I'm serious." Her mother strode to the table and put down the shears. She swished the bendy-looking switch through the air, getting the feel of it. "Your father's clothes brush was one thing," she said, eyeing her daughter with a determined glare, "this is another." Rachel gulped. Her mouth was dry and her heart racing. Her hands reached unconsciously behind her to cover the seat of her jeans.
"Mother, I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't realise..."
"And you never do, do you?" interrupted Mrs Thomas, her voice rising again. "Go and shut the door into the hall."
As Rachel moved to obey, she said, "I mean about father. I didn't realise he was..."
"Never mind your father. He doesn't need to know any more than you came in late and I gave you a spanking because I was so annoyed at being kept up late worrying. Is that clear? Not a word!" Rachel felt slightly relieved at news of this subterfuge - at least she needn't feel so guilty about her father.
"Yes, mother," she replied quietly, bowing her head - in genuine humility this time.
"Right - bend over the end... there." Mrs Thomas pointed with the switch. Rachel turned to face the table and duly bent forwards, resting on her elbows. She felt her jeans taut against her bottom. "You'd better hold on to the sides... put your arms out." Again, Rachel did as she was told, but she was starting to panic now; her palms were sweaty and she felt hollow inside. She turned her head to the left to look up at her mother.
"Mother ... please," she pleaded quietly.
"Absolutely not! Don't you dare try wheedling!" Her voice didn't carry quite the fury it had earlier but there was an implacable determination in it that made Rachel turn her face back to the tabletop in resignation. "You can keep your jeans on for now while I find my range," said her mother clutching the switch as if it had a life of its own and might escape. She'd never done this before but she had, partially, seen it done: she'd been a pupil at Cropton Hall herself, in Miss Bentley's era, and had twice witnessed a fellow miscreant getting the cane while she awaited her turn. Miss Bentley had on occasion dealt with joint offenders together, making one face the wall by the door whilst she beat the other. There'd been a mirror on the wall near the corner of the room which had afforded a view of the Headmistress's desk.
Rachel studied the grain in the wood six inches before her eyes and tried to steel herself. Part of her was in panic and fear but there was another part of her that was detached, watching the panic and not quite believing in it. She was also, she realised, thinking ahead to how it would feel later, alone in bed. She had to survive this first, though. She turned her head to the left again just as her mother made some practice swishes through the air ... "finding her range". Rachel shivered again, shifted her hips against the edge of the table-end and adjusted her grip on the sides. She could feel the thumping of her heart through her breasts pressing against the table top. Looking to her left again, she saw her mother take up position holding the switch out so that its end was measured against Rachel's backside. She felt it tap her lightly. She didn't know whether she wanted to look or not. She turned her face to the table again. This was it.
Feeling confident she had the measure of the weight and bendiness of the switch, Mrs Thomas raised it high above her shoulder and, with a twist of her wrist, brought it down smartly onto her daughter's bottom. The loud thwack echoed through the large kitchen. Rachel jerked slightly. A second later, as if it took a moment to register what had just happened, she let out a surprised "OW!" released her grip and reached behind to protect herself. Mrs Thomas stood back, fairly satisfied that this first stroke had penetrated Rachel's denim jeans sufficiently. She waited to see if Rachel would remove her hands without being told. When after a few moments she did, the switch was raised again, and thrashed down once more onto her daughter's generously rounded ar
se, slightly above where the first stroke had landed. Again, Rachel jerked forwards and uttered a slightly less surprised "Ouch". The third stroke followed almost immediately, higher again. Rachel's head rose suddenly, her face scrunched up, wincing. She let out a deep breath and lowered her forehead to the table again. Her mother paused.
In truth, though the sharp sting had caught Rachel by surprise at first, the pain was not as intense as it had been from her father's efforts with the clothes brush on her bare bottom, or even Mrs Weekes' plimsoll which Rachel had twice been subject to, bare. Despite the force with which her mother was wielding the stick, her jeans were absorbing much of the impact. This wasn't as bad as she'd thought it might be.
As if she'd spoken her thoughts aloud, though, she heard her mother say,
"Half way there, but now we'll have those denims out of the way, please." Rachel turned a surprised, pleading face to her mother, but her mother's gaze was focused on the switch which she was flipping gently up and down, as if fascinated by its suppleness. Rachel stood up and fumbled with the button and zip before easing the jeans down to her knees. She was about to bend over again when her mother added,
"And your panties. Not that they will make a lot of difference." She continued her rhythmical jogging of the switch. Rachel sighed and pushed her knickers down to join her jeans. She bent forward again, the coolness of the table against her tummy adding to her feeling of nakedness and vulnerability. The earlier panic returned and she kept her head turned to her left so she could see when the next stroke was coming.
Remembering her old Headmistress' technique, Mrs Thomas took her time. First she had a look at the results of the punishment so far. Three red lines stood out quite distinctly, but as she had suspected they were shallow and not particularly livid, nothing like the cane marks she'd seen at school. Positioning herself again, she lined up the switch, tapped it twice against the centre of her daughter's bare bottom, drew it back and brought it down smartly across the target.
The Girls of Cropton Hall Page 2