The Girls of Cropton Hall

by Stanlegh Meresith

  "You and I, and, according to what you tell me, every member of staff, are all agreed that improving discipline is our first priority. This, I can assure you, won't be difficult!" Edith smiled. "And I shall give a detailed account of how I want to achieve this when I address the staff on Monday. I was teaching Measure for Measure last year to the Upper Sixth at St Hilda's..." Edith nodded. She knew the play well. Verily continued, "If Clarissa Weekes was the Duke of Vienna, letting things slide, then I have no intention of being the Angelo who makes his own mess. Firm discipline we will certainly introduce from the very start, but it must be founded on fairness. This will require absolute clarity on the part of all the staff as to what punishment is appropriate for each instance of pupil misbehaviour. As I mentioned, I will present my ideas on Monday - I think you'll approve." She smiled reassuringly at her Deputy.

  "I've no doubt," agreed Edith happily.

  "Improved discipline will of course bring other benefits: we need urgently to rescue the reputation of the school and to increase our intake. We also need to improve the exam results. How long is it since a Cropton girl went to Oxford or Cambridge?" Edith pondered. "Quite - you have to think about it."

  As Verily continued enthusiastically to share her vision for the future of the school, Edith felt herself becoming quite emotional. The two frustrating years were an unhappy memory receding further with each day, and she felt, as she gazed at the animated younger woman, an almost religious sense of gratitude to this alumna of Cropton Hall.

  ---oOo---

  "Rachel, I've received a letter from Susan," said her mother over breakfast on Monday morning. Her father had left early for the surgery.

  "Really? What does she say?"

  "Well, for a start she says how sorry she is about ... that night..." Mrs Thomas peered over her glasses at her daughter. Then she held the letter up and continued skimming through it as she summarised. "She repeats what she said last week about it being her idea and asks me not to blame you too much ... her father, she says, has punished her quite severely - spelt SEVERLEY, dear oh dear - and then she says she hopes we will be able to forgive her..." She turned over the page. "...and that she will one day be allowed to visit again...again, very sorry ... and that's it. Rather sweet really." Her mother put down the paper and poured herself another cup of Twinings from the pot. "Oh, and I saw one addressed to you in the same kind of envelope - have a look on the hall table, dear."

  Rachel leapt up and hurried out into the hall. She flipped through the pile of letters, most of which were businessy-looking ones in brown envelopes addressed to Dr Richard Thomas. But then she came to a smaller one unmistakably in Susan's immature handwriting. She clasped it to her breast for a moment and uttered a silent "Yes!" of joy before slipping it into her dressing-gown pocket and returning to the kitchen to finish her cereal.

  The morning after her mother's thrashing the previous week, she and Susan had come down to breakfast to discover Mrs Thomas on the phone to Susan's parents.

  "Yes, I'm afraid so ... very well, we'll expect you late this afternoon. Thank you Mr French, and, again, I'm so sorry this has happened." She'd put the receiver back on its cradle and turned to the girls. "Susan, as you may have heard, your father will collect you this afternoon. I've told him about last night." She noticed the girls' horrified expressions. "I'm sorry but I really had no choice. While you're here you are our responsibility, and, well, we failed, didn't we?" The question held a note of accusation and hung in the air, the two girls too stunned to fashion a reply between them. "Your father insists you return home immediately. As you can imagine, he sounds pretty livid." She looked not unsympathetically at Susan who was on the verge of tears. Rachel looked miserable and put a hand on Susan's shoulder.

  "Never mind, Susie," she said as consolingly as she could. "Let's try and enjoy today anyway."

  "That's the spirit," responded her mother. "It's a lovely day. Why don't you go for a walk up on the moors. I'll make you sandwiches and then we'll have a big tea when you get back. Your father will be here at about five so why don't you make sure you're back by four for tea?"

  "Thank you, Mrs Thomas," said Susan, gulping back her tears. "You're very kind." And then a bout of sobs shook her and she turned and hurried up the stairs. Rachel looked resentfully at her mother and followed her friend.

  They'd had a pleasant enough day, despite both being subdued by the thought of Susan's impending departure, and tea had been a real feast as Rachel's mother had promised. Then, just after five, they heard Mr French's Jaguar pulling up in the drive. He'd been polite but his expression had remained grim and he'd insisted they set off straight away. The sight of Susan waving forlornly from the passenger seat as the car pulled away had reduced Rachel to tears.

  During the week since, Rachel had been bored and resentful. Susie's letter promised to be the best thing that had happened since that night they'd kissed and got into bed together. She hurried back to her bedroom after breakfast to enjoy it alone.

  "My Dearest Rache," she read,

  "I miss you, oh how I miss you. I am siting here ... (Rachel found herself thinking she even loved Susie's spelling mistakes - Susie'd once been given lines by Mrs Weekes and had written "I must not show of in class" a hundred times. She'd had to do them all again!) ... on both my pillows as I am writting this. This is because my bum is extremly painfull just now. I told you I'd get the strap when I got home and I wasn't wrong. In fact it was the hardest my Dad's ever punished me.

  The journey home was the most depresing hour of my life. My dad refused to speak to me and I was missing you like mad. When we got home my dad told me to take my suitcase strait to my room and get ready for bed. No dinner. I wasn't even alowed to hug my mum or my younger brother and sister. I was in disgrace he said. I waited for ages in my nitie, nervous as hell. It must have been at least 40 minutes. I wandered if I pretended to be asleep he would leave me alone and not be so angry tommorow. But I knew that wouldn't work. The thing about my dad is he's very methodicle about everything!

  Anyway, eventualy he came in and he had the strap over his sholder. I think it's called a shaving strop, it's for sharpening razers on. It's thick and heavy and about two inches wide and it makes a REALLY loud wacking noise when it hits your bum. Everybody in our house knows when Dad's using his strap!

  He said he'd spoken with Mum and they both agreed I'd let them down very badly and bought shame on the family. (And I must buy you a dictionary, thought Rachel). He told me to put my pillows (the same ones I'm siting on now) in the middle of my bed and lie face down with my bum over where the pillows were. I was shaking, Rache, I was so scarred. (I suspect you're about to be, thought Rachel).

  Once I was lying over the pillows he told me to lift my nitie out of the way which I did. Then he said in his very solum voice "Susan as your behaviour has been so apalling you will receive 6 strokes from each side. I don't like hurting you but this is for your own good." I think those were his exact words. Then he said I shouldn't try to protect myself with my hands because the strap was going to come down no matter what was in the way i.e. my hands. And that if I moved off the pillows he would start all over again. He really meant buisness.

  I thought about you then, about the thrashing you got from your mum and it made me feel a bit braver that I was only getting what you'd had. But then the first whack landed and it was so loud I thought someone'd fired a gun. It got me right across the right side of my bum and it stung like a million bees. I wanted to be brave and I berried my head in the blankets trying not to scream. The next one did make me scream, though I mufled it. He was hiting me so hard I was actuerly bouncing slightly on the bed. I got four more on that side and I was just crying and yelling after the third or forth. Then he went round to the other side of the bed and I had a chance to feel the parts where I'd been strapped. It was ON FIRE!! And it was starting to throb horribly.

  I turned to look at him to beg him at least not to belt me so hard but one look at his methodicle face made
me give up that idea so I just berried my face in the bed and clung on to the end of the mattress for dear life. He didn't let up. Every whack was about equally hard. He was like that metrognome Miss Halsey uses at school to help the orchestra keep time. Whack! Whack! Whack! Once every ten seconds or so. I bet he even counted the seconds in between to get it JUST RIGHT.

  I screamed after every whack and I desperatly wanted to put my hands in the way but I knew that would hurt even more. The only thing I could do to try and shake away the pain, though it sort of happenned anyway, was to move my bum from side to side and up and down, so long as I stayed on the pillows which I did thank God.

  So here I am with the sawest bottom in my whole life. It feels like someone's blown it up to twice its size and filled it with concreet too. It's gone totally hard and it's incredably painful to touch. It's still throbing like hell too but you should see the marks!! In fact I wish you were here to feel them, very gently though! Both cheeks are VERY dark red with bluey black lines where the sides and end of the strap must of been. And yes, I have been getting a bit of a thrill from looking at them!! And now that it's over I do feel a bit like what you said. So maybe I'm as strange as you are! Anyway, it's only two weeks till term starts and I rekon these marks will still be around for you to admire. If you still want to.

  Now I'm tired so I'll say bye, though I'm not sure if I'm going to sleep very well with these steel claws griping and ungriping my bum once every second. Niti-nite, sweetheart. See you soon though not soon enough.

  Susie

  xxx

  P.S. Wensday. Sorry about the delay. Mum didn't have any stamps till now. Hope you get this safely. I've writen to your mum too.

  Rachel tingled all over with a mixture of love and lust and wondered if she could masturbate right there and then without her mother coming up to disturb her. She decided she'd wait and read the letter again that night. Only one week to go now till term started. She wondered at how keen she was to return to 'Cropton Hell' all of a sudden. Usually the end of the holidays was really depressing.

  That evening her father emerged from his study for dinner with some interesting news. He'd noticed an item in the Echo about a new Headmistress being appointed at Cropton Hall.

  "Oh really, darling? What happened to Mrs Weekes?" asked his wife as she ladled the soup.

  "Well, coincidentally, a letter arrived today from Sir Wilfred Althorp, the Chair of Governors. Says Mrs Weekes resigned just after the end of last term and they've appointed a Miss Verily Markham in her place. Says she comes highly recommended from a school in Devon and she's something of a stickler for firm discipline apparently." Rachel looked up from her bowl with interest while Mrs Thomas had stopped mid-ladle.

  "Gosh! That is news," said Rachel.

  "Did you say ... Verily Markham?" asked Mrs Thomas with a strange look on her face.

  "Yes, that's right."

  "Good heavens! Well I never."

  Her husband and daughter looked at her in surprise.

  "Why? What's so strange?" asked Rachel.

  "We were at school together. Markham, Verily Markham. It must be the same one, surely?"

  "Well," replied Dr Thomas, "it does say she is a former pupil."

  "Well, well. How interesting!"

  "Why, mother, why's it so interesting? Lots of former pupils must end up teaching in the school they went to," Rachel pointed out.

  "Yes, but..." Mrs Thomas was remembering the girl she'd been caned with in the Sixth Form. Verily Markham. She'd been given eight strokes with "Molly" by Miss Bentley and she'd taken them with amazing fortitude. But this wasn't, she realised, a story to share with her daughter: not about her new Headmistress. "It just seems rather a coincidence, that's all, dear. Now do eat your soup."

  "Rachel," said her father, "looks like you'll have to mind your manners or you'll be getting a sore backside rather more often from now on, eh?" He chuckled and slurped another spoonful of soup. Rachel started to blush and lowered her head.

  "Yes, father," she agreed.

  Her mother was lost in thought.

  The staffroom at Cropton Hall was located in the centre of the building where the corridor that led north to the main entrance met the longer corridor running east to west. Ranged along these corridors were most of the classrooms and a common room for sixth formers, along with a cloakroom and toilets. At the western end of the building on the ground floor was the dining-room while the main hall, used for assemblies and as a chapel, lay at the other end of this long central corridor. Further corridors led south at each end, one to the changing room and showers and the other to the library. Staircases to the dormitories on the upper floors were located half way along each branch.

  On September 6th the staff were gathered here at 9.30 in the morning to meet their new Headmistress. The full complement numbered 14 teachers, all women, most of whom had been at the school for a number of years - over thirty in the case of Edith Bainbridge, Deputy Head and longest-serving. The youngest was a Miss Stokes who had arrived to teach English just a year earlier. The subjects on the curriculum were arranged into four departments, each with an experienced Head: Maths and Science was run by Mrs Beecham, a bespectacled woman of severe aspect who was known not to suffer fools gladly and who had come very close to resigning in recent months - and indeed would have, had Mrs Weekes remained in charge.

  The Languages department - the school offered Latin, Greek and French - was led by Countess Potocki, a Polish émigré who had settled in England in 1939. She spoke perfect, if still slightly accented, English. Her husband had been killed in the Katyn Forest massacre and she had dedicated her life since to the shaping of her charges, never having had children of her own. The Humanities department was the domain of Margaret Dawson, a shy but handsome woman just turned forty. She had been a pupil at the Hall herself, in the year below the new Head whom she hadn't seen since the latter had left in 1929. She was a little nervous about the reunion, unsure whether Miss Markham would welcome this reminder of her schooldays, especially given her reputation back then.

  Miss Bainbridge herself oversaw the English department which included responsibility for art and music. All the staff, in various degrees, took responsibility for organising and supervising games and PE, and three of the more senior colleagues, Mrs Palmer and Miss Gibson, along with Margaret Dawson, served as dormitory mistresses in the north, east and west wings respectively, into which the fifteen dorms were divided.

  On this Monday morning, conversation was unusually animated as tea cups were passed round (containing a cheaper Twinings blend), holidays compared and new outfits or perms complimented. Excitement at the imminent arrival of Miss Markham, and the hope of better times, no doubt accounted for much of the enthusiasm. Miss Bainbridge circulated, ensuring everyone had a cup and saucer and offering custard creams.

  "Is it true, Edith, you were a Junior Mistress here when Miss Markham was a pupil?" asked Prudence Waring, the second most recent addition to the staff, two years at the school.

  "Indeed it is, Prudence. It was the late twenties. I've been reading back through my old diaries, and finding some fascinating anecdotes."

  "Oh? Do tell."

  "That, I think, would not be appropriate. Let us allow Verily Markham to make her own impression, shall we?"

  "It's the impression on the girls I'm most eager to see," said the Countess in her husky voice.

  "As are we all, Countess," agreed Constance Beecham sidling up to join them. "And from what I hear we won't be disappointed."

  "Really?" asked Edith. "And what is it you've heard, Connie?"

  "Good things, good things. I have an old friend who teaches in Devon, not far from St Hilda's, and it seems Miss Markham's reputation for effective discipline is widely acknowledged in those parts."

  "Well I hope it's all true," said Prudence, "because I don't think I could survive another year of a bunch like 5C, the way things were last year. That Thomas girl, and French who just follows her around like a..."


  "Indeed, Prudence," responded Edith, adding a little waspishly, "how's your tea by the way?" She hadn't forgotten Prudence Waring's unseemly behaviour over the salt in the tea episode. She'd made such a fuss, even shouting in the staffroom, that she'd virtually browbeaten the Headmistress into giving the two girls a whacking, when lines had been, as usual, her preference. Edith didn't object to the whacking, but it was inconsistent with Mrs Weekes' practice and hence inherently unfair. Verily's words echoed in her mind, "it must be founded on fairness". And then there'd been the incident with Emily Stokes; again, Prudence Waring had behaved very shoddily - there was no other word for it.

  "My tea is fine thank you, Miss Bainbridge," responded Prudence huffily, her face colouring with annoyance.

  At that moment the group sensed a hush in the room and all eyes turned to the door.

  "Good morning, colleagues." Verily Markham's voice gained instant attention.

  Wearing a teacher's gown over a grey suit and with her hair in its usual swept back severity, she made a powerful first impression on those who had never met her, which was all but two of the assembled staff. Edith hurried over to be at her side in case an introduction was appropriate, but this proved unnecessary. She did however silently offer to hold the briefcase Verily was holding, an offer that was accepted.

  "I am Verily Markham, your new Headmistress. This is the start of a new era and we begin today. We have important work to do to prepare for the new term. The girls arrive on Sunday and I want everyone and everything to be thoroughly prepared." She scanned the room making eye contact with her new colleagues. "I will be meeting with each of you individually over the coming week, as well as in groups with department heads and dorm mistresses. You will have a chance then to ask me, or tell me, anything you wish." She looked around the room and, indicating the two large tables near the window, said, "Now, shall we gather round? Bring your teacups... ah, and biscuits, I see!" she said with a smile at Edith Bainbridge. The staff gravitated to the tables, finding seats where they found them.