"Yes, Head ... mistress," she said, having to clear her throat as she spoke.
"Do you understand why I ask you, and are you willing to make that apology to Bennett and Pearson? They are under the strictest instructions to breathe not a word of it to anyone. If they do, they will have lost my trust forever."
Monica looked down at her lap. Several moments passed in silence. Eventually she took another deep breath and, looking up, said,
"Yes, Headmistress, absolutely. I understand, and I am willing." Verily nodded and said, smiling,
"Thank you, Monica. If for no other reason, I think it will do the hockey team a power of good." At this Monica heaved another deep breath and tipped her head back.
"Yes, indeed," she said, with the beginnings of a rueful laugh. "I definitely need a motivated Bennett. She's the best forward we've had for years."
"So I've heard," said Verily. "And now, Monica, let me address some very personal matters which I suspect will come as even more of a shock than the idea of Julia Bennett as Head Girl."
"Oh dear!" said Monica, much revived now, little suspecting what was to come.
Verily sat up and began to explain very patiently and sensitively, and allowing no interruption, the concept of denial: how people in great fear of the views of others, of society itself even, and indeed in fear of their own true feelings, can end up denying those feelings, even condemning them publicly out of fear of being identified with them. She noticed Monica starting to blush. She never mentioned the word lesbian, but she sensed that Monica was, as she'd hoped, applying these explanations to herself. She did, however, move quickly on to sexual matters, explaining how these were often the most deep-seated and difficult of feelings to deal with, especially because of the taboos placed on them. Finally, she talked of shame and how destructive it can sometimes be to human happiness, and how, in her view, no person should ever be ashamed of how they feel. By this time Monica was blushing very deeply and playing nervously with her hands.
"Monica, no doubt you are wondering why I say all this to you. It is of course embarrassing, but the happiness of my staff is important to me. I will now say only this. You and Margaret Dawson have been friends for some time and yet you have never noticed that she is a lesbian." Monica looked up in amazement, her face blazing.
"Yes," said Verily nodding. "We have spoken and she has given me permission to make these revelations to you. Furthermore, whether you like it or not, she has had feelings for you for a long time now, prevented from revealing them partly by her own shyness but mostly by your rabid condemnations of people like her who have such feelings." Monica looked down. Verily hurried on to her third bombshell.
"Not only that, but she is a masochist. She enjoys being whacked, has done ever since she was a schoolgirl here at Cropton Hall." Monica's jaw fell even further. "Yes, Monica, these too are human feelings. Make of it what you will. Finally, Monica, I must tell you that at eight o'clock tonight Margaret will present herself at your cottage expecting a good dinner. If you choose to stay in your room in the east wing tonight and ignore her then nothing further will be said, and we will all continue as if this never happened. Otherwise I suggest you go shopping in the village this morning. Margaret is very partial to salmon, I believe?" So saying, Verily stood up briskly and Monica followed suit.
"Thank you for hearing me out, Monica," said Verily as they made their way to the door. "You need say nothing. Whatever choices you make are entirely your business, but I do expect you to make that apology with good grace and behave with greater fairness and moderation in future towards the girls."
Monica Gibson was not the first person this term to leave the new Headmistress' study with a head spinning in amazement, but she was perhaps soon to be the happiest.
---oOo---
As Margaret turned into the lane of cottages at five to eight carrying her holdall she felt so nervous she couldn't quite decide if she wanted Monica to be there or not. Life wasn't so bad; why rock the boat? But then she thought of how awkward things would be with Monica tomorrow, and every day, if she weren't there. How could their friendship survive? But Verily had assured her that Monica would not let her down, had even been willing to bet her a considerable sum! Margaret had declined, feeling that she had ventured far enough into new realms of what might be seen as vice without adding gambling to the list.
As she approached number 23 she saw lights on and her heart started pounding. She stopped and stared for a moment before plucking up courage and continuing on to the little latched gate and up the short pathway between rose bushes to the front door. She knocked softly and the door opened immediately. Monica stood there with shining eyes and a huge smile. She opened her arms and exclaimed,
"Margaret!"
Margaret stepped forward into those arms and gratefully accepted the hug. They stood together, the slightly taller Monica resting her chin on Margaret's shoulder for a few seconds before Monica released her and said,
"Come in, come in!" She took the holdall. "What have we here, I wonder?" She placed it by the umbrella stand and looked quizzically at her friend.
"Oh," said Margaret blushing, "Something for later?" It had been at Verily's urging, after quizzing Margaret about her preferences, that the latter had brought a Cropton Girls' uniform, a strap and her butter-pat. The holdall also contained a junior cane that Verily had given her from the middle drawer in her study.
"Gosh, well, that sounds intriguing," said Monica, moving off towards the kitchen. "You make yourself comfortable while I get you a glass of sherry. I'm cooking salmon, and it'll be ready soon."
Sherry appeared and then supper and the two old friends talked and talked, at first mostly about what an extraordinary woman Verily Markham was. Monica was in the first full flush of her new self and apologised so many times for her stupidity and awful comments about lesbians that Margaret had to tell her quite firmly that the subject was never to be mentioned again. They revisited old conversations and times spent together and laughed ruefully over the chances they had missed to get to where they were now. Monica confided that she'd half suspected something when Margaret had announced in the senior staff meeting that she still had Mrs Hardacre's butter-pat, but confessed that she hadn't allowed herself to think about it. Margaret, her tongue loosened by the white wine that accompanied the salmon, related some of the occasions she'd been punished as a Cropton girl all those years before. Monica also revealed herself, speaking of her childhood, her mother, her feelings of pleasure when in control with a strap in hand.
When dessert had been cleared away, Monica said,
"So, my dear, I'm dying to know what you've got in that bag." Without a word, Margaret got up, retrieved it, took it into the kitchen and closed the door. After a few moments the door opened again just wide enough for the bag to appear and, with a push, slide across the tiled floor towards the sofa where Monica sat. The kitchen door shut again.
"I say, how intriguing," said Monica, picking it up. She placed it on her lap and peered inside. "Ooooh!" she said with a broad smile, lifting out the cane and then the strap and butter-pat. She got up and looked around. "There, that'll do nicely," she muttered, taking the implements and placing them on a small table by the fireplace. She stood looking down at them for a moment and then took up the cane, gave it a couple of swishes and placed it by its crooked handle so it hung from the corner of the mantelpiece. She returned to the sofa.
After a minute, there was a knock on the kitchen door. Monica's eyebrows rose a moment before she called out,
"Come in!"
The door opened and Margaret appeared. She was in full Cropton Girl regalia: blue blazer with the Cropton crest on the breast pocket, blue skirt, white blouse, tie and white socks. She stood there shyly, looking down for a moment before she said in a small voice,
"The Headmistress sent me to you, Miss. She said you are to spank me...over your knee, Miss, with your hand ... because ... I've been very childish, Miss." She was blushing furiously with embarras
sment at this first attempt at a role-play, but to Monica the blush was perfect: the red face of a frightened, embarrassed girl.
"Very well, Dawson," said Monica, responding quickly. "You'd better come over here." She summoned Margaret impatiently with her hand. "Come along, quickly now! This really is very tiresome." Margaret stood, hands clasped, before her. "And what childishness have you been guilty of, young lady?"
"I splashed Watson with water, Miss...in the changing-room, Miss. I ... I'm really sorry, Miss," she said pleadingly. Monica was impressed at how realistically Margaret was portraying the part and she found her own role very easy as a result.
"Well you'll be a lot sorrier in a minute or two I can assure you. Really! What a stupid thing to do. Get over my knee, girl!" She patted her lap.
Margaret leaned forward and reached for the rug on the other side of Monica's legs. Monica eased her friend into a good position for her right hand to swing freely and lifted the blue skirt out of the way, revealing Margaret's full round buttocks clad in tight-fitting green knickers.
Without further ado, Monica brought her hand down firmly onto first one cheek, then the other. She spanked quite hard and she had a good hand for the job: it was large for a female and her years as a sportswoman had hardened the flesh somewhat.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! She continued, enjoying immensely the impact on the softness of Margaret's bottom which jiggled at each blow.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Monica's right hand rose and fell steadily, gradually covering every inch of her colleague's backside. Margaret was silent, her elbows on the floor, wincing at each blow.
Monica delivered a further flurry of spanks and then stopped.
"Right, stand up Dawson!" she ordered. As Margaret hauled herself up, she said,
"Thank you, Miss."
"I don't know why you're thanking me, young lady. I certainly haven't finished with you yet." Margaret was standing, her face flushed, her hands gently rubbing the seat of her knickers.
"Oh, please Miss," pleaded Margaret. "I'm really sore already, Miss."
"Poppycock!" said Monica. "Take those knickers off and put them here," said Monica, patting the sofa next to her. Margaret did as she was told. Monica continued, much annoyed, "Thank you, Miss, indeed! We've hardly begun. You don't even know the meaning of sore, young lady. Over my knee ... NOW!"
Margaret quickly resumed the position. She was in heaven. Monica was perfect. Her bottom was nicely warm and an excitement was coursing through her such as she had never known. For whackings at school she had always been so afraid and had felt horribly humiliated. Now she felt safer and, well, pleasantly humiliated.
Monica enjoyed the pink bottom on her lap for a moment.
"Now then, time to learn your lesson properly, Dawson," she said ominously. Placing her left hand firmly in the small of Margaret's back, she raised her right arm high and brought it down as hard as she could.
SMACK! "Little girls..." SMACK! "must learn..." SMACK! "to grow up..." SMACK! "and behave..." SMACK! "themselves..." SMACK! "mustn't they..." SMACK! "Dawson...?" SMACK!
She paused. Imprints of her fingers had appeared at the sides of Margaret's right buttock and both cheeks were now considerably redder.
"Yes, Miss," said Margaret breathlessly. Oh! This was delicious! She was warm and stinging very nicely now.
"Let's see if we've really learned that, shall we?" said Monica. "Repeat after me." She raised her arm again and continued to bring it down with all her considerable force.
SMACK! "Little girls..." Margaret winced and turned her head to the left towards Monica, repeating,
"Little girls..."
SMACK! "must learn..."
"Must learn..." Each blow was flattening a crimson cheek and sending a jolt of shocking pleasure up Margaret's spine.
SMACK! "to grow up..."
"Ouch! ... to grow up..." Margaret's face had begun to sweat and the heat and stinging in her bottom was becoming intense.
SMACK! "and behave..."
"Ooooh!" said Margaret, shocked by the strength of that one. "And behave..."
SMACK! "themselves..."
"Ow! ... themselves," she said with a gasp.
SMACK! "mustn't they...?"
"YES, Miss!" screeched Margaret, forgetting the formula as she struggled to absorb that last stinger.
"No, Dawson, I said repeat after me." SMACK! "Mustn't they...?"
"Yeoow!" Margaret gasped again and mewed for a moment with the pain. "Mustn't they?" she said in a strangled voice.
SMACK! "Dawson...?"
"Daaaawson!" yelled Margaret, her face scrunched up and hair flying as her head jolted back. "Oooow! Oow!" she exclaimed.
"Good!" said Monica, lifting her hand from Margaret's back. "You may get up."
Margaret waited for a moment, still absorbing the furious stinging, and slowly raised herself.
"Now I hope that will put a stop to any further childish tomfoolery," said Monica sternly. Margaret stood rubbing her bare bottom gingerly.
"Yes, Miss," she said.
"Very well. Here you are," said Monica, handing the knickers over. "You'd better put these back on and run along."
"Yes, Miss." Margaret stepped back into her underwear. "Thank you, Miss," she said, before turning and making her way back to the kitchen. Monica, her eyes shining, leaned back into the sofa, wiped her forehead and broke into a huge grin. Looking at the ceiling, she muttered, "Thank you, Lord!" And after a pause, "No! Thank you, Verily Markham!"
With the kitchen door closed behind her, Margaret too looked heavenwards and said a delighted 'Thank you,' before reaching to inspect her bottom.
Five minutes later, just as she was beginning to wonder if Margaret was all right, or perhaps doing the washing-up, which would have made her cross, Monica heard a faint scuffling noise and noticed a sheet of paper appear under the kitchen door. She went over and picked it up. It said:
"Cane please! But not quite so hard as that ferocious hand of yours! (Thanks though - that was simply wonderful). If I say Wait, please do. Likewise, Go, and Stop. Thanks Monica. Love M."
Monica's eyebrows rose and again she smiled. Why hadn't she been loving this woman for the past eight years, as she deserved? She frowned at the thought of her own folly, but there was no time for regrets: the kitchen door was opening, and she looked up to see a bedraggled-looking Margaret, blouse half-untucked, tie askew, hair mussed up, one shoe missing, its sock half off the foot and with red marks on her face (cleverly applied tomato paste). Monica gazed in surprise for a moment, suppressing the urge to smile again. Then the penny dropped.
Margaret Dawson had been fighting with another girl and Monica Gibson knew just what to do.
14. C... For Cold Cream
It had been the custom for many years at Cropton Hall for the Chair of Governors, Sir Wilfred Althorp, and his wife and co-governor, Lady Althorp, to attend the first Sunday service of the term. This particular service was always conducted by one of the priests from the Cropton village or a neighbouring parish, depending who was available.
It was a cooler, blustery morning, heavy clouds threatening rain, when Sir Wilfred's old Bentley rolled smoothly across the gravel and came to a stop outside the front door of Cropton Hall. Verily Markham stood on the steps waiting to greet them. Lady Althorp was out of the passenger side first and greeted Verily with a curt nod.
"Miss Markham," she said, gruffly. Verily smiled and responded,
"Lady Althorp." Verily had not seen the grand old lady since she had been interviewed and appointed to the post of Headmistress, which had only been two weeks before, though it felt much longer to Verily.
Sir Wilfred emerged and Verily escorted them to her study where Edith Bainbridge, Deputy Head, awaited them with tea and biscuits. It was 10.15 and there were still 45 minutes until the service was due to begin.
"So, Miss Markham, how are matters proceeding? Showing the girls who's boss, I hope?" Lady Althorp wasted no time beating around an
y bushes, and, as Verily had been warned, and noted herself, it was other kinds of beating that Lady Althorp was always most interested in hearing about. For which reason, Verily had made sure the Punishment books were up-to-date and ready on her desk, the wooden surface of which Lady Althorp was patting fondly at this moment with a faraway look.
"I think we have made a solid start, Lady Althorp. You might be interested to peruse these as an illustration of how things have changed in just this first week of term?" Verily offered her visitor the General Punishment book, the one containing the list of all girls punished in chronological order. "Edith has kindly arranged tea. Shall we repair to the sofas?" Sir Wilfred looked grateful at the prospect; his wife had a more pressing engagement.
"Ah, yes! Very good, very good," said Lady Althorp, a sparkle lighting up her eyes as she held the leather bound volume reverently in both hands. She had already opened it to the first double page before distractedly reaching the sofa where she plopped herself down rather clumsily. While Sir Wilfred started a discussion with Verily about pupil numbers and Edith poured the tea, Lady Althorp turned over to the next page and whistled softly before returning to run an index finger slowly down the list of punished girls on the first page. Her lips moved as she silently enumerated offences, implements and numbers of strokes, her eyes watering slightly with what could have been concentration, but was perhaps more likely to have been the fond and excited memories evoked.
"I say, this French girl seems an awful trouble-maker," she suddenly burst out. "Yet she's only had the smallest tickle with a cane so far!" The Headmistress, caught in mid-sentence, paused at this interruption. Lady Althorp looked rather indignant. "I do hope you won't be soft on them, Miss Markham. In my view, a sound thr-"
"Lady Althorp," interrupted Verily with a disarming smile, "I can assure you that is not the case, as I think fifty-two incidences of punishment in not quite a week bears out."
"Yes, but this French girl ... whacked with a butter-pat," she ran her finger down the list again, "one stroke of the cane ... one?" She looked up quizzically. "Eight with a strap...that sounds more like it ... and then just two strokes of the cane again ...?" Verily maintained her serene smile.
The Girls of Cropton Hall Page 18