The Girls of Cropton Hall

by Stanlegh Meresith

  Alice looks up. "Yes, Miss."

  "So you know how much it hurts," says the Headmistress. "I am now going to give you six strokes for your disobedience and your act of violence against Pearson. You will be brave. You will hold on to the far edge of the desk and not let go. It will hurt a great deal but it will be over soon and then you will be forgiven. Do you understand?"

  Alice is shaking slightly now, still eyeing the cane which swings gently from the Headmistress' right hand. "Yes, Miss," she says, in a stronger voice, looking up and taking a deep breath as if resolving indeed to be brave. She thinks of what Thomas said: 'You've just got to grin and bear it. It won't kill you'.

  "Very well. Lower your knickers and bend over the desk." As Alice obeys, Miss Markham steps back and waits. Once Alice has leaned across the green leather-topped desk, the Head steps forward and lifts her skirt up over her back to reveal the girl's slim-hipped but quite maturely-rounded buttocks. They are slightly discoloured still with the bruising from Miss Dawson's whacking the previous Sunday, and the faint stripe of Miss Markham's own ministration is still visible on her right buttock.

  The Headmistress takes up position, levels the cane across the centre of Alice's bottom and holds it there for a few seconds. Alice tenses and looks slightly to her left, gripping the wooden edge of the desk for all she's worth, her knuckles white. The cane rises and swishes down swiftly to bite into the fifth-former's exposed cheeks which dent slightly before resuming their former firm shape as the cane is pulled away again. The flesh puckers and a faint red line starts to form. A brief moment after the impact of cane on flesh, Alice utters an agonised cry,

  "Yeeoooooww!" and stamps and dances on the spot, held in place only by her bravely clinging hands. The red line deepens in colour and slowly emerges as two thin parallel lines right across the centre of her buttocks.

  In the next two minutes, Miss Markham does not cane Alice quite as severely as perhaps she deserves, given the offence; nevertheless the strokes are very firmly applied and Alice screams vociferously at each one. The second is carefully placed an inch below the first, the third an inch above, each eliciting frantic wriggles and kicking legs. The Headmistress aims carefully so as not to overlap any strokes, placing the fourth below the second and the fifth above the third until five almost perfectly parallel lines adorn the suffering girl's bottom. Alice squirms and writhes over the desk, crying and moaning between each scream, but she keeps her grip and does not rise up.

  Before the sixth and final stroke, the Headmistress pauses and observes the twitching bottom, the heaving back, the dishevelled hair and the tear drops on the desk top. Alice has done well, but the last must be one to remember for some days to come if the lesson is to be properly learnt. Bending slightly to place the cane on the flesh below where the fourth stroke had fallen, right at the cusp of buttocks and thigh, the headmistress draws it back and forth briefly in a slight sawing motion. Alice groans and tenses; she lifts up onto her toes and scrunches up her face in awful anticipation.

  SWISH ... THWAPPP!

  "AYEEOOOWWW!" Alice bellows her agony to the heavens. She stamps her feet and then her legs give way and she lies slumped helpless on the desk, sobbing and squirming in pain.

  The last stroke has landed exactly where aimed and a darker red line is already edging with purple in this softer place as Miss Markham stands back and waits for the brave but foolish girl to recover.

  After half a minute during which Alice sobs and groans, writhing in torment, the Head announces, "You may get up now, Jennings." She admires the accuracy of her aim in the six parallel stripes gracing Alice's posterior, each now a scarlet tramline along which she can empathise is travelling a considerably distressing train of pain.

  She returns the senior cane to its place in the drawer of implements. Alice rises slowly, her hands immediately going to fondle, very tentatively, her furiously stinging, throbbing buttocks. Her face is streaked with tears and drawn with pain as she touches the raised weals. Another wave of tears overcomes her in sorrow for her poor bottom and she leans forward, her skirt falling, placing her hands on the near edge of the desk as she shakes with more sobs. The Headmistress waits patiently, sympathetic to the need of the newly caned to absorb and come to terms with the intense feelings both physical and emotional.

  Eventually Alice stands again, wipes away her tears and only now does she reach down to return her knickers to their proper place. She winces dramatically as she does so.

  "So, Jennings, I trust that you will never again be tempted to assault a fellow pupil?" asks Miss Markham sternly.

  Alice hiccoughs and replies, "No, Miss," in a tiny, strained voice.

  "Very well. You have half an hour before lunch to recover, and an apology, I think, to make to Pearson, yes?"

  "Yes, Miss."

  Alice turns and with exaggeratedly slow and wincing steps, makes her way painfully to the door. As her hand reaches for the doorknob, Miss Markham says,

  "Well done, Alice. You are a brave girl. Please don't let me down again." Alice turns, looks at her Headmistress and says,

  "No, Miss. Thank you, Miss. I'll ... (hic) ... try not to."

  "Good girl."

  As Alice closes the door behind her, she is unaware that two figures are standing at the end of the short corridor leading to the Head's study, waiting for her. They have heard every stroke, every scream.

  Gabrielle comes forward as Alice, still unaware, approaches. Alice looks up.

  "Alice," says Gabrielle. Alice's face crumples into tears again and she stops, looking down.

  "Alice, it's all right," says Gabrielle, taking the younger girl gently in her arms. Alice sobs gratefully into Gabrielle's breast. Julia looks on, moved.

  "Come on, you two," she says after a moment. "Ponds Cold Cream awaits."

  "Come, Alice. Let's go up to Julia's dorm," says Gabrielle softly, stroking Alice's dishevelled hair. "We've got just what you need right now. You're very brave and I forgive you." Alice looks up, her eyes shining with tears, but also with the light of relief.

  "Thanks, Pearson," she says. "And ... (hic) ... I'm really sorry I whacked you."

  "It's all right. I probably would have done the same," says Gabrielle. "I mean ... I left you for dead on that hockey pitch, didn't I?"

  The two older girls burst out laughing, and the beginnings of a grateful smile starts to emerge from the pain-ravaged features of the younger girl. Then, with the respectful patience only fellow-sufferers would know to show, Julia and Gabrielle escort Alice, slowly, limpingly, up the stairs to Dorm C.

  C... for cold cream.

  15. Three Apologies, Two Canings and a Rediscovery

  "But it's fiction, Maggie!" said Monica indignantly. "It's not real! And anyway, how could Dickens really know what life was like if he was locked away in his study writing the whole time? How many THOUSANDS of pages did he write all together? And how many THOUSANDS of hours must they have taken?"

  "Oh come on, Monica, you can't honestly say that Dickens' portraits of urban life were all pure invention! That's ridiculous!"

  The two colleagues - now lovers - were enjoying a Sunday afternoon walk in the woods adjacent to the school - an area of ancient woodland, part of the school grounds, whose paths and clearings all members of the Cropton Hall community were free to explore, staff at any hour, girls at designated ones. They were discussing the extent to which historians could use literary texts as reliable sources for historical research, a topic they had often debated over the years of their friendship.

  Margaret had always enjoyed the way Monica became so heated in argument; she wasn't beyond deliberately needling her friend just to see that angry blush come to her face, and after the wonderfully thorough thrashing Monica had given her the night before, Margaret felt an extra frisson of excitement now at the possibilities of where Monica's indignation might on a future occasion lead them. That caning had been quite, quite liberating: Margaret had lost count after about eighteen strokes, but the way Mon
ica had very gradually increased their strength, and the way she'd given Margaret just enough time to absorb each one, had led her to an ecstasy she'd dreamed of for many years, but never thought possible. Sitting through the service had been a painful delight and had induced the sweetest nostalgia for similar occasions as a teenager at Cropton.

  A few minutes later, Monica was in the middle of a passionate peroration on the historian's need for impeccably pure source material when, suddenly, she stopped. Margaret looked up. She saw Bennett and Pearson approaching them from another path and Monica said,

  "Maggie, do you mind waiting here for a minute or two? There's something I must say to my hockey stars."

  "Of course, go ahead," replied Margaret, stopping and retreating to sit, rather tentatively, on a nearby tree stump, taking out her copy of Coleridge to peruse again his beautiful 'The Nightingale'.

  Monica strode forward to greet the two sixth formers, who had themselves slowed and stopped in embarrassed uncertainty.

  "Bennett ... Pearson, I'm so glad we've bumped into each other," said Monica gaily.

  "Miss...?" said Julia cautiously.

  "If I may interrupt your walk for a few moments, there are two things I must say to you both." She waited, politely, for the permission she'd sought. Julia and Pearson, surprised, waited too, before Gabrielle said,

  "Of course, Miss..."

  "Well," said the History mistress, "First, I must apologise to you both for my behaviour on Thursday. Miss Markham has asked me to do this, but I want you to know that I do it freely out of my own sense of shame at the way I acted."

  Gabrielle's mouth had actually dropped open, so amazed was she at this new Gibbo. Julia too was impressed.

  "Pearson, I was much much too harsh with you. You did not deserve the strapping I administered, and I also regret being so severe with the hairbrush. I must say you were extremely brave and forbearing. I deeply regret allowing my personal fury to get the better of me."

  Gabrielle was quite unable to speak. Miss Gibson turned to Julia.

  "Bennett, your defence of Pearson was, I now see quite clearly, commendable and I feel ashamed now about the strapping I gave you. It was inexcusable in the circumstances."

  "No, Miss," said Julia. "I was disrespectful to you, and I apologise, Miss. I shouldn't have spoken the way I did."

  "Well thank you, Bennett. Perhaps we were both in the wrong." She turned once more to Gabrielle. "Pearson, I do hope you can forgive me, and I-"

  Gabrielle found her voice at last. She was nervous but she interrupted the mistress clearly and confidently.

  "Miss, I deserved to be punished for helping Julia - Bennett, Miss - cheat, and I do forgive you, Miss." Monica smiled and was about to speak when Gabrielle continued. "And, Miss ... I think it's very good of you to say sorry like this, and we want you to know we won't say anything about this to anyone, Miss." Difficult speech made, she took a big breath and stood there blushing. Monica was clearly moved and took a moment to compose herself.

  "Pearson, I ... I think that is very magnanimous of you. Thank you." She looked at the two girls standing there awkwardly. "Now, the other thing I wanted to say was well done to both of you on your absolutely superb play yesterday. You, Pearson, were a revelation! Simply a revelation! I intend to play you in the attacking role behind Bennett in next Saturday's match against Pickering Girls, so welcome to the First XI." She held out her hand to Gabrielle who shook it, looking enormously pleased.

  "Thank you, Miss."

  "No... thank YOU! As for you Bennett, you just get better and better. You took those goals superbly, and I think we're going to have a lot of fun this year showing our opponents how to play the game of hockey, eh?"

  Both girls were beaming. "Yes, Miss," they said together.

  "But girls," said Miss Gibson. "I should add this. I am still your History mistress, and a senior member of staff. If I have good reason to punish either of you in future then I will not shirk my duty. Is that understood?"

  Again the two friends spoke in tandem.

  "Yes, Miss," they said.

  ---oOo---

  Weekend afternoons, between two and five o'clock, were the only time pupils in the lower forms were permitted to go into Cropton village. It was a half-hour walk and the attractions were limited, but it was a chance to get out of school and there was a small sweet shop that opened in the afternoons specifically for the Cropton girls' custom. This was where Charlotte Wilson and Jenny Simpson had gone this Sunday afternoon.

  Charlotte felt a bit guilty as she hadn't told Elizabeth that she was going, even though the two of them had been almost inseparable all week; instead she'd suggested the trip to Jenny. Quite why she'd done this, Charlotte was not entirely sure. She liked Elizabeth a lot; they'd formed an instant friendship, a bond made stronger by the passing a note in class incident that had got them both whacked by Miss Bainbridge last Monday. But there was something rather more exciting about Jenny Simpson: she seemed to have a permanently mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and to enjoy flirting with danger: she'd been the first fourth-former to get the cane.

  On their way back from the village - they'd set off at a gentle stroll at about 4.15 - Jenny had noticed some blackberry bushes down a small lane and they'd gone to explore. The bushes were laden and they'd stood and picked and eaten the delicious sweet fruits till their chins and fingers were stained with the dark purple juices.

  "Yum," said Jenny, stuffing another three into her mouth. "My Mum used to make jam with these."

  "Used to?" asked Charlotte. "Why did she stop?"

  Jenny was quiet a moment. "She died," she said matter-of-factly.

  "Oh! ... I'm sorry," said Charlotte. She felt embarrassed. She couldn't imagine not having a mother.

  "It's all right," said Jenny. "It was two years ago now. But my Dad doesn't know what to do with me. He says I'm incorrigible - that's his favourite word. When he saw in the paper about the new Head, he packed me off to this place."

  Charlotte thought she heard sadness but when she turned to look at Jenny, her new friend seemed unconcerned, stretching out to pick some of the last berries within reach. Suddenly, Charlotte exclaimed,

  "Oh my gosh ... what's the time?" Neither of them had a watch. "We'd better run. Curfew's at five o'clock."

  Jenny was still stretching for some more of the delicious berries and didn't seem particularly worried.

  "Jenny!" said Charlotte urgently. "I think we'd better go. Apparently Bainbridge waits around the front watching for late-comers..."

  "All right," said Jenny with a sigh, turning.

  Charlotte set off at a brisk pace up the lane to the road that led back to school. At the corner she waited for Jenny to catch up, but she was feeling distinctly nervous and for a moment thought of just going without her. Jenny was rubbing her stomach and smiling.

  "Wasn't that a feast?" she asked happily. Charlotte smiled superficially and said,

  "Yes, it was, but can we hurry now?" Jenny put her arm through Charlotte's and said,

  "I'm with you Charlie. Let's hurry, but I warn you I'm really stuffed!"

  As they approached the gated entrance at the end of the drive ten minutes later, Charlotte was becoming more and more anxious. She was pretty sure they were already late, and she was hoping against hope that Miss Bainbridge wasn't around.

  Jenny was happily rabbiting on about Miss Stokes and some of her form mates seemingly without a care in the world. And suddenly it occurred to Charlotte why she'd asked Jenny to go with her today: some part of her had wanted to get into trouble; had wanted to get a whacking - so she could prove she wasn't a coward; that she wouldn't beg this time. But now that this whacking had become a distinct possibility, she was regretting it, seriously, silently cursing herself, and resenting the casually unconcerned Jenny whose arm was still linked through hers. And at that moment, as they approached the open space before the main building, her fears were realised:

  "SIMPSON ... WILSON ... YOU'RE LATE!" shouted Miss
Bainbridge from the trees over to the left. "Come over here."

  Heart pounding, Charlotte led Jenny across the gravel.

  "It is nearly 5.15!" said the Deputy Head. "You know perfectly well when the curfew is! Do you have anything to say for yourselves?"

  Charlotte was dumbstruck, Jenny was not.

  "We were eating blackberries, Miss," she said, as if this were a pleasure Miss Bainbridge would be sure to accept as a legitimate excuse.

  "I dare say you were. Go and wait outside the changing-room, the pair of you. I'll deal with you shortly."

  As she watched Wilson and Simpson walk sheepishly away towards the front door, Edith Bainbridge sighed and checked her watch again. She didn't think there'd be any more, so she turned and walked off through the trees to take the quicker way round to the changing-room. She chuckled at the thought of how surprised the two girls would be to find her there before them. No harm, she thought, in adding a little mystique to the power of us mistresses.

  She wondered what to use on these two young miscreants. The Simpson girl was definitely going to need teaching several lessons before she got into line, while young Wilson (wasn't she the one who'd been so worried about begging?) did seem rather accident-prone when it came to abiding by rules. She entered the changing-room, went straight to the cupboard in the corner and opened it. She decided that this was a serious misdemeanour and took out a junior cane.

  At that moment she heard footsteps and whispering outside the door and called out,

  "In here, you two!"

  Holding the crooked end of the cane in her right hand, and tapping the other end on her left, Edith faced the two very surprised fourth-formers. She noticed Simpson looking around as if searching for the secret passage by which she might have got there before them. Wilson, though, was staring in fear at the thin, bendy stick, on the verge of tears. Simpson then looked the Deputy Head in the eyes with a gaze that was hard to fathom: it wasn't defiance; it wasn't fear. Whatever it was, Edith found it slightly unsettling.