The Girls of Cropton Hall

by Stanlegh Meresith

  THWACK!

  Knocked forward by the impact, she exhales sharply. OUCH! So that's what it's like! It STINGS!

  A band of red flares across the sixth-former's bottom but she makes no sound. There is a pause.

  "I believe you have something to say to me?" says Miss Bainbridge.

  "Oh! Yes, sorry, Miss. One ... thank you, Miss." Silly old cow. Thank you for what exactly? For my own good? I don't think so. Yours more likely. Thanks for a nice warm bum, maybe, but, oh dear, another eight like that?

  "You're welcome, Thomas. I hope you are learning from this." Hm, let me see ... am I?

  THWACK!

  The strap lands with even greater force, slightly higher but partly overlapping the first, flattening the girl's flesh for an instant before falling away. She bears it again in silence.

  Oooh! That was HARD. She really means business. Damn, that huuurts!

  Thomas shifts her feet slightly and says,

  "Two. Thank you, Miss." I will NOT cry out.

  Miss Bainbridge stands back half a step further and raises the strap high above her shoulder. She pauses, taking aim, and brings it swooshing through the air with a slight twist of her body.

  THA-WHACK!

  The end of the strap catches the far side of the girl's right cheek and leaves an instant dark red mark. Thomas lets out a gasp and wriggles her bottom.

  OW! Bloody hell! Ouch! That got me right on the side. Ow! Damn, this is painful.

  Her voice is slightly strained as she says, "Three, thank you, Miss."

  Miss Bainbridge observes with satisfaction the darker red imprint that last, very firm, stroke has left across Thomas' bottom. She raises the strap high again and...

  THA-WHAPPP!

  "FOUR! ... thank you, Miss." OOOWWW! Ugh! Eeeesh! Thank you, my arse. You witch!

  THA-WHAPPP!

  Thomas' legs bend at the knee and she gasps audibly. The underwear drops to her ankles. The mistress notes the deepening red swathes of overlaid strap marks, but she feels a growing frustration that she has not as yet elicited a verbal reaction. Four still to come though, plenty of time. There's a longer pause before...

  "Five, thank you, Miss." God, that hurts - feels like she's trying to destroy my bum completely. Got to bear it. Can't say I'll grin, but...

  THA-WHACK!

  YEEOUCH! OW! OW! OW! DAMN ... and I thought I might like this? I'm a fool. I'm a fool.

  "Six. Thank you, Miss." The voice is distinctly croaky now, Miss Bainbridge notes with satisfaction.

  "I hope, Thomas, that you are thinking about why you find yourself here."

  Susie - the attic, the book; she whacked me with it. That was nice. This is ... uurgghh...

  "Yes, Miss," she says meekly, breathing hard. The Deputy Head is not convinced for a moment, raises the strap high and lays it on with determined intent once more. It cracks across the crimson buttocks and the girl crumples at the knees again and grips the edge of the bench, her knuckles white. But still she doesn't cry.

  AAARGHH! Got ... to ... hold ... on. Mustn't...

  Miss Bainbridge notices - at last - a small sob as the girl's shoulders jerk involuntarily and the smallest of grunts is heard. To teach obedience is never easy and some will insist on learning it the hard way.

  "Seven ... thank you, Miss," she squeaks. Decidedly sorry for herself now, as she should be.

  THA-WHAPP!

  "AAOOOOWW!" she cracks at last, her hands leaping to defend her scorched backside, knees bent, half-standing.

  "GET BACK DOWN IMMEDIATELY!" barks the mistress. The girl reluctantly obeys, hands slowly reaching down to rest on the bench again.

  DAMN! Geeez, that bloody strap is MURDER! Oh god, I don't think I can bear this ... please, lord, hear my prayer, letmegetthroughthis, pleeeeease...

  "Eight. Thank you, Miss." Brace yourself, brace yourself, here it comes, oh god...

  THA-WHACKKKK!

  If anything, the hardest yet, as indeed the last must always be, and if the lesson isn't learnt by now it never will be - that bottom is turning purple.

  "AAAEEEEII! OW! OW! OW!" she cries, wriggling furiously, dipping and arching her back, but she stays down. She's a brave girl, there's no denying it, and she has taken her punishment well.

  OOOWW! My poor bum ... it's burning to death! I'm on fire! OUCH! Call the fire brigade!... Susie - the cream, I need the cream ... But I'm here ... Thank you, God. I'm all right. I survived, I won ... I WON!

  After some time, a more composed voice says,

  "Nine. Thank you, Miss." Thank you for whacking me half to death, you sadistic old boot.

  "Very well, Thomas, you may get up." Miss Bainbridge's voice is kinder now. She walks over to replace the strap. Rachel pulls her knickers up, easing them as carefully as she can over the blazing, wealed bottom, and reaches for her skirt. Miss Bainbridge comes back to stand behind her as the girl dresses herself, shaking now with adrenaline rather than fear.

  "So, Thomas, let me hear no more about escapades in the attic. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Miss." Hm. Just got to be really careful not to get caught, 'cause I definitely want to have a look at that book.

  "Right, run along then," says the mistress, satisfied she has done her best, but not convinced anything's been learnt except for just how deeply red and purple a bottom will turn under nine hard whacks of a heavy strap - and that she has seen before, many's the time. She sighs and watches the young minx walk awkwardly, wincing, to the door and out and away back to whatever nonsenses these youngsters have in their heads these days.

  For Rachel, it's the best moment, it's elation time. Freedom surges through her - the pain is not just a badge of honour but, bless me for my strangeness, a thrill, a lovely throbbing glow that will remind her, each time it flares up in the coming hours, that she's alive and brave and strong and ... coming back for more.

  29. Gathering Storms

  "Bloody 'eck," muttered Tom Arnold as he paused for breath at the top of the stairs. "Seven soddin' days a week! Don't know why I bother!"

  But he did know. He'd started at Cropton Hall as a lad forty-one years earlier under old Mr Beasley who'd taught him everything he knew - carpentry, plumbing, painting and decorating, a bit of electricals. Jack of all trades he was, master of his domain and he loved it, Sundays and all. And he thoroughly approved of the new Head too - "A bloody marvel," he'd tell the missus any chance he got. "And she's got authority," he'd go on, "not like that Weekes woman - couldn't tell 'er arse from 'er elbow, that one." Truth to tell, he was perhaps a little bit in love with Verily Markham. He'd been as happy as a sandboy when he saw the look of wonder and delight on her face that evening he brought her the old cane he'd found up here. "Dead chuffed she was," he'd told Mrs Arnold, "like she was meetin' an old friend or summat."

  He lugged his tool box along the attic landing and plonked it down outside the door to the old store room. Miss Bainbridge had said one of the girls had been poking her nose in there (and was due a good leathering for it too), so he went in to have a quick look around. Everything seemed in order: the boxes hadn't been disturbed; there was just a pillow on the floor, which he picked up and replaced. And then he noticed the book. Someone had left it among the old pillows on the sofa - that girl probably.

  He picked it up and weighed it in his hands. Strange, he thought - it seemed quite new; nothing up here was new. He opened it and flicked through to the title page: The Girls of Cropton Hall he read. Very odd - he'd browsed through these shelves once or twice and he could have sworn this one hadn't been there. by Sir Stanlegh Meeth - bloody ponces with their fancy spellings, he thought. What was wrong with good old Stanley? He'd had an uncle Stan, salt of the earth he'd been, before he'd got taken in the Great War. He grunted in disgust at the highfalutin name, but took the book and put it by his tool box. Miss Markham might be interested in that, he thought, and his mind wandered to her study and how charmingly she'd smile at him when he presented her with it. "Found this, Ma'am, in't same room as that
old cane up in t'west wing," he'd say.

  After a quick inspection, he found that the hinges of the door had come away from the frame slightly - a couple of new screws and the door shut nicely. He locked it, picked up his tool box and the book and set off for a cup of well-earned tea.

  ---oOo---

  "Hey, Bennett!" called Jane Wilkinson from the door of the Sixth Form common room. "Apparently Thomas says could you come and see her in the Art room?"

  Julia looked up from The British in India and frowned. "The Art room?" she asked. "What's she doing there?"

  But Jane had disappeared. Julia hauled herself up from her armchair, sighed, put her book down on the seat and headed for the door.

  The door to the Art room was perhaps the only one in the entire building whose handle was black: it was a round black knob of indeterminate age and a bit loose. When Julia arrived, the door was shut and the moment she grabbed the door knob to turn and push she felt something sticky and wet on her hand. She pulled it back in dismay to see her palm smeared with black. She smelled it - paint.

  "What the hell?" she exclaimed. She stared at her palm in annoyance and pushed the door open with her other hand. For the next five minutes she searched high and low for some turps to wash it off but there just wasn't any anywhere. That was really odd. There'd always been turps when she'd done Art. Eventually she gave up, went over to the butler's sink, turned the tap on, grabbed a bar of green soap and did her best to clean her right hand. The paint got on the soap for a while too, but in the end with a lot of scrubbing she managed to sluice it away and reduce it all to a dark stain on her fingers and palm and hardly a trace on the soap.

  "Tsk!" she muttered. Having dried her hands and decided the stains would disappear in a day or two she left and headed off in search of Rachel.

  The moment she was out of sight, Shirley Barton and Helen Patterson emerged from the room across the corridor, checked the coast was clear and stepped quickly over to the door of the Art room. Careful to avoid the sticky doorknob, they pushed it open and went inside. Shirley walked over to a cupboard in the far corner, knelt and reached with her left arm into the gap between the cupboard and the wall.

  "Here, give me a hand," she said, pulling out a bottle of turpentine which she handed to Helen. She produced three more, which Helen took and replaced on the shelf where they'd found them.

  "Quick, find a rag," said Shirley, holding the last bottle she'd extracted and walking quickly over to the door. Helen looked around and saw one sitting on the edge of an easel.

  "Here," she said, chucking it towards Shirley. It fell short. Shirley tutted, reached down and picked it up. She had the turps open already. She soaked a portion of the rag and carefully started to clean the paint off the doorknob. Helen stood by, watching, her hands playing nervously at her front.

  "Gosh!" she said. "Do you think it'll work?"

  Shirley ignored her and continued wiping the knob with different parts of the rag, occasionally adding more turps. Eventually she said,

  "Well, it will if we can get those where they need to be," she said, indicating the brown paper bag tucked away out of sight on the floor in the corner near the door.

  "Oh yes ... tonight you said?"

  "Yes," said Shirley, "tonight."

  "And then ..." asked Helen, expectantly.

  "And then," said Shirley, "we'll stand back and watch the drama unfold."

  ---oOo---

  Julia burst into Dorm C in high dudgeon. "Rachel Thomas!" she exclaimed. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

  Rachel was lying on her front on her bed, her bare bottom red, swollen and shining slightly in the afternoon light. Susie was sitting on Alice's bed, just screwing the lid back on the pot of Pond's cold cream she'd been using to cool Rachel's scorched cheeks.

  "Oh!" said Julia, brought up short as she arrived at Rachel's bed and looked down at the results of the younger girl's latest brush with authority. "Who gave you the strap then?"

  Rachel, who'd drifted into a pleasant daze before Julia's interruption, turned and raised herself up on an elbow. "Bainbridge," she said.

  "What for?" asked Julia.

  "We were up in that attic room I told you about - Susie and I, yesterday. Very Waring caught us - well, me actually. Susie had a lucky escape." They both grinned and Julia sighed.

  "How many?" she asked.

  "Nine - and really hard, too."

  "Looks like it. Bainbridge can be pretty fierce. You poor thing."

  "Oh, she's all right," said Susan, grinning. "Don't worry about her."

  "Susieeee!" said Rachel, aiming a playful blow at Susan's knees. "She made me count them, too, AND thank her, stupid old bat."

  "Yes, she did that with me once, my first year," said Julia. "I've never been so grateful in my life ... I DON'T think!" They all laughed. "Anyway," she continued, "what the hell do you think you were doing making me get paint on my hands?"

  "What?" asked Rachel, uncomprehending. "What are you talking about?"

  "Wilkinson came and said you wanted to see me in the Art room, so I..."

  "What? I never said that! When was this?" asked Rachel indignantly.

  "About twenty minutes ago."

  "Julia, twenty minutes ago I was bending over in the changing room, groaning, 'Five, thank you, Miss' while I got my bum blistered by Bainbridge thank you very much. Bloody cheek!"

  "Oh! Right, I see." Julia thought for a moment. "Sounds like we need to have a word with young Wilkinson," she said menacingly.

  "Oh! Was it Jane?" asked Rachel. "I thought you meant Mary."

  "No, it was that little fourth-former. Look at this!" Julia held out her right palm with its black stains.

  "What happened?" asked Susan.

  "There was paint on the doorknob. When I went to open it I got it all over my hand. And there wasn't any turps anywhere in the Art room to clean it off," said Julia. "I had to use soap."

  "How strange!" said Susan, turning to Rachel. "Who'd put paint on a doorknob for heaven's sake?"

  Rachel shrugged. "Dunno," she said. "But it sounds fishy to me. Listen, Julia, I'll talk to Jane - she likes me. She nearly joined SWACK, might still. I'll see what this is about. I bet someone put her up to it. She wouldn't play a trick like that on you."

  "All right. Thanks. But let me know, will you? It wasn't funny."

  "Will do," said Rachel. She turned back on to her front and folded her hands under her chin. "More cream, please, Miss French," she said.

  "Certainly, Miss Thomas," said Susie, unscrewing the top of the Pond's again.

  "I'll leave you two to it, then," said Julia, grinning. "Watch where you put those fingers, Susan!"

  "Tsk! As if ..." Susie said, hiding her twinkle under a frown as she dipped her fingers into the pot once more.

  ---oOo---

  "It's a strange choice of hotel," observed Verily, looking around the dining-room. The walls were adorned with a variety of prints and watercolours depicting magpies - nothing but magpies. It was a small, family hotel and the dining-room itself only accommodated five small tables. She and Sir Wilfred were the only occupants so far this Sunday evening. They each had a glass of sherry and were awaiting their food.

  "Isn't it?" replied the Chair of Governors. "In fact, just about everything about this chap is distinctly odd. I hate mystery, wish the blighter would just come right out and tell us what's going on. Still, he's paying and, well, you know how strapped we are, and if... "

  "Yes," said Verily, "indeed. Beggars can't be choosers." She inspected the likeness of a magpie embroidered into the corner of her napkin. "Do you think he may be intending to invest?"

  "I've really no idea. But he did say nobody has the interests of the school closer to their heart than he does, so, I mean, what else can it be about?"

  Verily was silent.

  "What time are we due to meet tomorrow?" she asked.

  "At ten apparently."

  They sat in silence again, both rather subdued. Eventua
lly, Verily cleared her throat.

  "Sir Wilfred ..." she began.

  "Verily," he responded, meeting her gaze as he sipped his sherry.

  "I just want to say ... if ... if anything untoward should happen as a result of tomorrow ... I mean, if this Sir Stanlegh Meeth has other plans, not investment ... something ... different somehow, then I want you to know that I will always be grateful to you, and Lady Althorp, for the opportunity you've given me..."

  "Verily, what are you saying? Shush woman, for heaven's sake!" Sir Wilfred appeared quite upset. "Please, can we keep this in proportion?! What can this chap actually do? And you, my dear, are the best thing to happen to Cropton Hall in a long, long time. Let us not become down-hearted. I'm sure it will all turn out to be fine." He looked at her earnestly, calmer now, but with pleading in his eyes. "You know," he continued, "the school means everything to Laetitia and I - we never had children, I sold my business years ago, and, well, Cropton Hall is rather like ... family for us."

  "Yes, Sir Wilfred," said Verily quietly, "There are many of us who feel that way."

  "And Laetitia ... well, she's almost obsessed with the place and her memories of her years there and ... and ... certain disciplinary aspects ... I'm sure you've noticed ..."

  "Yes, quite so," said Verily, tactfully looking down as she took a sip of sherry. "And it is an aspect," she went on, "that tends to linger in the mind for we ... former pupils, Sir Wilfred."

  The waitress appeared with two bowls of soup and side plates with bread rolls. They unfolded their napkins. Sir Wilfred asked after the bottle of red wine he'd ordered while Verily tentatively dipped her round spoon into the far side of her bowl and brought it to her lips. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a tall man in a charcoal grey suit pass in the hallway and for no apparent reason she felt a tingle of electricity in the middle of her forehead. She rubbed it with her left index finger. And then a thought emerged with great clarity into her consciousness: no matter what comes our way or what we do - the joys or sorrows, regrets or accomplishments - we are servants of a higher power in life, a power whose presence we can only ever sense obliquely.