by Victor Bruno
I heard two glasses being filled. There was an incessant quivering in my burning buttock cheeks. A quivering of pain and dread. Doubtless George Faraday found that a pleasing spectacle. “Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
I, suffering unbelievably, might as well not have been in the room. “Like to help me with the caning, George? I’m feeling a bit done in.”
“Sure ... if you like. But rest a while. It will do the girl no harm to wait. She’s got plenty to think about.”
“True enough.” There was a pause. I was sobbing weakly. “Do they give them plenty of stick in those Reform Schools, George?” asked Dad.
“Plenty,” came the reply. “At Staverton, where I hope to arrange for her to go, they birch them.” “Do they indeed! Well, she won’t like that!”
“It will make her mend her ways, though.” “I sincerely hope so.”
If only I could have died there and then. There was not only the immediate future to contemplate but a more distant one as well. My mind seemed to be boiling over with horror. With terror.
My knickers had become a soggy ball. It made it easier to spit them out. Through my tears I saw them fall to the floor.
“D-Dad ... D-D-Dad ... oooh ... p-please don’t c-cane me ... don’t D-DON’T ... not now ... later but n- not now ... oooooohhhhh .... plleeeeeaaasse!” I choked out.
“Bottom’s feeling a bit tender is it, my girl? Don’t like the thought of getting the cane over it, eh?” said Dad. He was still a bit breathless.
“Dad ... please .... pleeeeeeaaase ... DON’T ... I couldn’t bear it! I’d rather die!” I cried out. “I expect you would. But you’re going to get it all the same.”
“And you deserve it,” I heard George Faraday say. Oh God how I hated that man! It was he who had guessed I would make for Brighton and had come to identify me in the Police Station. Oh how he was enjoying himself! You could hear it in his voice.
“Stuff those knickers back, please, George. And tie this scarf over the lower part of her face,” said
Dad.
George Faraday was only too happy to oblige. I only just resisted the temptation to bite his hand as he gagged me even more securely. My whimpering snorts resumed.
“Would you like to give her the first dozen, George?” asked Dad. I began to toss my head in a frenzy of disbelief. They couldn’t do this to me ... THEY COULDN’T!
“If you like,” said the Sergeant blandly. I sensed the bastard could hardly wait to use that cane. I heard him pick it up and give it a couple of experimental swishes. The sound froze my blood. Then the tip of the cane lightly tapped my tenderised bottom. “This is going to hurt, Joan,” he said thickly. “It’s meant to ...”
Sssswwweeee .... eeeepppttttttttt!
The pain was unbelievable. Mind-bending. Of course, I had been caned often enough before but never over flesh that was so burningly tender. My scream was choked on my gag and ended up as a fierce whinnying snorts down my nostrils. I couldn’t bear it! I couldn’t!
All the same, I got it. Ssswwweee ... eeepppttttttttt!
The first stroke had fallen at the top of my buttocks; the second one was about an inch lower. I screamed in my brain ... a brain which seemed to be ablaze. Burning like the freshly-raised weal that had just sprung up.
I had to escape. Somehow I had to break my bonds. Like a mad thing I tugged on the cords. I had to escape. Useless! There was no escaped.
Ssswwweee ... eeeppptttttttt!
A flash of lightning seemed to illuminate my brain. I felt my bottom writhing uncontrollably in torment. Why couldn’t I die? Or even merely faint? The pain was unbearable.
Ssswweee ... eeepppptttttttt!
The first three strokes had fallen from the right, now the fourth came from the left. As did the fifth and sixth. Thus it was my right flank that now felt the Excruciating bite of the tip of the rod.
I thought I must go mad. That my brain would burst, the pain was beyond all bearing. Seven!
Eight! Nine!
Those three strokes falling from the right again. Inch by inch the weals were marching down my tormented bottom ... each new ridged stripe seeming to pulsate.
Ten! Eleven! Twelve!
Now the strokes fell from the left again. Agony upon agony. There was a roaring in my head. My vocal cords were cracking. I was screaming like a maniac into my gag.
It had stopped, but the pulsating weals remained.
This was inhuman devilry. No one could deserve what I was receiving.
“Thank you, George ... you did a good job ...” That was Dad. If I had been free, I know I would have tried to kill him, whatever the consequences.
“Yes,” said George Faraday complacently, “I think she felt those, well and truly. Certainly made her backside squirm good and proper. Like to take over?”
I went into another frenzy, tugging wildly on my bonds. This could not go on. Could not! My nates were contracting and juddering like clenching fists.
Tap ... tap ... tap ... went the tip of the cane.
“There’s some smelling salts on the mantelpiece,” said Dad, “I think we will soon be needing them.” “Rightie-ho. I’ll stand by ...”
Then Dad resumed the caning. One full-blooded stroke after another. It was totally impossible to endure such awful pain. After four or maybe five strokes I fainted clean away.
It was but a temporary benison. With the smelling salts held close under my nostrils, I was soon choking back to hideous sensibility. Full sensibility. With the whole of my bottom a flaming furnace. Yes ... it really did feel as if a fire had been lit upon it.
Relentlessly, the cane began to whiplash down again. Contorting me. It felt as if my eyeballs were starting from my head. I howled like a banshee into my gag. Frankly, I was becoming near demented.
Stroke followed merciless stroke until twelve was reached. At which point I fainted a second time. The next thing I can vaguely recall is being carried up to bed by the two of them, one holding my wrists, the other my ankles. Like a sack, I was tossed on to my bed and left, racked in unbelievable pain. The door slammed and was locked.
Presumably, they had decided I had had enough for the time being.
***
THREE WEEKS LATER, JOAN REEVE IS TRIED AND CONVICTED ON ALL THREE CHARGES LEVELLED AGAINST HER. SHE IS SENTENCED TO SERVE ONE YEAR IN STAVERTON REFORM SCHOOL. WHILST CONFINED IN STAVERTON, IT WAS NOT POSSIBLE FOR JOAN REEVE TO CONTINUE HER DIARY. HOWEVER, WHEN RELEASED AND SENT BACK HOME, SHE WROTE AN ACCOUNT OF HER APPALLING EXPERIENCES.
JOAN WAS SENTENCED FOR THEFT, SOLICITING FOR THE PURPOSES OF PROSTITUTION AND GIVING FALSE INFORMATION TO THE POLICE.
***
During the weeks before my trial, Dad gave me a second severe thrashing. It took place on Friday night so that the odious Sergeant Faraday could be present. And assist.
As on the first occasion, having been secured over the back of an armchair, I was given a cruel leathering on my bare buttocks and thigh tops. Then, a little later, over this fiery, tenderised flesh, I was given a twenty four stroke caning. It is quite impossible to describe adequately how terrible was the pain and, like I had done before I fainted twice during the caning. Only to be quickly revived, of course, by Sergeant Faraday placing a bottle of smelling salts under my nostrils.
In due course, I came up before a grim-faced looking woman Magistrate, who was flanked by two officious middle-aged men. There was not many people in Court. Dad had not come.
Mr. Mason gave evidence about my stealing his Petty Cash. £32. 3s 9d was the sum total of my crime. It was strange seeing my former employer again. What a smarmy, respectable figure he made. And what a hypocrite he was! This was the same man who had put me over his knees, ripped off my knickers and smacked by bare bottom. The same man who had made me bare my breasts to him, then fondle
d them. If I had told them, I would never have been believed. Yet this Mr. Mason was simply a lecherous beast, all the same, and his evidence would be part of the reason I would be condemned.
A policeman I didn’t know gave evidence of my activities on Brighton beach. This was the most shaming part of all for me. There was no denying what I had done but to have it made public was totally humiliating. The Lady Magistrate assumed an expression which seemed to indicate there was a nasty smell under her nose.
Finally, that worthy pillar of the Law, Sergeant Faraday, gave evidence of my arrest and my giving false evidence to the Police. And that was that.
“Have you anything to say?” demanded the Magistrate in a steely voice. “N-No ... M-Ma’am ...” I squeaked back.
The three of them left the Court and were back within five minutes. The Magistrate cleared her throat.
“Joan Reeve,” she said, “you have been found guilty as charged, on all three counts.” A pause. My heart was hammering; I felt sick. This was it. “The sentence of this Court is that you serve one year in Staverton Reform School.” My heart stopped hammering and seemed to sink to my shoes. The worst had happened. “I was of a mind that you should serve eighteen months but my two colleagues persuaded me otherwise, partly on account of the fact that your previous character is unblemished and this is your first offence.” Another pause. “I am making a recommendation to the Governor of Staverton, in view of the abhorrent nature of your second offence, that on arrival at the School, you be birched.”
There was a loud gasp in the Court ... and then I realised it was myself who had caused it. I felt a freezing sensation deep inside me and began to shake violently. I thought I was going to faint.
“Take her away,” said the Lady Magistrate.
The burly arms of two women constables gripped me and I was hustled out of the dock to the cells below.
Thus began twelve months of unmitigated horror.
***
The following morning, I was driven to Staverton in a Black Maria. There were other convicted girls in the small cell-like compartments adjoining mine. I could hear someone weeping. On arrival we were unlocked and a harsh female voice ordered us out. A shivering half dozen stood in a ragged line, nervously looking around the courtyard. Staverton had been built in Victoria’s day out of hideous red brick.
“Move! Through that archway.” the warder pointed. She was a hard-faced middle-aged woman dressed in a grey uniform which had epaulettes and a black belt. She wore black boots. We stumbled off and were then ushered into a bleak room which contained just a table, behind which sat another warder. Here we were relieved of what few possessions we had before, bundled out again and along a corridor.
“Turn left ... through that door,” bellowed the warder.
We found ourselves in a stone room with channels and drains in the floor. Obviously a communal shower room.
“Strip!” came the command. We looked at each other, embarrassed. “And be quick about it!”
We stripped naked. All except one girl who, foolishly, tried to keep her knickers on. She got a stinging slap on her bottom, then had them ripped her. Followed up by a second stinging slap on her now bare bottom.
“You’ll soon learn to obey orders here,” said the warder. “And fast!”
We were given strong carbolic soap to clean ourselves with, then the shower came jetting down. First it was warm, then hot. Breasts bouncing, bottoms wobbling, all of us soaped furiously for several minutes. I was very conscious of the fact that my own behind would still be carrying some evidence of that terrible thrashing Dad had given me a week or two before.
Then, suddenly, the water changed from hot to freezing cold. There were gasping shrieks all around and two of the girls rushed out from under the shower. Instantly the warder took a cane from off a nearby shelf and briskly lashed it across the buttocks of both of them. “Get back! Get back!” she yelled. There were shrieks from both girls and one of them slipped and fell. That earned her another stinging stroke across her bottom. She forced herself up and staggered under the freezing water, hands clasping her buttocks.
The freezing water continued to descend for two or three more minutes. Teeth chattering, we shivered uncontrollably. It was a harsh introduction to life in the School. Deliberately so, of course. When the shower stopped we were taken, looking like drowned rats, to an adjoining stone room. There we were given rough towels to dry ourselves with, then we were issued with our prison wear. This consisted of a coarse, plain grey dress which fell to just below the knee, and a pair of black plimsolls. Nothing else. No brassiere, no knickers. Nothing. The rough material itched on the skin. The warder addressed us. “You are now going to be taken before the Governor,” she said. “you will show her the greatest respect and address her as ‘Ma’am’. After that you will be fed, then locked in your cells. Work begins tomorrow.”
It was a chilling message but not so chilling as the knowledge that I had been recommended for a birching.
The Governor was a bluff, matronly figure in middle age, named Mrs. Dampier. In other circumstances she could have appeared almost jovial. However, that exterior concealed an iron-hard inner core of pitiless disciplinary drive. She addressed us briefly, but to the point, from behind her heavy Victorian-style desk.
“This is a Reform School,” she said, “and you girls have been rightly sent here to be reformed. You will be, I assure you. You will work hard from morning to night. If you do not, you will be thrashed. Our policy is simple. Work and obey ... or suffer. Miss Wainwright ...” she indicated the warder, “... will allocate you to a work squad tomorrow.” A pause. The Governor picked up a paper from off her desk and my nerves tingled as if an electric charge were going through them. “Two of the new intake have been recommended for a birching,” she said. “I shall, of course, accept that recommendation.” My heart sank. I had hoped, just faintly, that the Magistrate’s advice might not be taken. “Step forward Norma Wright and Joan Reeve.” I stepped forward on rubbery limbs and found another girl alongside me. She looked quite young and had two blonde pigtails. I found the eyes of the Governor hard upon me. She did not look so jovial now. “Joan Reeve?”
“Yes ... M-Ma’am ...”
“You will receive twenty four strokes.” I quailed, recoiled even. What an inhuman punishment! After all I had suffered already.
“Norma Wright?” “Yes, Ma’am ...”
“You will receive twelve strokes. This is on account of your age which, I believe, is sixteen.” “Yes, Ma’am,” quavered the girl. Only sixteen. Poor thing. I wonder what she had done.
“These punishments will be administered at 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. As is the custom here, they will be administered in the Assembly Hall before the rest of the School. To serve as an example.”
I recoiled again and I heard the girl alongside me gasp. It was like getting a blow in the face. We were both to be publicly birched!
With my head reeling, we were marched out of that gloomy but well-furnished study along to a mess hall. It had trestle tables and benches and there was room for a hundred or so. At that time, however, there was only the new intake present. We were given thick slices of bread with margarine on them and a mug of cocoa.
Afterwards, we were taken down to the prison cells. Long stone-floored, echoing corridors of them. Iron doors, each with a spy-hole. The door was unlocked before me; I stumbled in. The door clanged loudly behind me.
In the cell was a bucket and a wooden plank bed with a single blanket. I fell down upon it and burst into uncontrollable tears.
***
At some time early in the morning there was the wild clanging of a bell in the cell. It was morning reveille ... a sound I was going to hear with dread every morning for a year. There followed the sound of cell doors being unlocked and opened, but mine remained closed. I lay there waiting and waiting, frozen with dr
ead inside. If I’d had the courage I might have committed suicide; but I hadn’t got the courage. It still seemed almost impossible that, soon, I was to be publicly flogged. It was like living in a perpetual nightmare.
Then, hours later, the door was opened and Miss Wainwright entered. Her features were grimly impassive. “Follow me,” she said. With limbs that felt as if they were made of rubber, I pushed myself off the wooden bed and walked after her.
At the end of a long corridor we came to a set of big double doors. Miss Wainwright opened them and I found myself entering a massive, high-roofed hall. Seated on trestle benches were rows and rows of girls, each garbed in a coarse grey dress. My fellow prisoners. Panic began to seep into me; I had an instinct to run. Wildly, anywhere. But dread paralysed me. I followed Miss Wainwright down the hall towards a kind of stage. Set on this stage was a framework made of rough timbers. With mounting horror I realised it was over this contrivance that I would soon be flogged. Standing by the framework was an iron bucket filled with water and in this stood two birches, the long corded handles projecting. I began to lose control of my mouth and tears trickled down my cheeks. Norma Wright was escorted in behind me. Glancing at her, I saw that she too was in tears. On stage behind the framework stood five upright armchairs. Complete silence had descended on the hall.
Then there was the sound of boots clumping on a wooden passageway. Four warders entered and seated themselves, leaving the centre chair free. Except for one, who was younger and quite pretty, they looked ugly and pitiless.
Silence.
Then a couple of minutes later, the sound of footsteps again. Mrs. Dampier, of course. I began to quake deep inside. She seated herself, and Norma Wright and I were led up on to the stage. I tried not to look at the framework or the birches in the iron bucket.
“Put up Norma Wright,” said the Governor. She is to receive twelve strokes.” Great heaving sobs burst from the girl as she was seized by Miss Wainwright and the other warder. Though she struggled, they handled her with the greatest ease.