by Stanlegh Meresith
Her father unbuckled his belt. "Lucinda, I'm shocked by what you have done."
"Daddy, I'm sorry," she whined, eyeing the supple leather as it slid through the loops of his trousers to dangle loose in his left hand. He folded it double and ordered her over the end of her bed.
"I refuse to believe my daughter's a thief," he said, flipping her nightdress onto her back, "and I expect this hiding to settle the matter."
"Yes, Daddy," she squeaked, wincing in anticipation as she leaned on her elbows.
The belt slapped into her soft flesh with a resounding smack, jolting her forward. She gasped.
Gosh, how it stung!
He struck her again, and she grimaced at the sharp pain. Though her bottom smarted and burned, she didn't cry out or beg him to stop. Embarrassed and ashamed by her foolish misdeed, she almost welcomed each lick of his belt, knowing she deserved whatever he dealt her. She wanted only to win back his love by being as good as she could.
The leather smacked every inch of her writhing bottom until she could contain herself no longer.
"OUCH! Ow!" she cried, when the burning sting became intolerable.
Then he stopped, and she heard a sigh.
Rising slowly, clutching her scorched cheeks with grateful hands, she noticed a feeling, strange and exciting, swelling deep in her belly. It was warm and melty, and she was very surprised.
She turned to her father, expecting that look of exasperated affection that signalled his forgiveness, and, for a moment, it was there. But then, just as she was wondering about the delicious, tingling warmth between her legs, his expression changed. His eyes widened, clouding with doubt and suspicion. Then he frowned.
"Daddy?"
Averting his eyes, he turned away without comment.
Ashamed and confused, she cried herself to sleep that night.
Sunday March 2nd 1969
Pink-cheeked from a bracing walk round the grounds, Headmistress Dorothy Hurst, M.A. Cantab, stood before the imposing entrance to the school she'd run for the past ten years and gazed up at the motto engraved upon the Portland stone architrave: Nova Caeli, Libros et Ferula.
Fresh air, books and the rod: a fitting summary, she reflected once again, of the traditional Greystones education which she and her colleagues continued to provide with unwavering resolve, despite the tumultuous times. Whilst the school's verdant setting beneath the Sussex Downs did indeed ensure plentiful fresh air, and its academic rigour (and extensive library) engendered articulate, well-read girls, it was undoubtedly the rod to which Miss Hurst ascribed the greater part of their success.
Strap, slipper, hairbrush and sundry other implements were, of course, also applied when necessary to the backsides of the wayward deserving, but it was the cane, reserved solely for her own use as a last and frightening resort, which held sway. She derived a particular pleasure from knowing that she alone could lay claim to the time-honoured disciplinary tool of the strict pedagogue indicated by the word ferula.
She was interrupted in her self-satisfied musings by the opening of the large, oak front door and the appearance of Miss Latimer, the Mathematics teacher who'd joined them in January fresh from post-graduate studies.
"Good afternoon, Headmistress," called the young woman.
"Good afternoon. I trust you've enjoyed the half-term break?"
Marion Latimer approached, buttoning up her coat. "Yes, thank you, though I've spent most of it marking and preparing." Her breath clouded the cold afternoon air. "But I did manage a day out in Brighton, so... mustn't complain."
"No indeed." They faced each other, faintly awkward, having exchanged few words since the young woman's interview in December. Dorothy looked at her watch. "Well, the girls will be returning soon. I must get back to my desk. Don't forget the staff meeting at four."
"No, of course, Headmistress. See you then."
Envying her youth, Dorothy watched her colleague set off down the drive. With her fresh face and large brown eyes, Marion Latimer could easily be mistaken for one of the girls. She seemed to have settled in well, however, which was a relief. Not everyone did - the strict regime had proved too bracing for younger teachers excessively influenced by the cultural shifts of the decade now nearing its end, shifts of which Dorothy herself disapproved whole-heartedly.
The warmth of her study regained, she hung up her coat and seated herself behind her large mahogany desk. Contemplating the piles of paperwork, she decided to start with an inspection of the punishment records for the previous half term, contained in seven leather-bound ledgers (including her own): one belonging to Mrs Bullingham, the Senior Mistress who dealt with lateness and slacking, one for each of the four Housemistresses, and - most worn from frequent use - the staffroom ledger for other teachers.
Choosing her own first, she opened it to the start of the Spring term. There were columns for date, name, form, house, cane employed (junior or senior), reason for punishment and number of strokes. She ran her finger down the list, reminding herself, before turning the page and arriving at the most recent entries, recorded five days earlier:
25/02/69 - Meredith - U6th - Mary's - Senior - Broken window (throwing puck) - 4
26/02/69 - Babington - 5th - Anne's - Senior - Out of bounds in Brighton - 6
26/02/69 - Grant - 5th - Mary's - Senior - Ditto - 6
26/02/69 - Meacher - 5th - Anne's - Senior - Ditto - 6
She seldom resorted to the senior cane for fifth-formers, but these three had endangered both themselves and the school's reputation. As for Meredith, the girl was notoriously accident-prone - except of course on the hockey pitch, where she excelled for the first eleven.
Reviewing the list again, she noted the recurrence of Bennett's name. An incorrigible lower-sixth former, her visits to her study had been a regular feature for seven terms - some girls, it pained her to admit, seemed immune to the incentive of a well-thrashed bottom. The very worst cases were expelled, but Bennett wasn't inherently bad, in her view - just high-spirited.
She laid her ledger to one side, and took up Brenda Bullingham's. Dating back fifteen months, it was almost filled. All entries involved the strap, with numbers higher on Fridays (when she dealt with lack of effort) and Saturdays (lateness). Again, familiar names re-appeared, though it pleased her that very few were from the upper sixth: teenagers might be slow to learn, but learn they did, eventually. And, of course, they grew up.
Leafing through the Housemistresses' records, she noted without surprise that Gladys Charwell, Housemistress of Mary's, led the way in terms of frequency, the implement column showing either SHB or LHB (for the size of hairbrush employed). Margaret Atmore (Victoria House) came a close second, her preferred implements being slipper and paddle.
Dorothy was grateful for the staff she had: stout-hearted women all, dedicated to upholding the highest standards of behaviour as they moulded the characters of the girls entrusted to their care. The prefects, too, were a great help, the vigilance of this year's crop being especially supportive of her efforts to maintain proper order throughout the school.
Turning finally to the staffroom ledger, whose records for the first half term ran to five pages, she noted the usual stout performers. Prudence Waring, Geography teacher and hockey team coach, had employed her classroom strap no fewer than eighteen times, mostly on fourth and fifth-formers, as tended to be the case with the rest of her colleagues. Nor had Gladys Charwell been idle, supplementing her duties as Housemistress to deliver eighteen doses of her hairbrush to various recalcitrant or inattentive Biologists. While most staff had had recourse to their implements about eight to ten times, there were three colleagues who hadn't at all. One of these was Marion Latimer. There'd been no reports of undue noise in her lessons, and she may, of course, have referred girls to Brenda, but still, it was wise to avail oneself of every weapon in one's armoury in the pursuit of academic excellence. Dorothy decided she'd have a word with the young woman.
The other two names conspicuously absent from the staffroom ledger were those of Emily Stokes and Angelica Flowers, teachers of English and Art respectively, but Dorothy was confident that their lenience did not extend to putting up with any nonsense, and besides, the girls respected them with good reason - they were excellent teachers.
Setting the ledgers aside, she set about answering enquiries from parents of prospective pupils, a chore which occupied her until five to four when Brenda Bullingham appeared to accompany her to the scheduled meeting.
Overlooking the gravelled forecourt at the front of the building, the spacious Greystones staffroom bore witness to the busy lives of its inhabitants. In the middle of the room stood a phalanx of five sturdy tables, strewn with papers and piles of exercise books, accompanied by upright chairs.
Above rows of pigeon holes and various notice-boards, the walls were decorated with pictures of past Headmistresses, certificates for awards the school had won, and a large portrait of the Queen wearing an enigmatic smile worthy of the Mona Lisa. A dozen well-worn armchairs provided comfortable seating.
Opposite the door stood a sideboard bearing a large tea urn and the accompanying paraphernalia of cups, saucers and spoons, around which several colleagues were gathered when Dorothy arrived. Spying Marion Latimer alone at the far end of the room, she decided this was as good a moment as any for that little chat.
"Miss Latimer, I've been perusing the punishment book for the first half term, and I couldn't help noticing that your name doesn't appear."
Marion looked down, hiding a blush.
Softening her tone, Dorothy asked, "Do you have a suitable implement? I assume Mrs Bullingham provided-"
"Oh yes, Headmistress! She did. She gave me a small leather... paddle, I think it's called. She said I'd find it easy to, er... aim with."
"Good." Dorothy nodded approvingly. "So...?"
"To be honest, Headmistress, I've been hesitant to... to..."
"Apply it?"
"Yes. It's not that some of the girls haven't perhaps deserved to be punished sometimes, but..."
"Have you referred any of them to Mrs Bullingham?"
"Yes," said Marion eagerly. "I did actually. A girl called Saunders. She hadn't done the work I'd set, for the second week running."
"Good," said Dorothy. "Look, I know it's not easy at first. It can seem like cruelty, can't it? But you must remember that we are cruel to be kind, Miss Latimer."
"Yes, of course, Headmistress."
"Perhaps you just need to break the ice?"
Marion nodded. "Yes, I'm sure that's all it is. I'm sorry. I... I don't mean to let the side down."
Dorothy gave her an affectionate smile. "No-one is suggesting that you have, Miss Latimer. I'm sure you'll get the hang of things soon enough."
"Thank you, Headmistress."
Dorothy turned away, relieved that her probings hadn't revealed in the young teacher any misplaced notions of the rights of school-children. Miss Latimer, she decided, would be fine.
"Shall we gather?" she called happily, seating herself at the head of the table.
Once the meeting got under way, however, and the usual items of logistics and procedures had been dealt with, she was brought up short by stirrings of discontent from familiar quarters.
It was Miss De Vere who raised the matter. A flamboyant woman in her mid-forties, Lillian De Vere had the charisma and eloquence typical of a confident teacher of Drama. She also had a way of intimidating Dorothy without particularly seeming to. Earlier that year, after the expulsion of a girl named Daubeny for engaging in associations of an excessively romantic nature with other girls, Lillian had informed Dorothy that she and Miss Flowers were themselves romantically linked, as were Miss Waring and Miss Stokes, and that, in the spirit of openness sweeping the nation, they were no longer willing to hide the fact.
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