by Lucy Appleby
June, 1868
"Silence! To your seats, girls." Miss Beatrice Underwood glared at the assembled throng, which in brief moments transformed itself from a melee of discordant voices and heels clattering on the stone-flagged floor, to comparative quiet and order.
Discipline prevailed in this establishment. The girls sat erect in dresses of coarse grey fabric and white pinafores. Each girl wore thick woollen stockings and ungainly stout shoes, fastened with brass buckles. All had their hair scraped firmly back from their temples, with not a single curl visible to soften the sobriety. Two rows of angular straw bonnets, their calico strings tied neatly in a bow under the chin, faced the all-seeing pebble eyes of the dour Miss Underwood.
Lessons commenced in the customary fashion. Miss Underwood paced the floor, a sombre figure in her swishy black taffeta skirts, her iron grey hair swept up into a top knot. She carried a heavy tawse and did not hesitate to use it most forcefully on the hands, thighs or buttocks of any girl who gave an incorrect answer. She was truly formidable, her gaunt pale face bereft of humour, her lips puckered in contempt when confronted with any semblance of stupidity. She was intolerant of unseemly behaviour and even the smallest lapse in concentration. Nor did the tiniest detail of personal appearance go unnoticed.
"Archer. You disagreeable, dirty girl! Your nails are filthy. Go and stand in the corner at once. Mr Underwood will deal with you."
Mary Archer blanched visibly, and walked reluctantly to the far corner of the room. Without further instruction she faced the wall, her hands clasped on the top of her head.
She was soon joined by another miscreant, Sarah MacDonald, guilty of the crime of gazing longingly out of the window instead of paying attention to the conjugation of French verbs. By the end of the afternoon, the far wall had the attentions of five wayward young ladies, all experiencing various degrees of fear, humiliation and a resigned acceptance of their fate.
When the five o'clock bell sounded, those girls fortunate enough not to be standing in the corner filed out of the room and made their way to the refectory for tea. The five remaining girls shuffled uneasily.
"Be still!" commanded Miss Underwood. "I am going to fetch Mr Underwood." She strode out of the room, leaving the five girls to wait nervously for the arrival of her brother, Mr William Underwood, a fine upstanding and moral pillar of society, and founder of Underwood Hall: Corrective Institution for Wayward Young Ladies.
His footsteps echoed ominously from the corridor. The girls began to fidget uneasily, their faces anxious. From previous experience, they knew what to expect, and it would not be pleasant. Mr Underwood entered the room, and closed the door behind him. He carried a heavy cane and stood for a moment in quiet contemplation, savouring the anticipation of administering well deserved punishment. It was his duty to instil both humility and fortitude to these wilful pupils. He took this duty very seriously.
"I have been informed of your behaviour this afternoon. You are a disgrace to the school and to your parents. It is time for some corrective discipline. You may move to the front of the room."
The five girls stood in line. They faced the large oak desk which was the focal point of the school room. Mr Underwood went to stand behind it. He regarded them impassively for a moment, his cold blue eyes narrowing as he scrutinised the reprobates before him. Although he was not a particularly tall man, he exuded authority and presence. He was not a man to be trifled with.
"Do not deign to accustom yourself to the indolent habits of inattentiveness and self-indulgence, for these only serve to obviate the virtuous principles of this institution which strives to render its occupants polite, self-denying, decent and obedient." He paused, and swished the cane through the air, smiling grimly at the task ahead of him.
"Archer. Assume the position. Six strokes."
Mary Archer gulped and approached the desk, leaning right across it and grasping the worn edge. Her face flushed as he strode behind her, lifted her dress and bared her bottom.
Without preamble, Mr Underwood brought the cane down on her upturned bottom. Mary's body jolted and her grip tightened on the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. She made no sound for the first and second strokes, but her stoicism failed at the third, which landed hard at the base of her right buttock. She squealed loudly and kicked her legs.
"Be still, girl, or you will receive extra."
Mary did her best to remain still, but howled and bawled for the remaining three strokes.
"Stand by the wall. Do not cover yourself," instructed Mr Underwood as the poor girl extricated herself from the desk and shuffled towards the wall. She held up her skirts so that her bottom was exposed to whoever cared to look at it. Six stripes adorned her milky white skin. Her classmates gazed in awe and dread, knowing it would soon be their turn.
Mr Underwood then doled out the same treatment to Sarah MacDonald and two of the other girls. They all received six of the best, and joined Mary Archer, their bottoms striped and sore.
"Beckett. This is the second time this week. Evidently you need a more stringent lesson. Twelve strokes for you. Get over the desk, girl."
Virginia Beckett gasped, her feeble resolve evaporating. She was still sore from her caning earlier in the week.
"But... but, Sir. I ..."
"Silence! You shall be disciplined until you learn appropriate behaviour as befits a young lady of your standing. You will count the strokes and thank me after each one. Proceed."
Virginia positioned herself over the hateful desk and grimaced as Mr Underwood bared her bottom.
Mr Underwood surveyed the ample rounded behind in front of him. He was particularly appreciative of the more fleshy bottoms. They afforded him additional satisfaction as the orbs jiggled and bounced beneath his ministrations. He was intimately familiar with every inch of the bottom before him. It belonged to such a defiant, ill mannered girl; a girl who needed firm and forceful correction. He began to give it.
Virginia gritted her teeth and grunted at the impact of the first six strokes of the cane. She had been on the receiving end so often that she had become almost inured to the pain - that hateful, delicious searing pain that she so loathed and loved. As another stroke bit into her flesh, she gasped and squirmed, fleetingly acknowledging to herself that her bad behaviour was intentional. It was as though she and Mr Underwood had some sort of unspoken understanding. She actually wanted him to cane her. And he, having her best interests at heart, did his utmost to mete out the required standard of correction.
"Seven. Thank you, Sir." Her bottom was throbbing horribly. It was wonderful. "Eight. Thank you, Sir." Oh, she was on fire. The strokes were becoming more forceful, and hardened as she was, her resilience was waning.
"Nine ... thank you...Sir." Tears spilled down her face. Her bottom hurt more than ever. Her legs were trembling now.
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