by Pet Jeffery
The train was the loudest and most rattlesome of my fourteen years' experience. Rather than an open-plan carriage, like those in which I'd previously travelled, the coach was divided into separate compartments connected by a corridor.
My compartment was mostly occupied by schoolgirls dressed, like me, in an old-fashioned and drab grey uniform. The clothing included a gymslip: a garment which, I would have thought, had passed into history before I was born. To my surprise, the gymslip was physically comfortable, but it had made me feel acutely self-conscious before my mother had deposited me in the King's Cross station concourse: hurling me into a maelstrom of Abercrombie girls.
Now, aboard the train, I was one of half a dozen pupils in the compartment: all of us, I judged, about fourteen years old. We were overseen by one of the teachers, who had introduced herself as Miss Crabbe. The name seemed apt; I'd seldom seen a crabbier-looking individual. She was probably still in her twenties, but her dowdy outfit and sour facial expression gave her the air of a woman two or three times as old.
The rattling and squeaking of the carriage did not permit me to hear much of my companions' conversation. The snatches that I caught mostly concerned the girls' summer activities. More than one of the teenagers, I gathered, owned a pony. They were not my sort of people. Really, I was very ordinary. If it weren't for my parents winning the National Lottery, I'd have remained in my unremarkable suburban comprehensive school. When Mum and Dad decided to move to Spain on their winnings, I'd expected to join them. But, no, my mother insisted that I should complete my education. That meant a boarding school, but did it need to be one in the Scottish Highlands, or one with such a ghastly uniform? My protests had been in vain and, eventually, I accepted my fate; there wasn't much choice.
Dad had left for Spain weeks ago. After dumping me at King's Cross, Mum was off to join him, via Luton Airport.
I was deep in my own thoughts, feeling sorry for myself. Dad would be sunning himself on the Costa Brava, and Mum would soon join him. I was off to spend the coldest part of the year in Scotland; I was dressed in the most hideous garments I'd ever worn. What is more, I would be obliged to hobnob with rich kids with whom I had nothing in common. Little did I suspect that a greater woe would soon prey upon my mind.
Loud noises from the next compartment jerked me from my reverie. Girlish voices yelled; thuds reverberated.
"What the...?" Miss Crabbe said.
The girls in my compartment had fallen silent. The racket from next-door increased in volume; a fresh squeaking sound suggested that someone was compressing and releasing rusty springs. Miss Crabbe took her handbag and rose from her seat; the expression on her face threatened trouble. Unwelcoming as the teacher appeared, the faces of my fellow-pupils disturbed me more. They seemed to be in the grip of a strong emotion, but I couldn't decide whether they were angry, fearful, or eagerly expectant. Perhaps it was a combination of more than one of these. Rather than remain with the girls who might be my classmates, I followed Miss Crabbe into the corridor.
The cause of the rumpus became clear almost immediately. Through the window of the next compartment, girls of about my age were visible: engaged in battle, swinging laden school satchels at one another. Two of them stood on the seats: the source of the squeaking. The remaining half dozen skirmished from the compartment floor.
"Cease!" Miss Crabbe roared. Immediately, the girls froze. After a brief pause, those standing on the seats stepped down. "You are supposed to be Abercrombie young ladies, not hooligans. Fortunately, I have Miss Whacks with me."
I thought that she'd pronounced my surname, Wicks, with a broad Scottish accent; I wondered what she expected me to do. A moment later, my focus rested firmly upon what she intended to do. Miss Crabbe opened her handbag and removed a strip of stout leather about nine or ten inches long, and split into two for half of its length. I had never before seen such a thing and was, as yet, unaware of its purpose, but the sight filled me with foreboding.
"Very well," Miss Crabbe said, "which of you will be first?"
A white-faced girl raised her hand and responded. "I will, Miss. Better to have it done with."
"Very well, Mary Turnbull. I'm sure you know, by now, how this goes."
"Yes, Miss."
The girl turned her back to Miss Crabbe which, for an instant, struck me as rude. Then, she lifted the hem of her gymslip, tucking it into the red cloth belt that encircled her waist. At this point, I became aware that the girls from my compartment were at my shoulder, jostling to see the action. We watched as the miscreant lowered her underwear, baring her bottom. She bent over, legs straight, touching her toes. The teacher lifted her strip of leather to her shoulder and brought it down on the girl's bottom with considerable force. A loud crack sounded; the girl yelled. Owing, no doubt, to the split in the leather, two distinct livid lines appeared on the unfortunate girl's buttocks. The marks soon flushed an angry red.
I was deeply shocked. Dad had recounted to me how he'd been whacked in his schooldays. But, surely, such treatment had been outlawed by Parliament years ago. Furthermore, I had the strong idea that, even in the days when teachers walloped children, such treatment had been reserved for boys. To make matters worse, the girl subjected to this undignified and doubtlessly painful punishment appeared to be about my age, which is to say fourteen: no longer a child, but on the cusp of adulthood.
"How many shall I give each of you?" Miss Crabbe asked, presumably talking to herself. "Two? Three? Four? Let us take the moderate course and make it three. That's unless any of you girls have an objection."
"If we did, Miss," a dark-haired girl replied, "you'd make it at least four."
"Indeed, Lucia Garcia. You should know by now. How many times have I given you the belt?"
"This will be the twelfth time, Miss."
"Your hot Spanish blood needs keeping in check. I think that, after all, I will give each of you four. I can't award Miss Garcia fewer than that and, in fairness, I must treat you all alike."
"Yes, Miss," the girls chorused without enthusiasm.
"So, three more to come, Miss Turnbull."
Miss Crabbe lifted her leather strip for a second time, and cracked it upon Mary's buttocks more loudly than before. The girl shrieked. She now had two lines on each cheek: the fresh marks white, flushing to red.
At this, I would have crept away, returned to my own compartment, but the press of girls to either side, and at my back, prevented my retreat. So, I remained at the window watching and listening to the punishment. I would have liked to close my eyes or avert my gaze but, as though hypnotised, I was unable to look away. In any case, there was no way in which I could have shut my ears to the chastisement. After the first few, I ceased to count the whacks, but there were eight girls, which I calculate as thirty-two strokes between them. None of the teenagers offered any objection to baring their bottoms and bending over. This was clearly a well-established and accepted procedure.
With a shudder, it occurred to me that I might, during the coming months, be treated in the same way.
Perhaps seeking a crumb of comfort, I whispered to one of the girls at my shoulder. "This is illegal!"
"Illegal?" she asked. "What's illegal?"
"I'm sure there's a law against teachers hitting pupils."
"Oh that!" She laughed unpleasantly before continuing. "Only in oiks' schools."
"I don't suppose," another girl said, "that Parliament cares whether oiks are educated or not."
"Who would care?" a third girl asked.
While each of the punished girls accepted her treatment without demur, some of them took it more stoically than others. Most of them remained motionless as they were whacked, but a couple jumped at every impact. None of them remained silent, but some howled, whilst others whimpered. I wondered how I would react in like circumstances. Perhaps I'd discover in due course. A cold shiver ran down my spine, as this possibility suddenly seemed terrifyingly real.
No, I told myself. I would never behave as badly as the yelling girls who had battled one another with satchels. In any case, I would phone my parents as soon as possible. Once I'd reported the incident on the train, Mum and Dad would surely hurry to withdraw me from the Abercrombie Ladies' Academy. Most likely, I'd relax on a southbound train tomorrow, if not tonight.
Just as I reached this reassuring conclusion, Miss Crabbe returned the leather strap to her handbag and turned to depart. As she beheld the throng of watching girls in the corridor, her face registered anger.
"Whatever are you girls about?" she asked. "A punishment is not a public entertainment. I give you the choice: return to your own compartments at once, or bare your bottoms for the belt."
The girls about me departed in haste. To judge from their faces, the threat was real. Having been surrounded by the others, I was perforce the last to depart.
"Melanie Wicks, isn't it?" Miss Crabbe asked, her eye meeting mine.
"Yes, Miss. I didn't mean to..."
"That, Melanie Wicks, sounded like a prelude to an excuse for something or other. You will need to learn that, at Abercrombie, we don't make excuses. I believe that you were formerly a pupil at a state school."
"Yes, Miss."
"You won't be used to corporal punishment, then. It was abolished in state schools nine years ago; about the time you started at primary school, I imagine."
"Yes, Miss, I suppose so. I'm fourteen now."
"Indeed. I make it my business to know all of the girls."
"Every girl on this train, Miss?"
"Every girl in the school, Miss Wicks. Now, return to our compartment."
As I resumed my seat, I contemplated both what Miss Crabbe had done, and what she had said. Never before had I witnessed such violence. Yet the teacher claimed to know every girl in the school, and I believed her. By contrast, in my former comprehensive, staff allowed most pupil misdemeanours to pass unchecked, while few of the teachers knew my name. At school, I had often felt more like a set of statistics than a person. The staff appeared to take little note of pupils unless they were in the brightest five percent, or in a similar proportion of ill-behaved youngsters; I belonged in neither group.
I wasn't sure whether I liked the idea of the teachers knowing who I was. There's some practical advantage in not being recognised. While I've never been a really bad girl, neither am I an angel. If someone in authority saw me misbehaving at the comprehensive, consequences were unlikely to follow. This consideration was doubly important if the consequences might take the form of whacking my bottom, rather than telling me off or, at worst, detention.
In any case, I assured myself again, once I'd phoned my parents, I wouldn't remain in the school for very long. Evidently, I harboured at least slight doubts as to Mum and Dad's goodwill; for the first time, the idea of absconding entered my head. I fetched my satchel down from the luggage rack and rummaged inside. After a short delay - while I shifted aside my sponge bag, a nightdress, a magazine and several documents - I examined the contents of my purse. The results were not encouraging.
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