by Stanlegh Meresith
Silver lining: Thursday April 6th, 1979
Charlotte's father banged his fist on the table.
"I beg your pardon, young lady!" His eyes bulged. "First, you get yourself turned down for the sixth form at the Girls High after five years of trouble-making; then you're expelled from the crammer you begged us to send you to - for smoking cannabis, no less - and now... now you have the AUDACITY..." Flecks of spittle landed on the table, "...the bare-faced CHEEK to question our decision about Chesterton Court? How DARE you!"
Charlotte flinched. She couldn't remember seeing her father this angry.
"Now, Harold," said her mother, reaching a hand across the table. "You mustn't upset yourself. Remember what the doctor said."
"Oh, sod the doctor!" he exclaimed, already calmer. "Bloody quacks, what do they know?"
"And anyway, dear, Charlotte was only asking if there was any possible alternative. Weren't you, darling?"
Charlotte nodded.
"Well, there isn't," said her father, flatly. "It's either Chesterton Court, or you can forget about going to university all together. Go out and get a job instead, like I had to at your age. Chesterton's your last chance, Charlotte, and I mean that." He took a deep breath, his tone softening. "Anyway, I really don't see why you're so opposed to the place. They play cricket, which was something you said you wanted before you suddenly refused to go anywhere but the crammer. They have an excellent academic record, marvellous facilities. I just wish you could show a little gratitude sometimes. It's not cheap, this place, you know."
Charlotte sighed. She'd set her heart on studying English at Bristol University, partly because English was the only subject she really loved, but mainly because that's where Jack was studying. Get a job? No way! She needed those A-levels, and she needed good grades. But a boarding school for girls? And a 'traditional' one at that? She shivered with dread.
They'd been for an interview with the Headmistress two days earlier with a view to her joining at the start of the next term; the whole experience had been completely humiliating.
She'd sat between her parents facing Miss Swinburne across her expansive leather-topped desk, with a view of a walled garden through the window behind her. She spoke with an accent Charlie couldn't quite place and certainly didn't like.
"Well, Charlotte," she said, after her father had given a bluntly honest account of her recent school career, "I expect you're feeling rather ashamed of how badly you've let your parents down, aren't you?"
As it happened, Charlotte did feel guilty, but she didn't see what business it was of this smug-looking, middle-aged spinster with grey hair, a twangy accent and a large wart on her chin. She resented the question deeply and remained silent till her mother turned and gave her a look.
"Yes," she muttered, sullen-faced.
"There'll be none of that kind of behaviour here," said the Headmistress brusquely, her cold blue eyes fixed on Charlotte. "I can assure you of that."
Mr Preston grunted approvingly.
They discussed what parts of the curriculum Charlotte had already covered at her crammer, and, to Charlotte's dismay, it was soon decided the transfer to the same courses at Chesterton Court could be effected without difficulty, albeit with some extra work on her part in the intervening weeks.
It was then that her mother dropped the bombshell. "I understand you use corporal punishment here, Miss Swinburne?"
It took Charlotte a moment to register this; when she did, she turned to her mother and father in turn, mouth open in dismay. Neither of them had said a word about corporal punishment. It hadn't been practised in any of Charlotte's previous schools, and she knew her mother didn't agree with it. Feeling a growing sense of betrayal, she stared at the Headmistress, willing her to say the school's policy had changed. But Miss Swinburne's face bore the look of someone about to explain how every cloud has a silver lining.
"Yes, Mrs Preston, that is quite correct." She'd softened her voice, Charlotte noticed. "I'm aware that many schools have opted to discontinue this form of discipline in recent years, and I know there is, in some quarters, agitation for a change in the law." She smiled. "But in our experience, Mrs Preston, it is not only the most effective deterrent, but, believe it or not, many of the girls actually prefer it to the duller and more time-consuming alternatives such as writing lines, or sitting in detention; and we don't approve of setting academic work as punishment. Learning is sacred."
Mrs Preston nodded. "I see, yes," she said, a little doubtfully.
Charlotte's heart pounded. This was where her mother was supposed to say they'd changed their mind - that they hadn't spanked their daughter since she was a toddler, and they didn't want a complete stranger doing it now, thank you very much.
Her mother said nothing.
"And of course," added the Headmistress, "it is only employed when thoroughly deserved."
There was a short silence; Charlotte turned to her mother, pleading silently, Mum, say something! Please!
Again, the moment passed.
"Our pupils, as you know," the Head went on, "are all aged from sixteen to nineteen, and come to Chesterton Court to achieve the highest possible grades in their A-levels and progress to university. Our record in guiding them to achieve these goals is, though I say it myself, outstanding. Last year, half the Upper Sixth stayed on in the autumn for the Oxbridge entrance exams, of whom sixty-three percent were successful. A further twenty percent went to Bristol."
Charlotte's father turned to her and raised his eyebrows encouragingly.
"Last year," Miss Swinburne continued proudly, "ninety-three leavers out of a total of ninety-five went on to university." She paused, eyeing Charlotte's mother with a hint of defiance. "And our success, Mrs Preston, is I believe based in large part on the strict discipline we maintain - including, as I've said, the use of corporal punishment."
Game, set and match. Charlotte's heart sank.
"Well, that all seems very... sensible," said her mother weakly.
"Jolly good," said her father. "Just what Charlotte needs."
When they'd agreed all the details, shaken hands and emerged from Miss Swinburne's study into the corridor that led to the main entrance, Mr Preston had given Charlotte a playful swat on her bottom, saying, "Don't worry, Lottie - a spanking's over quickly, and it's not as bad as you think. Never did me any harm, and we had the cane."
"Ow!" she'd protested angrily, swatting the air where his hand had been. "And don't call me Lottie!"
"Anyway, darling," her mother had added, "if you behave yourself, it won't be an issue, will it?"
In the two days since, Charlotte had tried working on her mother, but it was no good: she got the same, unanswerable response - stay out of trouble, and you won't have a problem. And seeing her father's rage at the dinner table, Charlotte finally had to accept she'd lost: it was going to be Chesterton Court, whether she liked it or not. She had four weeks to enjoy her freedom and do the reading she'd been set for History and English, and then...
That night, she lay in bed unable to sleep. Her father's words, 'We had the cane' echoed in her mind. She imagined herself bent over with her bottom sticking out while Miss Swinburne hovered menacingly behind her, brandishing a thick walking stick like her Granddad's and lecturing her in that harsh, clipped accent of hers.
Her stomach fizzed as she tossed and turned, trying to think things through. On the one hand, she was confident she could stay out of trouble if she tried; on the other, despite the fear, she was curious: what was it like being spanked, or even... caned?
Her bottom tingled.
Chesterton Court Sixth Form Boarding School for Girls was housed in a nineteenth-century mansion in the Somerset countryside. When the original owners lost their fortune, the building was taken over by the Ministry of Health and turned into a care home for veterans of the two world wars. This closed in the mid-1950's and the place lay empty for a while until a consortium of local worthies raised the funds to adapt it to its present purpose. Modelled on traditional English boarding schools, but with customs adapted for their 16 to 19 age group, the school's motto - Laborate Diligenter et Parete (Work Hard and Obey) - said much about its pedagogical approach.
The main body of the four-storey building was flanked by two large wings forming the court after which it was named, and which was laid attractively with small lawns separated by paved paths and with a fountain in the middle. Boasting extensive grounds (including woods, a cricket field, tennis courts and a swimming pool), the school had ample room for its two hundred boarders, most of whom came from wealthy families in the south-west of the country.
Easter was late that year, so the first day of the summer term fell in early May. It was an unusually hot Sunday as the assorted Jaguars and Rovers and the occasional Rolls Royce rolled up the drive and parked on the expanse of gravel outside the east wing to drop off their charges. As trunks were unloaded and carted in to dormitories, the hubbub of uniformed girls greeting each other competed with the stutter of engines starting and wheels churning gravel.
Dropped off early by her father, Sarah Redburn had already unpacked and was standing near the entrance looking out for her mates. Tall and slim, with long, straight brown hair parted in the middle, she'd loosened her tie and was holding her school blazer draped over her right shoulder.
"Hi, Watson!" she called, slipping without thinking into the use of surnames that was the norm except with your closest friends.
"Hi, Redburn. Did you have a good holiday?"
"Great, thanks. Have you seen Davis?"
"Yes, she's over there."
Sarah spotted her best friend and waved. "Hey, Nicki!"
Nicki came over; they embraced.
"God, I can't believe we're back here already. How did four weeks go by so fast?"
"I know!" said Sarah. "It's such a drag. But it's good to see you."
"You too. Do you know what dorm you're in?" Slightly shorter than Sarah, with short, unruly blonde hair, Nicki, too, had removed her blazer and loosened her tie.
"Yeah, Five C. You're in Three C."
"Okay. Quite close then. It's a shame we're not together."
Sarah gave her a sardonic look. "Like they were going to let that happen!"
"Yeah, I know. Who's my Dorm Captain?"
Sarah gave her a pained look.
"Not Snodgrass! Please, don't tell..."
Sarah nodded.
"Oh no!" moaned Nicki. "Why do I always get landed with that officious cow? It's not fair! Who've you got?"
"Thomas again."
"She's not bad."
"I know. She's okay, even since she became Head Girl."
A familiar voice barked behind them. "Now girls, don't dawdle here!"
They hadn't noticed their Housemistress approaching. Forty-ish and slight of frame, Miss Eileen Parker seemed immune to the heat in her tweed skirt and green, leather-buttoned cardigan. She held a clipboard in one hand, a red pen in the other. "You're in the way. And smarten up those ties, please, or I'll be marking your cards. Talking of which..." She reached into the satchel at her side, pulled out a batch of blue cards and leafed through them. "Davis, Redburn..." She picked out the two. "Here you are: for the first week. And let's not have a repeat of last term, please. You, Davis, got more bad comments than anyone in Nightingale House, a matter I believe you discussed with the Headmistress on the last day?"
Nicki blushed, remembering the caning she'd received for 'being a thorough nuisance'. She'd had to stand on the train all the way to Bristol.
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