by LSF Publications
by Karl Quentin
Three employees of Translove Airlines are sitting in the functional corridor outside the Personnel Officer's door, on plain hard chairs that offer firm support but little comfort to their bottoms beneath their smart, tight, bronze skirts. Comfort is what they are in sore need of. But in the estimation of the Personnel Officer, Mr Bendix, they are in sore need of something rather different. This something he is currently supplying to a fourth employee inside his office.
No sound is percolating though the softwood door, though the after-echo of the first stroke of the cane is still agitating its way through their brains - upwards to the cortex, where it sparks off thoughts about how loud and therefore hard the swish and thwack had been, and how Deirdre had made no sound but would they be able to be as brave when their turn came, and how many were they going to get, anyway? and downwards to the limbic system, where the primal dread of pain and the social dread of humiliation and wounded self-esteem are churning up the stomach acids and sending signals to the bladder.
Mr Bendix had not helped when he'd had them all lined up in front of his desk fifteen minutes earlier. "Well, you four bright beauties! Thanks to you the Director has had the press and TV on his back all morning. Guess what they wanted to know?"
A sudden spasm at the throat and heart of the four women. They waited to be told, their eyes wide and focussed very hard on his face.
"They wanted to know how a ten-year-old child managed to sneak on to Flight TL675432X to Milan! How the little perisher got past security, passport checks, and on to the plane itself. Ten-year-old boy, July 16th. Ring any bells, ladies?"
It rang no bells with bespectacled dark-haired Deirdre from security, though she seemed to have acquired a lump in her throat; it rang no bells with blonde Angela or red-haired Lesley at the passport controls, though one had a heart that was suddenly racing and the other a bladder that urgently needed emptying; but it did ring an alarm bell with tall, brown-haired flight attendant Rachel, who had a memory of a delightful chatty boy on that flight whose face had nagged at her all the way to Milan, because she couldn't quite remember having seen his passport as he boarded the plane when she was greeting the passengers. But he had been sitting next to a lady who was so taken with him that she could only have been his mother... Rachel had become rather chilly, though her forehead was damp and sweaty.
"According to the rosters, you were among the staff who should have picked up the little blighter at each stage of his progress to the plane. But none of you did."
He noted the unease in each smartly-uniformed woman's face, from Rachel's virtual acknowledgement of guilt in her stricken expression to Deirdre's bafflement over growing concern.
"This is such a serious breach of security that the reputation of the whole airline is at stake. Accordingly, our esteemed Director was forced to tell the media a small untruth. He told them that an intensive investigation was underway, and that some members of staff had already been disciplined."
He paused to let them soak up the displeasure of Translove Airlines, and to let the word 'disciplined' sink in. He watched them flush and squirm in front of him, their minds preoccupied by previous encounters with Mr Bendix.
"What he should have said was: some members of staff are about to be disciplined. But that wouldn't have sounded quite so efficient and keen to protect the public." He leaned sharply forwards, his finger jabbing at them. "So, ladies. Are the rosters correct, and were you occupying the crucial positions in question on July 16th?"
The four women looked unhappily at each other. "Yes Mr Bendix," Rachel whispered. Oh Lord this was the most dreadful thing that had happened in her whole career so far! How could she have let a boy get on the plane without a boarding pass! Her stomach was filled with lead that somehow churned like a washing machine.
"I'd like my union rep present," said Lesley, her bottom lip gnawed.
"I must have been... if that's what it says..." stammered Angela, still not quite believing that she was now in the realm of nightmare.
"I certainly was," said Deirdre, "but I can't see what it's got to do with me." She returned his accusing gaze levelly from behind her glasses.
Mr Bendix sat back. Learning of the hornet's nest these sloppy women had stirred up as soon as he arrived at work had not been good for his blood pressure, but the bold-faced reactions of some of them were eating at his ulcer.
"Oh, Deirdre, so you can't see what it's got to do with you! You can't see what a small boy sneaking past you has got to do with you, eh? Right, my girl, that frame of mind of yours is something we'll have a little chat about in a minute! And Lesley, I have already spoken to the union and reminded them that if Translove Airways wants to stay in business, and their members want to continue to have jobs, then discipline will not only have to be meted out but be seen to be meted out. Sorry, my dear, your bottom has been sacrificed to the general good. Any further remarks or comments?"
"No, Mr Bendix," said Rachel, barely audibly. Six months ago Mr Bendix had had her in this very office, a grown woman of twenty-five, a professional woman, over his knee like a child, with her skirt raised, and he had smacked her bottom hard across the seat of her pants because she had been reported for scruffy appearance. That had been just awful. She was very much afraid of something similar today. And the worst of it was, she knew she deserved it. She had let everybody down.
"I - no, Mr Bendix," said Lesley with bad grace. What the hell did they pay union subscriptions for! "I mean, yes: can we postpone this meeting until I can at least consult with my union?"
She looked sulkily at him from beneath an auburn fringe cut asymmetrically across her forehead. She had not forgotten the times she had been given the paddle over that very desk; the last time she had been bare-bottomed too.
"We can indeed, Lesley, if you would like your disciplinary sanctions to be doubled?"
His ulcer was gnawing at him now, and this insubordinate irresponsible little so-and-so was going to pay for that.
"That's so not - no, Mr Bendix. Nothing more to say."
"Good for you. Angela?"
Wordlessly, Angela shook her head, her black bob waving with it. She could already feel the humiliation of what was bound to be coming, the wrenching up of her tight skirt over her nylons. She couldn't remember any child on that day, but she supposed that was why she was going to be whacked.
"Deirdre?"
There was a brief pause. He looked keenly at her as she wrestled with herself, striving to come to terms with what was bound to happen to her on this normal working day.
"No sir."
She looked like she had plenty more to say, but chose not to. Wise girl. He recalled having had to take her knickers down and strap her touching her toes for a very similar refusal to accept responsibility for her actions. No strap today, though.
"Very well. This child managed to escape the combined vigilance of all four of you. You do not all bear the same degree of responsibility, but for all four of you this is potentially a sacking offence. Any of you care to join the dole queues during a depression?"
He watched as the four chastened women studied their shoes.
"Thought not. Then we'll deal with this the usual way. The company way. My esteemed colleague Miss T is already explaining all this to your two male colleagues. Each of you step up and sign the waiver please, that you accept corporal punishment in lieu of loss of position or income. Then you three can wait outside while I continue this conversation with Deirdre."
The whistle and thwack of the cane is slightly muffled by the door, but no-one is in any doubt what it is. Angela mouths, Two! to herself. Lesley and Rachel exchange brief glances before looking down at the floor. Deirdre has not made an audible sound. Rachel hopes no-one else will be out here listening when her turn comes.
The pause is agonisingly drawn out. Surely not just two? This was as serious as offences got! Could it be...?
It couldn't. Swish - THWACK! Still no sound from Deirdre. Angela silently counts three, her hands clasped so tightly together her rings are digging into her fingers. Lesley tries to control her breathing. Rachel looks up and down the corridor in sightless misery.
Almost immediately afterwards, Angela counts four. The note of the whistling swish is higher, the thwack meatier, and a strangled yelp comes limping through the door.
"I can't hear well enough," Lesley whispers (why whisper?) to Rachel. "Is she getting it over her skirt?"
"I don't know, I can't tell." She doesn't want to talk about it, though she is at least as concerned to know as Lesley.
"Bloody beastly little brats," Lesley mutters. "What can anyone do if their parents are so lax they let them wander off to an airport?"
The fifth report of the cane biting into Deirdre's bottom seems to be a direct answer to Lesley's query. This time a high keening wail accompanies it, showing that the woman on the receiving end is starting to feel that there is something that the responsible person can do.
Mr Bendix can be heard saying something, too indistinct to be made out. The tone of his voice is perfectly clear, though, and it isn't reassuring. Another pause, during which Rachel can hear the blood bounding in her ears. Then the cane speaks once more, and so does Deirdre. The cane's voice is crisp and precise; Deirdre's, ragged and drawn out. Angela, nearest to the fatal door, hears a heartfelt apology.
"Six!" gasps Lesley. "Phew! The maximum!"
"So they say," Rachel replies, not wanting to speak at all but unable to suppress her doubts.
"Oh it is, it is," says Lesley confidently. "I've never heard of anyone getting more than six of the best. I'm sure I've seen it written down somewhere. Yes, I'm sure I have. Absolutely certain."
Perhaps she is right, for no further sound besides Mr Bendix's voice comes from behind the door. Angela has her fingers tightly crossed. Then they all hear Deirdre's high-pitched protest - against what, they have no idea. The thwack of speeding rattan against something soft and yielding resounds again, even louder. Louder too is Deirdre's shriek.
"Seven!" Angela squeaks. "Eight! Nine! Ten!"
Four fast-delivered strokes, one on top of the other. Lesley clings on to her chair in disbelief; tears trickle down Rachel's cheeks. Their colleague's responses are agonised. Mr Bendix is yelling at her. They can now clearly hear: "Get back down and take your hands away from your bottom this minute!" They hear desperate pleas, then silence. The Personnel Manager's voice grumbles on.
Swish - Thwack! Another out-of-control howl. Then silence again. Three heavily breathing, frightened women in their smart Translove Airways uniforms gaze at each other.
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