by Tom Hollingworth
Beckmesser Recital Hall, London - Saturday, 28 March 1953, 6.45 pm.
Hilary Simpson shifted uncomfortably in the seat in front of the dressing table mirror surrounded by light bulbs, clutching a glass of water. Just eighteen, she wore a satin green dress with three-quarter-length lace sleeves and lace boat neck. Her red hair had a bouffant and was tied back. Taking a sip of water, she was anxious that the glass would slip from her hands, and was relieved to replace it on the dressing table. Her reflection looked pale and unreal. She imagined her face transposed to an oil painting, joining those of Rubinstein, Liszt and Horowitz that she had walked past on the stairs from the artists' entrance. A smile flickered momentarily.
"Your teacher is here, Miss Simpson," said Betty, the friendly woman not much older than Hilary, who wore Beckmesser uniform. Hilary found it unsettling to be called Miss Simpson, but it was not for Betty to use first names with a performer.
Hilary was unsurprised to see Mrs Coombes wearing her headmistress's gown. Teacher was not an accurate description, but there was no accurate description for Mrs Coombes's role. Mrs Coombes was the headmistress of a small private school who took piano pupils in her own time. However, Hilary had long since overtaken Mrs Coombes's skill level. It had been Mrs Coombes who had suggested that Hilary, and another pupil, Tricia, take monthly 'masterclasses' with a retired concert pianist, but this was her way of ensuring that she remained relevant. In fact the masterclasses were Hilary and Tricia's real lessons. Mrs Coombes was reduced to ensuring discipline in their practice regime, an area in which she was unsurpassed.
"Has Patricia not arrived yet?" asked Mrs Coombes, and Hilary shook her head. Mrs Coombes was forty years old, and her hair was sculpted into a tight coiffure with too much mousse. Hilary noticed that she carried her long wooden case, and knew what it contained. Hilary was usually afraid of it, but today was different.
"Could you please give me the cane?" Hilary said. Her voice seemed far away, as if someone else was making the request.
"I do not doubt you deserve it," said Mrs Coombes, showing no surprise. "In fact, at last count, I owe you eight. But are you sure it will not interfere with your performance?"
Hilary nodded. "I need it."
Mrs Coombes opened the brass catches. The case was lined with velvet. She lifted out a three feet length of thick rattan with a small bent-over handle. It was a pale yellow, shiny except near its tip, which had lost its polish from years of use. Mrs Coombes flexed the cane, and examining it closely, worked it with her hands to massage out a kink. She may not have been able to play Hilary's pieces, but she knew her own art. This was her instrument.
With trembling hands, Hilary manoeuvred underneath her underskirts. She lowered her knickers. Then she fumbled to unclip her stockings from their suspenders before slipping them off. She placed her knickers and stockings on the dressing table stool.
"Where do you want me?" asked Hilary.
Mrs Coombes pulled a red Chesterfield armchair out into the centre of the green room.
Raising herself on the balls of her bare feet, Hilary stretched over the buttoned leather back, gripping on to the fronts of the arms of the chair. The top of the chair back pressed into her lower tummy.
Mrs Coombes rested the cane on the dressing table, and removed five safety pins from the velvet lining of the case. She used the safety pins to hitch up first the satin dress itself, and then its several layers of netting underskirts out of the way.
Hilary's ample buttocks and thighs looked strangely disembodied from Hilary's upper half, which was invisible to Mrs Coombes's view behind the bunched up layers of the dress. The suspender belt was tucked out of sight, but the suspenders themselves hung loosely to either side. Her buttocks and thighs were fleshy and pale, with just a few freckles here and there, wobbling like a jelly as she fidgeted. Hilary's calves, however, were taut in keeping her heels raised.
Mrs Coombes noticed the faint red impression left from the elasticated waistband of her knickers, and reflected that she would soon be decorating Hilary's pale flesh with much more vivid marks. She took up the cane again.
"I'll give you four strokes now," said Mrs Coombes. "Four more after the recital, unless you really impress me."
The shape of Hilary's buttocks shifted slightly as she tensed, sensing that Mrs Coombes was taking position. Her lower legs were already beginning to ache.
Mrs Coombes raised the cane high. There was complete silence in the greenroom for a moment, and then Hilary's whole body twitched at the familiar hiss of the cane slicing the air, and almost immediately there was a terrific crack as the cane straightened across the freckled mounds of flesh, cutting deep while the surrounding flesh shook with the impact, transmitting motion to the dangling suspenders that danced around Hilary's hips.
For a moment, Hilary felt nothing, and her mind was occupied with whether Betty, who would not be far away, would have heard it, and what she must think.
But just a couple of seconds after impact, there it was. A precise line of burning bit into her buttocks. No matter how many times she suffered Mrs Coombes's cane, and it had been many times, Hilary always received the first stroke with renewed shock and surprise. It was terrible, agonising, a searing pain that drove all other thoughts from her mind. She could focus on nothing but that searing line of heat.
Mrs Coombes was an expert caner. Hilary shuddered slightly as the pain did not abate but kept crescendoing, and her legs pivoted around the balls of her feet, shifting position uselessly.
Hilary tightened her grip on the leather arms of the chair, fearing she would slip off, bracing herself for the second stroke.
"That was for your sloppy triplets in the Brahms. This one is for your fluffed arpeggios."
Mrs Coombes delivered another terrific crack, and this time Hilary could not help but let out a small cry. The cane had landed just alongside the first stroke, widening the band of burning that penetrated deep into the freckled flesh.
She was trying to hold back the tears, not wanting to ruin her make-up, but it was impossible. She gritted her teeth so tightly that they ached.
"The next two are for being late for your lessons."
Hilary yelped as the third stroke landed exactly across the crease between bottom and thighs. It was a different type of pain, a sharper pain that felt acutely focused along its line, and unlike the other strokes, did not radiate into the surrounding flesh, but remained at the surface, but compensated for that with the intensity of the stinging.
The wild trembling of Hilary's thighs caused the pinned up netting and satin of Hilary's dress to wave like the petals of a strange flower in the wind. The tears were streaming down her contorted face, and she was breathing heavily, struggling to deal with the agonies in her behind.
Mercifully, Mrs Coombes decided to hold back her full force on the last stroke. Although it was less severe, it happened to crisscross the welts left by the first two strokes, and the pain of the cane landing on freshly bruised skin made Hilary cry out again desperately.
Hilary raised her body sufficiently so she could relax her calves, letting her heels fall flat on to the floor, at least feeling some relief of the dull throbbing there, but it was small compensation against the flames that engulfed her buttocks.
She stayed in that position for a few moments, panting heavily, her breathing occasionally becoming little groans, before lifting herself completely from the armchair, the net and satin layers still pinned up, so that her bottom and its four red lines remained on display.
Mrs Coombes replaced the cane on the table, and approached Hilary. Ignoring Hilary's hands that were clenching and rubbing her buttocks frantically, Mrs Coombes undid the several safety pins and manoeuvred the dress back into place.
"Thank you," said Hilary, when she had managed to get her breathing back under control. She had red eyes and her face was wet with tears and streaked with mascara.
Mrs Coombes nodded. "You had better make yourself presentable," she said, looking at her watch.
Hilary raised her knickers, stretching the waistband out as she eased them back in position, wincing each time the material rubbed against the freshly bruised skin. Then she slipped her stockings back on, clipping them to their suspenders.
Mrs Coombes handed Hilary a tissue, and she wiped her face clean. Hilary opened up the make-up in front of her.
"I'll help you," said Mrs Coombes, taking a make-up brush. A few minutes later, Hilary's face was presentable again. Her bottom may have been marked with four new lines, but the audience would not see them.
Although Hilary did not enjoy being caned, and found every moment quite unbearable, she was compensated in part for her agonies. Her earlier anxieties had been washed away by the intensity of her experience, and she felt unnaturally calm. She was ready.
There was a knock at the door, and Betty emerged again.
"Miss Sutherland," she announced, showing another woman the same age as Hilary in. Betty stared at the cane that was resting on the dressing table, before Mrs Coombes cleared her throat meaningfully. "It's almost time. I'll be back in a few minutes," said Betty, backing out of the door.
"You're late, Patricia," said Mrs Coombes.
"Sorry," said Tricia, but her tone did not show regret. She winked confidentially at Hilary, who returned the gesture with a feeble smile. Hilary envied Tricia's lack of fear for Mrs Coombes. Tricia was wearing a black evening dress, much less elaborate than Hilary's. But she carried it much more elegantly.
"I haven't got time to deal with you now," said Mrs Coombes. "There will be plenty of time for that after the recital."
Mrs Coombes replaced her cane in its case, and examined Tricia, smoothing some creases out of her dress, and brushing down some loose wisps of hair.
As promised, Betty returned for them a few minutes later, and Mrs Coombes left them to go to the auditorium.
As the two followed Betty along the corridor, they were silent until they were out of earshot of Mrs Coombes, and then Betty spoke first. "That, on the table... was it a cane?"
"Yes," said Hilary.
"But she didn't...?"
"Yes."
Betty thought for a moment before she spoke again. "That must be the first time in history anyone has ever been caned in the greenroom of Beckmesser Hall."
"Not the first time you've been caned though, is it, eh Hilary?" said Tricia with an evil grin.
"You'll get your turn soon enough," retorted Hilary. Tricia shrugged.
They had reached the wings of the stage, and Betty waited with them.
"Well done on getting in to the LMC," said Hilary, but there was little warmth in her voice.
"Oh, you knew? Thanks," said Tricia. "I'm stopping lessons with Mrs Coombes after tonight. My bum will finally get some peace."
"She was hoping that we would help with her project."
Tricia laughed. "Her school is closing due to lack of demand, and the answer is to make it a piano academy? The only thing she does well is caning."
Hilary said nothing. It was all right for Tricia to dismiss the idea, but she had a place at the London Music Conservatoire. Hilary wanted to perform, but apart from the piano competition that had won them both this recital, she had nothing concrete on which to build a career. Helping Mrs Coombes with the piano academy was her back-up plan.
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