It is cold in the school gymnasium; the wooden parquet
cool beneath my bare feet and my gym knickers and vest offering little warmth
against the late October chill in the high ceilinged, cavernous chamber. The
Margaret Clitheroe Boarding School for Young Ladies believes in the virtues of
austerity and frugality and is not known for pampering the young women in its
charge with the luxury of unwarranted expenditure on central heating bills. It
would be unlikely for the school to heat the gymnasium at any time. It would be
unheard of for it to heat it for an occasion such as this.
I shiver miserably but my trembles are not entirely due
to the cool air in the gymnasium. They have every bit as much to do with the
small vaulting horse that has been placed with significant purpose in the
centre of the netball court facing me. It is an old piece of gym equipment this
vaulting horse; the leather on its surface worn thin by years of use and the
stout splayed wooden legs long since bereft of any polish. Modern gymnastic
equipment is another item upon which the school is unprepared to squander its
carefully guarded funds. Nevertheless it will suffice adequately for the purposes
of today. As soon as I stepped into the gym, upon being summoned in my vest and
knickers, and saw it I knew why it had been placed. It has been placed there
for me.
There would have been little doubt about the reason for
its placement in any case. Being summoned to the gymnasium to answer for one’s
misdeeds, dressed in gym knickers and vest, can only mean one thing. The
brooding presence of Sister Claire, the head teacher of the school, lends a
formality to the proceedings as does the additional presence of the other
members of the teaching staff stood, to the left of the students of the sixth
form, standing in a line against the wall bars to the right. I am to be made an
example of. Should any further doubt exist as to my fate then it is surely dispelled
by the sight of Miss Pearson, the powerfully built school gymnastics teacher
stood by the vaulting horse. She is stripped down to running vest and shorts;
her bare arms rippling with muscles. In her hands she holds a long, long cane.
My mouth grows dry with fear at the sight of that evil
instrument and at the sight of the person holding it. Miss Pearson is the
strongest staff member in the school and the punishments delivered by her hand
are legendary for their severity at St Margaret Clitheroe’s School. A caning
from her is justifiably feared among the students. That she has been selected
for this purpose today is deeply significant. It is indicative of the school
authority’s stern disapproval of my conduct and its determination to see that
that conduct be penalised in the severest manner possible, not only to teach me
a salutary lesson, but also to deliver a firm warning of the consequences of
such behaviour to my colleagues lined up along the length of the gymnasium to
witness my punishment and disgrace.
I glance out of the corner of my eyes at my classmates as
I stand meekly in front of the vaulting horse with my hands clasped before me
and my head lowered humbly. They at least are warmly dressed in their uniforms
I note bitterly. Most of them are trying to look sombre and serious under the
gimlet eye of Sister Claire but it is a transparent sobriety. My best friends
look sympathetic but there are several who are trying not to smirk. Even those
who bear me no ill will personally are looking slightly flushed and excited and
there is an air of expectant anticipation among them. A good caning is always a
diverting and entertaining spectacle so long as you are not the one receiving
it.
A glance to the other side of the gym is not at all
reassuring. The eyes of the staff members are all upon me and I quail at the
wave of outraged disapproval beaming across at me like a physical presence.
Sister Claire stands at the vanguard of this wall of reproach; her hands tucked
under the bib of her habit and her jaw set in grim resolve. There’ll be no
sympathy from that quarter. Miss Pearson’s face looks equally forbidding. She
is tapping the palm of her left hand with the cane as if impatient to begin.
Father Ignatius is looking sorrowful and disappointed in me. Doubtless he will
say a prayer for my immortal soul whilst Miss Pearson is chastising my
deserving flesh with her cane.
The girls stood along the wall are shuffling with
impatience as the long silence drags on. Sister Claire quells them with a
basilisk glare. There is instant silence. In this frigid stillness she turns to
me. “Michaela Francis!” she declares in a ringing voice of granite; my name
reverberating in the gymnasium like a knell of doom. “I think you know why you
are here!” I swallow and try to still my shaking knees but I hold my tongue.
The tone of her voice encourages no response. She pauses for a second to draw
breath. “I have been a teacher at this school for thirty five years!” she
continues, “but never, in all that time, have I come upon such appalling
wickedness as yours! Your scurrilous scribbling and blasphemy, in the written
articles you are responsible for, are a blight upon the Christian values of
this school, an affront to the principles of the Order to which we belong, the
Holy Church and our Lord Jesus Christ. That you could write such wicked and
blasphemous slander about the Church and even mock the authority of the Holy
Bible in such a malicious manner is a disgrace to this school and all we stand
for! I can only conclude that the very devil himself must have taken possession
of your wretched soul! May the Lord have mercy on you for I most certainly will
not!”
She pauses to draw breath once more; her cheeks pink with
indignation. The chill in the gymnasium seems to deepen with the cold shudder
down my spine. I have never seen her so angry. Father Ignatius is shaking his
head more in sorrow than anger but something tells me that he will lift no
finger to spare me from my fate. Certainly he will consider it efficacious for
the good of my soul; a necessary purging of the wickedness within me. Sister
Claire glares at me. “Have you anything to say for yourself, you wretched
girl?” she demands imperiously. I bite my lip and shake my head abjectly. Any
words I utter will only enrage her more and add to the tally due to me.
She takes a deep breath and rocks back on her heels.
“Very well then! You are to be caned young lady! Severely caned! Hopefully the
lesson will suffice to drive the evil out of your heart and bring you back to
the path of righteous salvation!” She pauses for dramatic effect. “You will
receive fifty strokes of the cane on your bottom!” she announces firmly. I
stagger a step backwards; the blood draining from my face. There is a buzz in
the gymnasium as everybody absorbs the sensational announcement. Ten strokes is
a routine punishment at Margaret Clitheroe’s Boarding School for Young Ladies;
twenty would be a severe sentence. Fifty is unprecedented. “SILENCE!” Sister
Claire barks and the hum of conversation recedes once more. She turns once more
to me. “Yes you may well look sorry for yourself young lady!” she declares,
“You will be feeling sorrier still shortly! This is the penalty for your sinful
ways. I would consider fifty strokes small penance to pay if it may yet save
your soul from eternal damnation in the fires of Hell!” She glowers at me.
“Remove your clothes girl!”
I wince and, although I expected it, a small moan of
despair escapes my lips at this last command. Sister Claire is unimpressed and
unmoved by this evidence of my desperation. “Yes young lady!” she barks. “You
will be caned naked and disgraced so that your shame can be witnessed by all
those here and the price for your sinfulness be plain for all to see! Now step
out of your clothes!”
With my lip quivering and my face flushed in humiliation,
I obey. It takes but seconds to slip my vest over my head and my knickers down
over my ankles. Abigail Horton-Richworth, our Head Girl steps forward to
relieve me of my meagre attire. I cower miserably trying to cover my modesty with
me hands. Once again Sister Claire is unimpressed. “Stand up straight girl!”
she commands, “and put your hands on the back of your head!” Cringing in
humiliation, I comply. From the corner of my eye I see my classmates leaning
forward slightly for a better look. We see few boys in the cloistered
environment of Margaret Clitheroe’s Boarding School. Our sinful pleasures are
inclined toward what Father Ignatius tells us is an abomination as mentioned by
the Holy word in the Book of Leviticus. I glance at my classmates. Barbara
Watson, captain of the hockey team, is clearly enjoying the spectacle while
Monica Roberts is staring openly at me; her gaze transfixed by my nakedness;
her mouth slightly open and her nostrils flaring in desire. She has long lusted
for me.
“It is too late for pretensions of modesty now Miss
Francis!” Sister Claire continues. “It would have been better had you exercised
some degree of modesty and decorum in your writing rather than the filthy
scribbling by which you have disgraced this school and brought the righteous
wrath of our Lord God down upon your sinful head. You can now stand there in
your naked shame so that others may see and by the Grace of God be steered away
from the path of wickedness that has brought you to this just and deserved
fate.” I feel tears welling in my eyes. I glance past Sister Claire at the
other staff members. Father Ignatius is pretending not to look.
“Have you anything to say for yourself before your
punishment commences?” Sister Claire demands.
“I...I am sorry Sister Claire,” I mumble contritely.
“Forgive me.”
Sister Claire snorts. “Hmmph! You had best save your
pleas for forgiveness for our Lord Jesus Christ! After you have been caned you
will spend the rest of the afternoon on your knees in the chapel begging
forgiveness and absolution from our Lord your saviour.”
There is one last formality before my punishment can
begin. Sister Claire turns to address our priest. “Father would you care to say
a few words for this worthless girl’s soul please?”
Father Ignatius nods gravely. “Of course Sister.” He
steps forward solemnly, lowers his head and clasps his hands in prayer. The
assembled company does likewise in reverent silence. “Dear Lord Jesus Christ
our Saviour,” he intones. “Have mercy on this poor wretched sinner and, through
her suffering, lead her back from the paths of sin and into the light of your
wisdom and forgiveness. As you suffered on the cross for our sins let her now
suffer for her own and thus be turned away from the temptations of her pride
and the slope to damnation so that, with due humility and contrition, she may
once more come to grace in your favour and forgiveness. In the name of the
Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost....Amen.” The company repeats the liturgy of
the Trinity and straightens up once more. Formalities concluded, my punishment
can commence.
Sister Claire turns again to me. “Michaela Francis! You
are hereby sentenced to fifty strokes of the cane. Please step forward to the
horse and present yourself for punishment!”
My legs do not seem to be working well as I pace the few
feet separating me from my doom. I am trembling uncontrollably with fear now;
the chill air of the gymnasium forgotten in my terror. My mind is still reeling
in shock at the severity of my sentence. Miss Pearson is notorious for laying
the cane on with all her strength. A single stroke of the cane from her
powerful right hand is excruciating in its agony. Fifty strokes hardly bear
thinking about.
Last term before the summer holidays I was obliged to
file into this very gymnasium with my fellow students to witness Betty O’Hara’s
caning, for drunkenness and lewd behaviour in the dormitory, by Miss Pearson’s
strong right hand. Poor Betty had made the rafters ring with her howling
screams as Miss Pearson had flogged the naked flesh of her buttocks and thighs
with the cane. I have no doubt whatsoever that shortly these hallowed walls
will reverberate with my own screams. After her caning we had all been obliged
to file slowly past the beaten girl as she lay sobbing with her chest heaving
over the vaulting horse so that we should all witness at close quarters the
effects of the cane. It had been shocking. Her swollen buttocks and upper
thighs had been laced with livid crimson welts turning purple with bruising. And
Betty had only had to endure twenty strokes of the cane. I must face fifty!
Reaching the horse I lean on it for a moment, breathing
heavily and praying for fortitude, my heart hammering in my chest. Then slowly
I bend forward over the horse to grasp the legs at the front. The worn leather
is cool against my naked stomach. Sister Claire nods at our Head girl and her
assistant. “Abigail, Veronica, secure her if you please.”
“Yes Sister Claire.” The two girls step forward. They are
carrying lengths of twine with which to bind me to the horse. They will enjoy
this part. They have long hated me with a passion. They tie my wrists to the
splayed front legs of the horse and then my legs are parted so that my ankles
may be secured to the back legs. Finally a long length of rope is passed around
the top of the horse and my waist twice and tightened and tied to press my
midriff firmly against the leather. Stretched and bound firmly to the horse I
am now correctly presented for punishment.
Sister Claire nods in approval and the two girls step
back. Sister Claire then addresses our gymnastics teacher. “You may proceed
Miss Pearson,” she tells her. “Please be sure to lay the strokes on good and
hard. Don’t spare the girl!”
“Indeed I shan’t Sister Claire!”
“Excellent. Also please don’t be too hasty in the
execution of the punishment. Allow her ample time to absorb the lesson of each
stroke before you apply the next.”
“As you wish Sister Claire.”
Sister Claire nods once more. “Abigail, perhaps you would
do us a service and count the strokes out loud as they are applied so we may
keep a tally.”
Abigail is having a hard time masking her malicious
delight. “Yes, Sister Claire,” she responds in as neutral a tone as she can
manage.
“Good. Very well then. At your leisure if you please Miss
Pearson.”
Miss Pearson flexes the cane in her hands and stalks
around to take up position behind me to my left from where she may swing the
cane against my tautly presented rear. Through tear filled eyes I look once
more at my fellow students. The anticipation has grown mightily. The girls at
the far ends of the line have even taken a step or two forward to afford
themselves a better view so that they now form a shallow arc to witness my
punishment. The line of eyes upon me are shining with excitement and cheeks are
flushed a rosy hue with arousal. A good caning is always exciting to watch and
will be the talk of the school for years to come. Tonight, in the dormitories,
the memory of it will lead to temptations, questing fingers and more sinful pleasures
of the flesh to add to the sadness of our Lord Jesus Christ.
In despair I seek out the face of Jacqueline; my
beautiful and beloved little Jackie, the love of my life. She at least looks
distraught and unhappy. There are tears in her eyes and I bless
her for them. Tonight she will hold me in her arms and soothe my pain with her
love. I take courage from the thought, and if, as Father Ignatius would have
it, the Book of Leviticus calls it an abomination, I care not.
Miss Pearson takes a couple of practice swings, with the
long cane hissing in the air behind me, then she steps forward to address my
prostrate and abject body with the frightful instrument. She lifts the cane
high into the air behind me. I am not looking but I know she must have lifted it
high indeed and with her shoulder back to deliver the longest possible arc for
I see Jackie cringe at the sight. There is a short pause; a pregnant silence
and then, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, the cane
sweeps down.