She raised the strap again and thrashed it across Margaret’s bottom. Margaret let out a howl and squirmed against the soft material of the sofa’s back.
“Please, Mum. Please let Paula off. It’s not her fault and she’s a guest in our house.”
“Of course I’ll let Paula off, if she doesn’t mind me calling her parents and telling them what she’s been up to. Would you prefer that, Paula?” Mrs Winchester laid the tawse across Paula’s bottom and drew it slowly across the girl’s cheeks, the cool of the leather contrasting with the burning skin beneath.
“Oh, no, please Mrs Winchester, don’t tell my parents: they’d be furious. My Dad would probably horse-whip me.”
“So I think you’re better off getting another six from my tawse, aren’t you? Bottom right up, please.”
Mrs Winchester swung the heavy leather down again. Paula howled at the impact.
Henry, Evelyn’s accountant husband, who had been told to stay in the kitchen while the punishment took place, poured himself another whisky and tried to ignore the commotion going on down the corridor.
When all twelve strokes had been administered to each unwilling derrière, Mrs Winchester told the girls to get up and go to their room. They levered themselves upright, dragged their knickers and jeans painfully over their bottoms and slunk out of the sitting room.
“Sober up and don’t be late for supper,” Mrs Winchester called after them, “Remember that your old headmaster and his wife are coming.” The Winchesters had invited Mr Masterson and his wife to dinner. Both girls had been at Bexhill and quite liked ‘Three Taps’, so they were looking forward to seeing what he would be like out of the context of the school.
Margaret and Paula climbed the stairs, somewhat unsteadily, sniffing back tears and clutching at the close-fitting denim that aggravated the blaze in their backsides. They closed the door to Margaret’s bedroom and threw themselves, sobbing, into each other’s arms.
“I’m so sorry,” said Margaret, “it was my fault. I should never have suggested that we had a drink.”
“Of course it isn’t your fault: I went along with the whole idea. My God, your mother spanks hard. Dad would have been worse though - he’d have used a riding crop, so I guess I got off lightly. Let’s look at the damage, shall we?”
The girls peeled down their jeans and knickers and both gasped as they glimpsed their bottoms in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. Blue, red and purple welts criss-crossed their backsides in a vivid pattern. Where the stripes crossed, they became almost black. Mrs Winchester had not held back.
“That’s worse than anything I ever got from ‘Three Taps’,” said Margaret, gingerly massaging her cheeks.
“Shall we show him this evening? Tell him he’d better buck his ideas up if he wants to compete with the Deputy Head?”
“Good idea - and if we don’t sober up a bit, we might even do it! I think I’ll take a shower.”
“OK, after you. What are you going to wear tonight?”
“Well, nothing tight - that’s for sure! A dress, I suppose.”
“I only brought some evening slacks with me. I guess I’ll have to wear them. Are your dining room chairs hard?”
“Like boards! ‘Three Taps’ will wonder why you keep squirming about.”
“Oh well. I’ll unpack while you shower.”
Margaret had invited Paula to stay for a few days. She’d set up a folding bed in her room so that the two girls could chatter long into the night.
***
Edward ‘Three Taps’ Masterson and his wife Marge arrived promptly at eight o’clock. The Winchester family and Paula welcomed them. Mr Masterson beamed to see the two girls, who had left the school a year previously. As the hosts offered around pre-dinner drinks (the girls pointedly being given soft ones), Mr Masterson seem keen to hear what Margaret and Paula were up to. He was, they both privately decided, much less stuffy in a social setting than they had ever known him at school. The conversation flowed easily and, as the wine circulated (girls included this time) and the company mellowed, ‘Three Taps’ even performed a couple of very funny imitations of two of the more eccentric teachers. Everyone laughed.
“Tell me,” the Headmaster said, turning to Paula, “what were the best and worst moments you remember at school?”
“The best moments? Mmmm, I’m not sure. I was certainly very proud when I got my tennis colours after we beat St Mary’s in the schools’ finals. But also enjoyed being a Prefect. I liked the responsibility.”
“You mean you liked bossing people around!” said Margaret, putting on an exaggerated frown.
“I never bossed you about - that’s very unfair!” Paula riposted.
“Well, you couldn’t really say much to me when I was made a Prefect, too. But I bet you wanted to!”
“Talking about ‘bossy’, I remember when you read the Riot Act one night at prep. You sounded so pompous!”
“Now, now,” said Mr Masterson, “no bickering! You were both excellent Prefects, just the sort we needed. So, Margaret, what was your worst moment at Bexhill?”
“Oh, that’s easy! When you gave me twelve with the senior cane for smoking. I couldn’t sit comfortably for days afterwards!”
“What!” exclaimed Henry, “when was the wretched girl caught smoking? I’d have thrashed her so hard that she’d never have been able to sit down again!”
“Relax, Henry,” said Evelyn. “I knew all about it and talked to Margaret afterwards. I was satisfied it was just a spur-of-the-moment silliness and that she wouldn’t smoke again.”
“I remember that,” said Mr Masterson, “it was you, Alice and..and...yes, if I’m not mistaken, Jane, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right: you placed three chairs in a row and made us all bend over them, facing the fireplace. I was the last in line. Waiting for my turn while you dealt with the other two was the worst bit.”
“You took your punishment very bravely, I recall, and so did Jane. But Alice jumped about all over the place and wouldn’t stay still. I had to call in Miss Holloway to hold her down.”
“Poor Alice, she really didn’t like it at all, especially when you gave her some extra smacks with Stinger for getting up. But I suppose she deserved it - she was the one who gave us the cigarettes.”
“Did she? So it was her! I asked you whose cigarettes they were and you wouldn’t say. That’s why you all got twelve. If she’d owned up, I might have let you two off with six.”
“Now you tell me! But we wouldn’t have sneaked on her anyway. We didn’t know we’d have got less if she’d admitted owning the packet. If we had, we’d have laid into her afterwards.”
“I’ve always rather admired the way the girls stick together when they’re in trouble,” said Evelyn.
“It’s part of the school ethic,” said Marge. “But it must be damned annoying at times when they all stand shoulder-to-shoulder and you can’t tell which of the wretches is the most guilty!”
“That’s why my policy is always ‘thrash the lot and you’re bound to get the culprit,” said ‘Three Taps, smiling. “So, Margaret, did you ever smoke again?”
“No. I didn’t like it much on that occasion and so I never tried again.”
“I’d like to think it was the memory of that sore bottom that deterred you.”
“Well, of course it was that, too.”
“So much,” said Henry, “for all this new-fangled talk about banning corporal punishment in schools. Typical Labour Party bosh. Short, sharp shock and get it over with. It’s always worked in the past; always will. What do you say, Edward?”
“I agree. I think banning the cane would be a great mistake. It’s hard enough as it is to keep discipline in the classrooms nowadays.”
“I agree,” said Evelyn. “The Headmaster and I were discussing it just the other day. We are even thinking of giving each of the teachers a paddle and encouraging them to use it if the class starts getting too unruly.”
“Jolly good idea,” said Ma
rge.
“Why don’t we ask those on the receiving end, as it were? What do you think, girls? Would you rather have had detention or extra prep or something than the threat of the cane?”
Margaret looked at Paula. Paula spoke.
“Oh no, I don’t think so. Some of the teachers did give us detentions or extra prep, and we hated that. It was boring and so demeaning: everyone could see you sitting there in the classroom while they were having time off. I wasn’t spanked very often, but I’d much rather have had a good smacking and got it over with. It only lasts a few seconds, after all!”
“I used to hate the wait when I knew I was going to get a thrashing,” said Margaret, “but I agree with Paula, it’s better than detention. I mean, there was even some status attached to getting the cane, wasn’t there, Paula?”
“Oh yes, the girls used to show off their stripes quite proudly. The juniors really admired you if you could get through a caning without making a fuss.”
“It wasn’t so easy - not making a fuss,” said Margaret, looking at the Headmaster and wondering whether she should continue. She decided to go for it. “I mean, when Mum canes people, she just sort of gets on with it. It’s different with ‘Three Taps’ over there!” She nodded at Mr Masterson.
“What do you mean, and who’s ‘Three Taps’ anyway?” he asked, smiling, but puzzled.
“Don’t you know you’re nickname is ‘Three Taps’? I’m sure the girls still call you that,” said Paula, grinning at him.
“Why on Earth ‘Three Taps’?” he was laughing now.
“You tell him, Margaret. You had more cause to know why he’s called that!”
“Come on, you’re keeping us in suspense,” said Marge, sitting forward. “I want to know why you awful girls call my husband ‘Three Taps.”
“All right, I’ll tell you,” said Margaret, “but promise you won’t get offended?”
“Of course I won’t, but if you don’t get on with it, I’ll ask Henry whether he keeps a cane around here somewhere!”
“It’s because of the way you beat us. It’s always the same. You tell us to take down our pants and bend over; you prepare us by lifting up our skirts, and then the ritual begins. It’s the worst bit, isn’t it Paula?”
Paula nodded enthusiastically.
“You tap our bottom with whatever you’re going to use - Stinger or the tawse or a cane - and then start lecturing us. It’s just awful, waiting for that first swipe. Tap. Yak, yak, yak! Tap. Yak, yak, yak! Sometimes it’s two taps, and then more yak-yak.”
Everyone was laughing.
“But why ‘Three Taps’?” exclaimed the Headmaster.
“Because that’s when you know the first stroke is about to arrive. When you feel three taps, you can be certain it’s the end of the lecture and the thrashing is going to begin. It’s always the same. Tap, tap, tap. Whack! Ask any of the girls!”
“Paula, is this nonsense true?” Marge could hardly get the words out for laughing.
“Absolutely! I’ve experienced it myself. He’ll always be ‘Three Taps’ to me and all the girls he’s ever thrashed!”
“Well I’ll be damned,” said Edward, “I never realised, but now I think about it, I believe you’re right. Three taps and off we go. It’s a bit like bouncing a tennis ball before you serve. These wretched girls are quite observant, aren’t they?”
“We’ve haven’t got much else to do when we’re bending over and waiting for that first stroke. Counting the swirls on the carpet has its limitations,” Margaret giggled, glad that her risky remarks had gone down well.
“So,” Henry looked around the table, “everyone agrees with me then - corporal punishment is a good thing and is here to stay?”
“Well, at least in schools,” said Marge, “I suppose when they leave, they’re getting a bit old to be put over someone’s knee.”
Margaret saw her mother glance at her. She blushed.
Chapter 4
Miss Holloway
Hardly anyone knew the school secretary’s first name: it was Marlene. Her parents had been fans of Miss Dietrich, and the little baby, adorned with the fairest of locks, appeared to be from the same mould. Everyone at Bexhill knew her simply as Miss Holloway. She had joined the school straight from secretarial college and had proved an adept and conscientious employee, discrete to the roots of her naturally-blonde hair. She was also very pretty and being apparently unattached, she attracted the close attention of the male staff, young and old, bachelors and also (sadly) the spoken-for.
She lived in a small flat a few minutes’ drive from the school. The deposit on it had been a 21st birthday present from her parents, and now she just about managed to cover the instalments from her salary. She was gregarious by nature and found it easy to make friends, with whom she would spend the weekends. She was not attracted to nightclubs - she found the noise and cigarette smoke annoying, but she enjoyed visiting the charming rural pubs which abounded in the local area. Her car was a much-cherished, second-hand Morris Minor and when, one day, it flatly refused to start, Dick came into her life.
Dick was not a mechanic as such, but he had been in the REME during his National Service and so had a passing acquaintance with engines. He also had a passing acquaintance with Annie, one of Miss Holloway’s best friends, and so when Marlene telephoned her to say she couldn’t make it to a pre-arranged date in the Miller’s Arms, Annie had volunteered Dick’s services.
He was quite good-looking in a slightly overweight way, with an easy charm and a box of tools. He spent an hour under the bonnet of the Morris, went off and fetched some obscure spare part with several wires dangling from it, and within another twenty minutes there was a reassuring burble from the car’s exhaust. Dick refused all payment, except for the cost of the new distributor, so Marlene insisted on taking him to lunch.
She sent him to her bathroom to clean up, expecting to find her towels covered in grease and the hand-basin awash with grime when she next looked in, but to her surprise, everything was neat and spotless, including Dick. They drove off in the Morris to a pub overlooking the sea, ate fish and chips and drank cider, and afterwards walked along the cliff path in the bright, blustery April sunshine. When they turned to walk back, Dick took her hand. Within a few hundred yards, their fingers were interlaced.
This was the late 1950s, so when they got back to Marlene’s flat, they didn’t tumble into bed: they exchanged a chaste peck on each other’s cheek and parted, promising to meet again soon.
They did.
***
Miss Holloway arrived at the school every morning just before eight o’clock. Her office was opposite the headmaster’s study and acted as a kind of ‘information centre’ for the school. Miss Holloway’s knowledge of the girls was encyclopaedical, gained from having to type out reports at the end of each term. She was often a source of intelligence about who had been selected for sports teams, which dormitory someone was to be in the following term, travel arrangements home, and even - discretely - what sort of mood the headmaster or deputy head might be in. This latter information was often sought by those nervously waiting their turn in Miss Holloway’s office before appearing in front of ‘Three Taps’ or Mrs Winchester in order to be ‘dealt with’. Being ‘dealt with’ almost always involved physical punishment with a hairbrush, tawse, or cane.
It was the ‘waiting room’ aspect of her duties that bothered Miss Holloway the most. Punishments were meted out either after lunch or after supper. Girls who were to see the headmaster in the afternoon would report to Mrs Holloway’s office after the midday meal, while everyone else had a rest period. Sometimes there would be several of them slated for these awe-inspiring meetings. They would sit on the half dozen chairs laid out for visitors along one wall of the office until either Mr Masterson or Mrs Winchester buzzed on the intercom to tell the secretary to send in the first victim or the first group, if several girls had been involved in the same incident. The rest would fidget nervously on their chairs or else si
t pale and immobile, like rabbits caught in a car’s headlights. They rarely spoke. Although the door to the headmaster’s study, just across the corridor from the secretary’s office, was made of heavy oak, there was no mistaking the sound of a thrashing: the smack of Stinger, the whack of the tawse, or the crack of a cane, all too often followed by a cry or a yell. At this point, even the bravest would start to chew their lips or flick nervous glances at the door to the study, waiting for the sufferer to emerge, red-eyed, tear-stained, and clasping her backside. Then the anxious look towards Miss Holloway: who would be next? The fluttering in the stomach - half hope, because it was better to get the whole thing over with; half fear that the dreaded moment of truth had arrived.
Of course anyone might have been upset at having to supervise girls in such an obvious state of distress and it would have been quite normal to feel some sympathy for them in their plight, no matter what they had done or how much they might deserve what was coming to them. Miss Holloway’s problem lay elsewhere. To her shame and moral confusion, she found she was becoming erotically excited on these occasions.
Of course she felt an empathy with the poor, frightened girls, but she was undeniably turned on by what was happening just a few feet away in the headmaster’s study. The clearer the sound of the punishment coming from within his sanctum, the more thrilled she felt. She would see the waiting victims in a new light, imagining how they would soon look, with their pants pulled down, their skirts raised, their hands grasping the wooden seat of a chair or the edge of the headmaster’s desk, their bottoms lifted - anticipating, pale and unmarked, the first swish of the brush or leather or rattan. On these occasions Miss Holloway could feel her own underwear becoming damp and she would blush inwardly at the depravity of her thoughts.
Some of the ‘victims’ fell into well-defined categories:
The wretched figure of the Fourth Former, awaiting her first taste of Stinger. At least she’d be allowed to keep her knickers on. Miss Holloway imagined her struggling to stay still as the heavy hairbrush smacked against the thin, tightly-stretched cotton. How would ‘Three Taps’ position her? Holding her ankles, perhaps. But now the girl was moving so restlessly on her chair that one of her white socks had slipped halfway down her leg. The headmaster hated slovenliness: she would have to tell her to pull it up before she went in.
BEXHILL SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, Assembly Page 3
