Over the Knee

by Fiona Locke

  ‘The headmaster held the cane behind his back as he stalked up and down the room, between the lines of anxious boys, as if we were soldiers on parade and he was the general about to have us shot. Mr Carew was standing by the door, watching coldly. Our actions had reflected just as badly on him as on us; our reign of terror had occurred right under his nose. No doubt he was there to prevent us from bolting.

  ‘The headmaster pursed his lips and said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was just one word. “Four.” I had been expecting six, but four was no relief. The fixed number suddenly made it more real. As though up to that point it had all been just a bad dream and we could still wake up.

  ‘We all knew it would hurt. Some of us even knew we deserved it. He had pronounced sentence and now he would carry it out.

  ‘With one last sweeping glare up and down the lines he chose his starting place. Dering, a boy in my row, two beds down from me on the right. He was cox of the First Eight and something of a natural leader.’

  Peter paused to take a sip of wine and I realised I had been holding my breath. I could actually feel the crackling tension in the air, hear the soft rasp of frightened shifting feet on the cold floorboards.

  ‘Dering stood to attention as the headmaster stopped in front of him. “Turn around, boy,” he said. “Feet apart. Elbows on the bed.” Dering glanced fearfully down the row at us and got into position, bending across the iron-framed bed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The position pulled his pyjama bottoms tight across his seat. Litchfield stood almost directly to Dering’s left side and measured the cane out across his bottom. Then he drew his arm back and raised it high in the air. It seemed to hang there forever before he finally brought it down like a sabre. It carved the air and there was an almighty whack as it met Dering’s backside. I think we all flinched as one, but Dering made some kind of horrible yelping cry. An animal in pain. He sank halfway to the floor, reaching around with his right hand to clutch his cheeks. Litchfield didn’t say anything. He just waited. And Dering pulled himself together and got back in position. The cane went up again and Dering handled that stroke with a little more dignity. The last two were real stingers and I could tell the headmaster was laying it on as hard as he could. I shuddered. It was almost my turn.

  ‘When he finished with Dering he moved to the next boy, Underhill. Dering got up stiffly and stood in front of his bed. I stared intently at his face. He did his best to disguise the pitiful sniffle, but his eyes were streaming with tears. He was a pretty tough customer, normally, and that scared me more than anything. Suddenly my flimsy pyjamas felt like a winter coat, glued to my skin with icy sweat. Dering slipped his hands behind him and gingerly touched his bottom, baring his teeth with a soft hiss.

  ‘Underhill was stoic and I was immensely grateful for that. If he’d howled and wriggled I think I’d have been even more terrified. But he’d been caned before and knew what to expect. His legs vibrated madly with the effort of staying in position while the cane slashed into his bottom four times. Only the last one dragged a noise from him, a sort of half-yelp, half-grunt that he couldn’t quite suppress. He looked pale, but there were no tears in his eyes as he stood up. Then Litchfield stopped in front of me.

  ‘I assumed the same position I’d seen the first two adopt, my face burning as I awaited my fate. There was a reeling, light-headed sensation, as though I were slightly drunk. And I remember being thankful for my position in the queue. I really felt for the ones at the end, having to watch all of us get it first. The waiting must have been torture.

  ‘I heard the swish and crack and then my backside came alive with pain. I made some strangled gasping noise like Dering had and bent my knees. The headmaster waited for me to get back in position before continuing. I decided it was better not to delay it. I locked my legs in place and gutted it out, anticipating the pain, taking it and letting it course through me like an electric shock. A detached part of me was watching with morbid fascination, analysing. This was a proving ground. For each of us and our masters. None of us could argue that it wasn’t fair. It was richly deserved.

  ‘I stared at the bedclothes, in a kind of trance, as the cane rose and fell. And a strange sort of exhilaration came over me as I imagined having that kind of power over someone else. Having someone offer their bottom up to me like that, wanting to make me proud by taking it. I was removed from the pain by my thoughts, as though I’d made a great discovery. And, just like that, it was over. My bottom throbbed with a pulsing fire, until I seemed to feel every line separately. But I had survived. Litchfield moved on to the next boy and then the next. Right the way round the room until we’d all been dealt with.’

  I was right back there with Peter, watching the mass execution, feeling their strokes and feeding on their pain like a vampire.

  ‘There was one boy who’d worn underpants beneath his pyjama trousers. That just wasn’t done. It was stupid too. Litchfield saw it as soon as he bent over and he got an extra stroke for it. Two of the boys broke down in tears before the end, but that didn’t make Litchfield go any easier on them. After all, it was considered to be character building.’ He thought about it and added with a touch of irony, ‘It certainly helped build mine.’

  I laughed, shaking my head at the story. ‘Amazing,’ was all I could say.

  ‘That’s what I thought at the time. And, of course, once Carew had left, we inspected one another’s marks. They were good ones, too. Red tramlines and blue bruises. Flawlessly aimed and well laid on. You had to admire it. Litchfield was a bloody good swisher and we held him in even higher regard after that. I was never closer to any group of boys at any time in my life. We’d been through something intense together. I guess that’s what they call male bonding.’

  I felt a little stab of envy. ‘Did you leave the dayboys alone after that?’

  He nodded solemnly. ‘Oh yes. We all learnt our lesson. They weren’t any higher in the hierarchy, but they didn’t get bullied any more.’

  I sighed. ‘I wish I’d had that sort of experience. I wonder how it would have changed me. I was a good girl at least, though. Mr Chancellor should have known how hard it was for me to break the rules just to be sent to his office.’

  ‘True. But what if it had been effective? Curbed your behaviour and cured you of the kink?’

  ‘It certainly didn’t cure you!’

  ‘No, but who’s to say it hasn’t cured others?’

  ‘Well, it would be a tragedy,’ I admitted. ‘Though it would have saved a lot of frustration in later years. God knows what I’d be doing my thesis on in that case.’

  Our waiter appeared to clear away our empty plates and asked if we wanted to see the dessert menu. I looked pleadingly at Peter until he relented. We shared a decadent slice of raspberry cheesecake, Peter feeding me like a cherished pet.

  The unspoken threat of what awaited me at his house hung in the air like fog. I couldn’t see anything else for it.

  Peter asked for the bill and my heart began to flutter. I had reached the front of the queue for the roller coaster and was about to climb aboard. All I could think of was Peter’s description of the dormitory caning.

  He gave his credit card to the waiter and looked at me. His whole demeanour had changed. ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded once, no trace of a smile. ‘So you should be.’

  I picked up my wineglass, disappointed to find it empty. So I plucked distractedly at crumbs on the table, my chin in my hand.

  ‘Angie,’ he said in a low tone. ‘Stop sulking. Sit up straight.’

  I obeyed instantly, lowering my head as the waiter returned with the credit card receipt.

  ‘You’ll have plenty to sulk about when I’m finished with you,’ he continued, well aware that we weren’t alone. ‘Just wait till I get you home, young lady.’

  The waiter stopped short, blinking in surprise at Peter. I chewed my lip, wishing I were invisible. The waiter cleared his throat awkwardly and
fumbled with the receipt as he set it on the table, darting a surreptitious glance at me. ‘Have a good night,’ he said, before hurrying away.

  Eight

  I MOANED SOFTLY and clenched my cheeks in dread. Gooseflesh stood out on my arms and legs and I repressed a shiver as I watched his hand close around the cane, lifting it up and out of my line of sight.

  ‘The Old Vicarage’ said the placard on the stone wall. Set well back from the road into the village, the double-pile house stood at the end of a short winding drive, nestled among the trees. Chimney stacks rose from the side walls of each of the four gables. The keystone above the panelled front door gave the date: 1726.

  I had never been intimidated by a house before. But the simple elegance of the Georgian façade seemed to enhance the formality of what was about to happen to me. Its symmetrical proportions promised order and stability. Uncompromising tradition.

  I lingered on the drive, gazing up at the house. The dark brickwork glistened from the recent rain. Elaborate stucco architraves surrounded the five bays of sash windows.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, sincere but also playing for time.

  ‘Thank you.’

  With a knowing look, Peter took me by the hand to lead me inside. As the door closed behind us, I had the sense that I was stepping back in time. I couldn’t help but admire the period details. We stood in a wide panelled entrance hall flanked by two pairs of doors. Regency chairs sat between each pair and a faded Oriental rug ran the length of the hallway. The farther door on the right led to the kitchen, but the other three doors were closed. At the rear of the hallway stood a painted pine staircase with slender turned balusters, three to a tread. The handrail swept down over the newels, ending in a spiral flourish over the bottom tread. A stately grandfather clock stood facing us beneath the landing, ticking loudly.

  I’d grown up in a rather plain Victorian terraced house in Camden Town and had only ever gazed covetously at the exteriors of the fancier Georgian elevations. And this was a simple vicar’s house.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you worked for English Heritage,’ I said casually, trying to restrain my awe.

  He acknowledged my compliment with a modest smile.

  ‘You’ll have to give me the grand tour,’ I continued, in no hurry to be beaten.

  ‘Afterwards,’ he said, brushing aside my clumsy attempt at distraction. ‘Right now you’re to go upstairs. Second door on the right. Everything you need is in the wardrobe. Report to my study in fifteen minutes.’ He indicated the closed door to the left of the staircase.

  I glanced up at the clock to note the time. ‘OK,’ I croaked, my throat suddenly parched.

  He raised his eyebrows and I corrected myself quickly. ‘Yes, sir.’

  I took a moment to stroke the gracefully curved hand-rail before heading upstairs to the room he’d directed me to. I supposed it was a guest bedroom, as it didn’t look lived in. A mahogany armoire stood against one ochre wall. Inside it hung a crisp white shirt, a navy-blue pleated skirt and a matching school blazer. On the floor of the wardrobe was a paper shopping bag with my surname written on it in neat black marker. Inside I found a pair of white knee socks, white cotton knickers and a blue and grey striped tie. I knew everything would fit perfectly. The precision and planning both fascinated and frightened me.

  Inside the bag was an envelope labelled ‘Angie’. With shaking fingers I fumbled it open.

  ‘You’ve been warned before about safety,’ it read. ‘And you’ve always seemed to feel that rules are there for others and not for you. Last night, your housemaster, Mr Taylor, caught you sneaking back into your dormitory in the small hours, having slipped out to meet a boy. The next morning you are summoned to see the headmaster, Mr Markworthy.’

  I bit my lip as I read. True, it was just a roleplay, but the offence was real and serious. A genuine safety issue. Authenticity would demand an equally serious punishment.

  I’d felt I was stepping back in time when I crossed the threshold of his period house, and putting on the school uniform regressed me in age. Suddenly I was that shy desperate sixteen-year-old again, preparing to meet her fate. This time, though, the headmaster was a disciplinarian. It wouldn’t just be a simple telling off and a hand cramped from writing lines. If Peter wielded the cane as heavily as he had his belt, I would have a very sore bottom indeed. I thought about the story he’d told me at dinner and how the cane had reduced boys to tears. What would it do to me? My heart fluttered against my ribs like a bird desperate to escape its cage.

  I glanced anxiously at my watch every few seconds. The Ravenscroft uniform had been bottle-green, so navy must be his personal preference. The blazer badge bore the name ‘Westfield’. I tried to imagine Peter going into a school outfitter’s and picking out the uniform. He’d probably told the clerks he was buying it for his daughter. The image made my knees weak.

  I didn’t dare present myself as anything but impeccably dressed. I fastened my top button and knotted my tie dutifully – actions that were still second nature to me. Then I lifted my skirt and pulled down my knickers, bending over to see my bottom in the mirror. The marks from his belt were still vivid, but I didn’t think that would earn me any leniency. I suddenly regretted having shared so many details about my punishment fantasies with him. I’d invited him right inside my head and he knew exactly what pushed my buttons. He had to know I’d be disappointed with anything less than the real thing. He had set the bar the other night in the alley near Bond Street. This would be even more intense.

  I hesitated so long that I suddenly realised twenty minutes had passed. Tardiness was not likely to make him sympathetic. With no more time to stall I made my descent. My shoes clattered noisily on the wooden treads, making me wince with each step. I stopped outside the study door, struck by the sense of déjà vu. My unsteady fist knocked softly on the wood.

  ‘Enter.’

  I took a deep breath and opened the door. The room was darkly panelled and imposing. Bookshelves lined the wall to my left and egg-and-dart plaster mouldings encircled the ceiling. Peter – Mr Markworthy – sat at a large oak desk with an envelope before him. He was wearing a formal schoolmaster’s gown. Behind him was a small fireplace with a lavish surround decorated with scrolls. I gaped at my surroundings like a museum visitor.

  ‘Ah, Harker,’ he said. ‘Close the door.’

  I turned the knob and pushed the door soundlessly into its frame, before turning to stand in front of his desk.

  Mr Markworthy stared at me for several seconds, his eyes travelling up and down, scrutinising my uniform. It was a long uncomfortable silence and I shifted my weight nervously, twisting my fingers behind my back.

  ‘Hands at your sides,’ he told me sharply. ‘And stand up straight.’

  I obeyed. At least he could find no fault with my uniform.

  He picked up the envelope and I saw that it had already been opened. He slipped the letter out and unfolded it. I watched as his eyes scanned it and then flicked back to me.

  The cruel suspense made me tremble and I looked down at the floor.

  When he spoke there was a hard edge to his voice. ‘I expect you know what Mr Taylor’s letter says, girl.’

  I pictured the scenario. A schoolgirl – me – slipping her bonds to meet a lad from the neighbouring boys’ school. After some adolescent fumbling in the dark woods between the schools, one or the other would decide that they should be getting back to their respective dormitories. But sneaking back in would prove even harder than sneaking out.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

  I could actually feel the rising panic of being caught. Tiptoeing down the hallway, my shoes in my hand to muffle my passage. The sudden male voice curtly telling me to turn around. I could see myself facing the housemaster, frightened, ashamed, apprehensive. Being given the dread command to report to the headmaster in the morning. I wouldn’t have slept the rest of the night.

  Mr Markworthy adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. ‘Toni
ght I caught Angela Harker trying to return secretly to school after lights out. When confronted, she was insolent and disrespectful. I believe this incident requires stricter measures than I am authorised to administer. Harker shows a persistent disregard for school rules and contempt for authority. This is not the first time that she has broken bounds at night to meet a boy, and she has repeatedly shown poor judgement in matters of personal safety. She seems to feel that danger threatens others, not her.’

  He set the letter aside and looked at me gravely. ‘Well, young lady? Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

  I gulped. I couldn’t very well criticise Mr Taylor for his opinion or call him a liar. But, as the roleplay had one foot in reality, I had to defend myself. ‘I wasn’t really in any danger, sir. It was perfectly safe.’

  ‘Perfectly safe,’ he repeated. ‘In the woods, with a boy, after dark, out of bounds. Is that right?’

  It sounded positively criminal coming from him. ‘Well, yes, sir,’ I had to admit.

  ‘Are you aware that there was a murder committed in those woods a few years ago?’

  ‘Erm, no, sir.’

  He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘That only emphasises your temerity, Harker. You took no steps to find out how dangerous it actually was. But let us come back to the letter. I want to hear your explanation for last night.’

  ‘I just … I mean, I was only …’ I didn’t know what to say. His natural authority had transformed me into a naughty teenager, reduced to stammering lame excuses. He was completely different from the security guard who’d strapped me in an alley two days before. In my head he was really my headmaster.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ he said testily. ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘It was stupid, sir,’ I confessed. ‘And reckless.’

  His eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline and he looked down at the letter again, clearly appalled that I hadn’t said what he wanted to hear. ‘Is that all, Harker?’