The Girls of Cropton Hall

by Stanlegh Meresith

  "Oh yes, I didn't mean..."

  "You must remember Miss Moffat?"

  "Muffy?"

  Verily laughed. "Yes, Muffy. Well, she was definitely that way inclined."

  "Gosh! Do you know, I never realised!"

  "No, well, you were very innocent in those days, Patricia, if I remember rightly."

  "Yes, I was rather, wasn't I?"

  "And if you promise on your honour not to breathe a word, I shall tell you a little more about Margaret and Monica."

  "Oh, yes please! I love gossip!"

  "There'll be no gossiping about this, Patricia Desmond!" said Verily firmly.

  Patricia was a bit taken aback, but when she saw the twinkle in Verily's eye, she giggled. "No, Headmistress," she said, meekly.

  Verily then told her the story of how she had brought Margaret and Monica together: of their respective self-denials, of Margaret's pained shyness and masochism and Monica's self-disgust and sadism - she even confided about Monica's excessive beating of Pearson, though not without some assurances that that kind of thing would not be repeated. Patricia of course was no stranger to the injustices that can occur in a girls' boarding school - her own treatment at the hands of Miss Bates being a case in point, as she reminded Verily.

  "Of course, Patricia, of course. Sometimes I get so caught up in playing Headmistress I forget I'm among friends who know me, who know the school. Anyway, it's transformed Monica - she's become an absolute pleasure to work with, quite a change from the dour, unhappy woman she used to be. And, if anything, she's now too lenient with the girls! In fact, I may have to have a word!"

  With the flow and glow of the evening's wines loosening her tongue, Verily went on to describe how she had dealt with Prudence Waring, and the transformation effected in the young mistress by the caning she had given her. And on the subject of young mistresses, and with Patricia hanging flushed and eager on her every word, she also described how she had responded to Emily Stokes and her need for correction that had satisfied at the same time another kind of need. When eventually she paused and sipped her port, there was a silence as Patricia, perched on the edge of her sofa, looked down, contemplating her own glass.

  "Verily ... forgive me for asking, but ... what about you? What about your needs? Does anyone ever ask?"

  There was another silence. Verily looked down at her own glass and, for once, felt less than assured. In fact, she was blushing and she could sense that confessions approached. Patricia went on:

  "You've spoken of masochism - Margaret, the Emily girl, possibly this Miss Waring as well - and ... I must confess that I do sometimes think about ... those times, those punishments here, with ... gosh, now I'm a little embarrassed ... well, with excitement! You know? I don't know why - I certainly didn't enjoy it at the time, but the thought of being bent over ... getting whacked ... the pumping of my heart ... the relief afterwards ... I suppose I yearn to feel that alive again..."

  Verily felt paralysed, glued to her seat, and her face was now very flushed. Patricia got up and came to sit next to her. She placed a hand on Verily's knee. Verily looked down at the bright patterns on Patricia's summery skirt.

  "Do you, Verily? Do you think back to those days and sometimes wish...?"

  Verily felt a tingling in her feet which rose rapidly up through her legs - a wave of energy that then surged up her spine to become an intense glowing in the centre of her forehead. She took a huge breath and the paralysis was gone and she felt a joy and a playfulness such as she hadn't felt for a long time.

  "Oh Patricia! Yes, yes, I do! And I'm so glad you do too. I do - a lot! I have mentioned it to Margaret, but, well ... as Headmistress, and the person most responsible for doling out punishments, I've felt ... I really must keep it to myself."

  They gazed at each other excitedly, the joy in the one's eyes feeding that in the other's. Patricia jumped up suddenly.

  "So ... where is it then?"

  "Where's what?" Verily giggled.

  "Where's Molly? I have got to see that cane again. It made me so terrified I can't tell you."

  "It's behind the desk."

  Patricia walked over. "So there you are, you beast!" She picked it up and came back to the front of the desk, waving it up and down, feeling its weight and bendiness. Verily stood up, smiling. Then Patricia raised the cane higher and swished it through the air with some force, admiring the sound.

  "I heard about the swishing you gave Rachel," said Verily.

  "Yes, well, she deserved it," said Patricia without taking her eyes off the movement of the cane as she continued to waft it up and down. She turned to Verily, brandishing the cane. "So, Markham, perhaps you would care to explain why it is that you've chosen to keep things to yourself so much, eh?"

  Verily raised her eyebrows and felt a twinge of excitement. Her heart skipped a beat.

  "That," continued Patricia emulating pretty accurately the stern voice of Miss Bentley, their old Headmistress, "smacks of selfishness to me, Markham, which as you very well know is something I am NOT prepared to tolerate. You, young lady, are in need of a rude awakening." Patricia tapped the desk with the end of the cane. "Over here, please, and be sharp about it."

  Verily stood and gazed at Patricia in surprised admiration, undecided as to how to react. She could very easily have laughed and put an end to the make-believe, but a hollow feeling was beginning to grow in the pit of her stomach, and her heart was quickening, bringing back memories ... this room, this desk. It required a readjustment after the weeks, the years, of fulfilling her adult role, but it was a switch that became more enticing as each moment passed.

  "NOW, girl," barked Patricia. The resemblance to Miss Bentley's harsh tones was now uncanny. Verily jumped and started towards the desk. But then she noticed she was still holding her glass of port and with an embarrassed laugh she went to put it down on the coffee table. As she turned back, she saw Patricia rolling up her right sleeve, just as Miss Bentley used to do when she really meant business. Verily took a deep breath and allowed herself to enter the fantasy, to savour the moment. Slowly, she walked over towards the desk, her heart pounding, the blood rushing in her head, her palms beginning to sweat. She didn't look at Patricia, only at the edge of the desk and at the cane.

  She stood facing her own chair and again took a deep breath. She placed her hands on the sides of her skirt and turned to look enquiringly at her friend.

  "You may keep your skirt on for the first six strokes, Markham, whilst I find my range. After that, you will find me considerably less merciful. Now bend over, girl. Right over. You know the position."

  As Verily bent forward, slowly extending her torso across the green leather surface of this familiar friend, reaching out to wrap her fingers around its far edge, the physicality of the returning memories became even more intense. She'd chosen, given the warm weather, a light cotton dark blue suit this morning, and as the thin material tightened across her buttocks she found herself contemplating the masochist's paradox: she was afraid, and she was glad, that the protection the skirt afforded would be skimpy at best. She wriggled into position and thrust her bottom out.

  Patricia stood back, raised the cane and brought it smartly down to swipe across the centre of the dark blue target.

  Mmmm ... that swish, that jolt and ... wait for it ... that sting again ... and now it builds and spreads ... hot and slightly throbbing.

  As Patricia gained confidence in her handling of the large Molluccan cane, the strokes gained in strength. Verily breathed deeply, savouring her helplessness, letting the stinging heat spread and fill her. The sixth made her gasp as it seared a line over a previous stripe. She shifted uncomfortably.

  "Right, Markham," came Patricia's voice. "stand up and lift your skirt out of the way."

  Verily rose slowly, allowing herself a quick rub and squeeze to ease her stinging cheeks. Then she reached down and lifted her skirt up over her buttocks onto her hips, bunching and tucking it under itself until it rested satisfactorily at
the foot of her lower back.

  "Knickers down, Markham, and bend over!"

  And it wasn't Patricia's voice now - it was Miss Bentley who barked the familiar command. Verily shivered as she lowered her knickers to her knees and bent back over the desk. She was seventeen again and steeling herself to endure.

  The cool air on her buttocks ... the ticking of the clock in the corner (which Meeth, she'd noted, had never once mentioned!) ... her pounding heart that seemed to trap her breath ... her awed awareness of the Headmistress standing behind her, an angry nemesis eyeing with greedy punitive intent those round white mounds of her soft flesh upon which was about to be wreaked a painful revenge for youth's misdeeds ... all conspired to create that fearful, tingling, terrible, wonderful aliveness.

  And the punishment began.

  38. The Girls of Cropton Hall

  On Friday night, Verily had applied arnica to her buttocks, taken two aspirin and enjoyed a deeply satisfied if slightly fitful sleep. When she awoke at six, her bottom throbbed only slightly more than her head. She silently cursed that lethal port. Tottering unsteadily to the basin, she poured water and gulped down two glasses. Somewhat recovered, she went to her mirror. Lifting her nightie and peering over her shoulder at her 'traitors', she ran her fingers over the wealed, ridged, surface of her beautiful, round bottom and sighed with pleasure and pride. It's strange, she thought, how some things never change.

  As she dressed, her mind ran over the exciting denouement to the evening before.

  After the six on her skirt, Patricia had caned her on her bare bottom - it must have been about thirty strokes, maybe more, delivered slowly and deliberately, getting progressively fiercer before she had finally cried out, 'Enough' and jumped up. Almost blind with the pain, she'd hopped and danced, dignity be damned, while Patricia had watched in a mixture of alarm, sympathy and amusement.

  But oh! What a release! She'd sobbed her heart out. Patricia had hugged her and stroked her hair and muttered sweet soothings till Verily was calm and spent, nursing her sorest bottom in twenty-five years.

  It was too early now to see how Patricia was, so she sat at the small bureau and opened her journal. She unscrewed her fountain pen, laid the top to one side and stared up at the reproduction of Le dejeuner sur l'herbe on the wall above. After a few moments she leaned forward and wrote.

  October 2nd 1953.

  Patricia Desmond - Thomas now, of course - caned me last night. It was utterly liberating. She sounded so like old Bentley it was as if I were back in 1929 again. She gave me six over my skirt ('to get her range' she said - and wasn't that what she did with Rachel? In Chapter - not sure - it was early on in Meeth's book, 'our' book I suppose I should say).

  And then she gave me a seeing-to such as I've never had before. I'm feeling it now as I write.

  I have no idea how I bore so many. My bottom this morning is a sorry (delicious!) sight, but (and) I feel wonderful. She didn't do Bentley's two minute wait between each stroke but it must have been at least half a minute, enough to let each one sink in, to feel the way the pain changes and spreads. I'm not sure exactly when I started to cry out but I was definitely struggling after a dozen or so. She stopped and asked if I was all right. I wasn't (!) but I knew I could bear more and somehow I wanted to go as far as I could - that old, familiar 'punish me' thought. I said I'd tell her when I'd had enough. So, on she went. It was relentless. But just when I thought I couldn't take another, the pain would subside a little and I'd think, 'just one more'.

  After I'd recovered, even though I wasn't really in the mood, I asked Patricia if she'd like me to return the favour. She looked uncertain - a little afraid - but nodded and said, 'Yes, please, but ... I couldn't take what you just did.' Maybe so, but Mrs Thomas turned out to be almost as much of a glutton as me.

  I played ... well, myself really - stern Headmistress (and though I say it myself, I do do it rather well). To give Patricia a measure of control over proceedings, I told her that a young lady must take responsibility for her actions and that when those actions were deserving of punishment, then such a young lady must also take responsibility for determining the exact nature of that punishment. I left it to her to confess her misdemeanour and sent her to the middle drawer to choose an implement and decide the number.

  Patricia's a fine figure of a woman! We had her skirt up and knickers down for a smart dozen with the black plimsoll which made her grunt and gasp as her bottom turned pink. But she grinned as she got up, even gave me a wink. I just eyed her sternly and asked if she had anything else she wished to bring to my attention.

  She did. In fact she had several very imaginative further items of mischief to confess to! We graduated to the hairbrush (six on each buttock which really made her yelp), the strap (another dozen, and by now she was whimpering in self-pity and came up with tears on her cheeks) and finally the junior then the senior cane - six of each - which made her cry out quite piteously. By the end her lovely bottom was puce and striped. She too had a good sob and we hugged, tightly, for ages, both I think feeling the deep closeness that comes from shared experience, especially when it's of so rare, so ... normally unmentionable a nature.

  We had a last glass of port each (wish I hadn't now!) and I showed her to Monica's room.

  Sir Stanlegh will be here soon. I'm intrigued. And I'm sitting here wondering ... who's writing this?

  ---oOo---

  Lustily they sang, the girls of Cropton hall, the morning hymn, taken from the Epiphany section of Hymns Ancient and Modern:

  "Oh, verily, Thou seest my evil sins,

  And sorely I regret each wicked deed,

  But for my heart Thy grace redemption wins

  And kindly dost my soul to heaven lead.

  Thy rod and, yea, Thy staff shall comfort me,

  So, meek, I bend before Thy gracious gaze.

  Chastise me for my gross infirmity

  That I may learn Thy cleansing, holy ways.

  Now our Creator doth before us stand,

  Compassion pouring forth to heal our plight.

  We harken to His voice, we take His hand,

  That He may guide us to His glorious light.

  The dying echo of the organ's last chord was followed by the rustling of a hundred girls closing their hymn books and sitting back down on their pews. And a hundred faces - some bright, some sleepy, some bored - watched as their Headmistress stepped up to the lectern.

  "Good morning, girls!" Her voice was gentle yet it filled the hall. "First, let me congratulate you on the way you all conducted yourselves yesterday. You did the school proud. It was indeed a Founders' Day to remember! I received glowing reports of your good behaviour from a number of visitors and staff. The orchestra played beautifully, the choir were angelic and the hockey team acquitted themselves honourably against an older and stronger team." She paused. "And congratulations, especially, to 4B who won the Form Group Performance competition ... I hope their tummies have recovered from the very thorough demolition job they did on the hampers donated by Sir Wilfred Althorp!" Appreciative laughter rippled through the hall.

  "Now, girls, we have, this morning, a very special visitor who's come all the way from London to address you." She glanced across at Sir Stanlegh who stood to the side of the stage looking dapper in a black suit, white shirt and dark tie. "His name is Sir Stanlegh Meeth and he is our most generous benefactor. In fact," she said with a faint smile, "I think I can safely say that without him, none of us would be here today. Sir Stanlegh is a writer and teacher and takes a great interest in the education of girls and young women such as yourselves, for which we are all, I'm sure, very grateful. He has requested that a group of girls and staff meet with him in my study after this assembly. I will read out the names of those involved after Sir Stanlegh has concluded his address. So, girls, please give a warm welcome to our distinguished visitor ... Sir Stanlegh Meeth."

  She stood back from the lectern and led the applause. It was polite and petered out quickly. Verily moved
away to stand at the end of the row of staff seated at the back of the stage. Sir Stanlegh stepped forward and stood by the lectern. He clasped his hands together before him and surveyed the hall. A long silence ensued before he finally cleared his throat and then, projecting his deep voice with a teacher's assurance, he began:

  "Thank you, Miss Markham, for your generous introduction. It's a remarkable circumstance that has led to my standing here this morning before you all ..." He held out an arm and turned to include the staff in his gesture, "... you, the girls of Cropton Hall. But let me say first that your Headmistress exaggerates when she claims you wouldn't be here today without my ... support. Of course you would! You brought yourselves here, and I've done no more than try to breathe life into this wonderful school after what had been a lengthy period of ..." He looked for the word on the ceiling, "... bscurity."

  The fourth-formers in the front rows weren't the only ones looking mystified. What's he talking about? Some had started to fidget already and Miss Bainbridge sat up very visibly in her chair at the side of the stage and frowned down at them.

  "And I must also tell you," he went on, "that I'm not alone in taking such a great interest in your progress. I have many friends who have followed your fortunes with an equally close eye. On their behalf let me thank you all for your efforts." He cleared his throat again. "Miss Markham has shared with me a detailed account of the activities here at Cropton Hall this term, and I must say that my friends and I have been most impressed by the many examples of courage and ingenuity, of comradeship and, yes, endurance, that so many of you, staff and pupils alike, have shown."

  He turned suddenly and looked up at the school crest. Raising his hand to shield his eyes from the lights above, he peered up at it for several moments, noting the unseen tear still poised on the girl's cheek. A deathly hush fell on the hall. What's he looking up there for?

  "For example, SWACK," he continued, turning back to the girls. At the mention of the word there was a collective gasp. "The Society of Whacked and Caned Knightesses! Although I understand it's been the subject of a certain minor scandal, this was, we felt, a particularly imaginative initiative by those of you who got it going and ... " He held his arms out towards them, "...I would urge you all to join."