by Victor Bruno
“I admit it merits more,” said the Sergeant, “but circumstances alter cases.”
“I suppose so,” said Dad. I think he had in mind giving me considerably more than 12, so that the Sergeant’s suggestion was beneficent to me. Then a quite horrible thought came to me. Did Dad intend to cane me in front of him? Oh surely not!
It immediately became apparent that he did!
“Normally,” he said, “I punish Joan in her bedroom but, on this occasion, it seems more appropriate that I do so here. If you have no objections, Sergeant?”
“None at all, Mr. Reeves,” said the Sergeant calmly. But he didn’t look calm. His cheeks were of a higher colour and his eyes were bright. I felt sick with horror. How could this be happening? The whole thing was indecent!
“Joan,” said Dad, “go and fetch the cane. You know where it is kept.” I did indeed. In a cupboard in the kitchen.
“D-Dad ... Dad ... please ... not this way ...”
“GO AND FETCH THE CANE,” said Dad in a steely kind of voice. I could see he was really angry that I had gone to the Police. If I hadn’t run up against a sympathiser like Sergeant Faraday, it is possible that Dad would have run into trouble. I really don’t know.
Still feeling sick, I went and fetched the cane and came back to the front room. It seemed incredible that I, at 17 years of age, was going to be punished in front of a stranger. The two were still sitting there, facing each other in armchairs. Dad took the cane and flexed it. “This will need to be put in the bath tonight,” he said, “it’s not quite supple enough for my liking.” The cane was soaked in the bath regularly, once or twice a week.
Dad stood up and swung his chair around so that the back was facing the Sergeant. “I want you over the back of this chair, Joan,” he said sternly.
“Oh Dad ... please ... please ... no ... NO!” I cried out. “Do as I say ... at once!”
Still I hesitated. I was appalled and frightened. “Need any help?” asked the Sergeant.
“Not at the moment,” replied Dad, “but I shall want some cord and a scarf. I’ll go and get them.”
He went out of the room and I was left alone with the Sergeant, who eyed me up and down.
“You rather asked for this, young lady,” he said. I made no reply. I was seething with fury against him. Surely an Officer of the Law shouldn’t be allowing such things to go on!
Dad returned sooner than I expected.
“Right,” he said, “let’s get on with it. Over you go, Joan.”
I wanted to run from the room. I wanted to run miles and miles away. But it felt as if I were paralysed. I was conscious of the Sergeant rising from his chair and, the next moment, I was gripped round the waist and placed over the back of the chair. I shrieked, kicking wildly.
“Oooowww ... oh you little bitch!” rasped the Sergeant. Obviously I had caught him in a painful spot. I was glad. Not so glad, however, as with the Sergeant holding me down over the chair, Dad swiftly corded my wrists to the front of the chair’s castors and asked:
“Did she hurt you?”
“Indeed she did!” said the Sergeant.
“It shall be six extra for that,” said Dad. “Seems only fair,” said the Sergeant.
Then the familiar silk scarf was placed over the lower half of my face and knotted tight. Dad made his usual remark. “Don’t want to disturb the neighbours,” he said.
The Sergeant gave a little chuckle. “No, that would never do.” I heard him sit down again in his armchair. I was right before him, draped over the back of the armchair. I was quite helpless, able to move a little bit to left or right but no more. It was terrible, terrible!
“Dad ... ooohh ... Dad ... you can’t!” I tried to say, my voice muffled by the scarf.
For answer, Dad simply lifted up my gym slip and tucked the end of it under my waist belt. The next moment he was pulling down my blue serge knickers. They fell to my knees. It was the second time the Sergeant had seen my bare bottom that day. It was unbelievable ... absolutely intolerable ... but I sensed he was enjoying it. This was not simply a matter of Police duty ... it was a matter of disgusting male indecency.
“Eighteen then, Sergeant. Right?” “Right!”
“Twelve from me, six from you.” “Right.”
My mind reeled. Surely Dad wasn’t going to let this beastly policeman cane me!
The cane tapped my poor tender bottom. I felt my nates clenching convulsively with dread. Then there came the whistle of the first stroke ... and the streak of liquid fire as the cane bit into my flesh. I howled into the scarf, threshing madly, kicking and squirming. Dad waited until the tumult had subsided a little, then he gave me my second. He was laying on from the left hand side so that the tip of the cane bit excruciatingly into my right lank. He caned far harder than Miss Elliot. Two red-hot bars of torment were already encircling my buttocks.
And it was only just beginning!
The caning continued with remorseless venom. Every nerve-fibre seemed to become on fire. I struggled against my bonds even more frantically, but it was quite hopeless.
After six strokes, Dad changed sides and it was then my left flank which felt the biting tip. Oh how I screamed! Yet those screams were well muffled. Oh how I writhed! But all to no avail.
Dimly I was horribly aware that the spectacle I was making must be pleasing to the watching Sergeant.
I lost count of the strokes I had already received. I just knew I couldn’t bear any more. Yet, at the same time, I knew I was going to have to.
It had stopped. I was snorting and whimpering down my nostrils, tears were pouring over my cheeks.
“Here you are, Sergeant,” said Dad. “Don’t spare her.” I wished I could have died at that moment!
“You don’t kick an Officer of the Law in his private parts,” I heard him say thickly. Then I got the first of the six strokes he was going to deliver. And, much as I had suffered at Dad’s hands, this was more appalling than anything I had experienced before.
To be thrashed by a complete stranger! It was inhuman! Monstrous!
Yet it happened.
The Sergeant caned as hard as Dad, if not harder, and I was reduced to semi-hysterical weeping with my poor bottom performing the most amazing contortions.
When it was finally over, and 18 blazing weals encircled my buttocks, I just lay there still weeping, my shoulders heaving and heaving. Oh the injustice of it! I was weeping tears of self-pity as much as pain. They exchanged some remarks but I was too distraught to comprehend what was being said. All I wanted to do was get my knickers up again and get out of the room. Shame burst like a brand within me. Can you imagine what it was like for a 17-year-old, who already felt most grown-up, to be treated like that?
At last Dad undid the cords and I shot off the chair, pulling up my blue serge knickers as I did so.
“Put the cane back in the cupboard and go to your room,” ordered Dad. I took it from him and hastened to the door. I simply couldn’t bear to look the Sergeant in the face.
Now, as I have said, Sergeant Faraday comes every Friday evening. Doubtless they chat about my behaviour, and that of Elsie’s, and if it has been necessary for me to be punished.
It is still three years before I become of age.
How am I going to stand being at home all that time? Perhaps I will run away. But where would I go? And what would happen to me if I were caught and brought back home?
That scarcely bears thinking about! June 13th.
Elsie and I got into an argument late this afternoon about whose turn it was to do the washing up. She insisted it was mine when I knew it wasn’t. The upshot was we got into a bit of a scrap and started pulling each other’s hair. At that moment, Dad came into the kitchen and pulled us apart.
“I’ll deal with this tonight,” he said ominously. “Now you can both help
each other do the washing up.”
We did so in sullen silence, both blaming the other for what had happened. I kept wondering what Dad had meant by ‘deal with’.
By 8 o’clock I was in my bedroom as usual and at 8.30 I heard him coming up the stairs. My heart began to thump and I had that familiar feeling of sick apprehension. Who would he go to first? Then I heard Elsie’s door open and waited tensely to hear what was going to happen. Strap or cane?
I was trembling inside. Then I heard the squeak of the bed as Elsie knelt on it, followed almost immediately afterwards by the sound of the strap falling across her bare bottom.
Dad didn’t usually bother to secure us for the strap since, though it hurt, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the cane. Nor did he use the scarf to gag us.
“Oooowww!” I heard Elsie gasp.
Then she got the second. Tthhwwaacckk! She ‘oooowwwed’ again and went on ‘ooowwing’ as the leathern thong continues to fall. I waited with nerves stretching when Dad reached six. Was that going to be it? I found myself praying it would be ... and my prayer was answered. Dad said something to Elsie then I heard him opening her door. The next moment he opened mine and came in, strap swinging in his hand.
The strap is of dark brown leather, about 18 inches long and two inches wide. I suppose it’s almost a quarter of an inch thick.
“Kneel on the bed, Joan,” he said. “Pull up your nightie and put your face into the pillow.”
One didn’t argue with him; we’d both learnt that. I did as I was told immediately but had to admit to myself it was becoming more and more difficult for me to bare my bottom for him. After all, I was a young lady now.
“Your bottom’s healed up nicely,” he said. I made no answer to this. “You know why you’re going to be punished, of course,” he went on. I still said nothing. “Since you are older than your sister and should know better, I shall have to be more severe with you. Twelve.”
I uttered a gasp of dismay, having imagined I would get no more than six. Twelve from that strip of leather is hard to take, especially when a stroke falls where one has fallen previously.
“You know the rules,” he said.
I did indeed. If an arm or hand got in the way, you got that stroke again. If the pain was so bad you twisted off the bed, you got that stroke again and two extra. Sometimes I wish Dad would secure us for a strapping, then you’d have no option but to take it.
The first stroke came ... stinging, burning. It doesn’t bite like the cane but has a broader, deeper blazing effect. A different sort of pain which does not last so long. I clawed my hands into the pillow, gasping at each ‘tthhwwaacckk’ of the strap. It isn’t too bad up to six but after that it really begins to hurt.
“Oooowww!” I yelped as number 7 fell, my head jerking up, my bottom twisting left and right. Dad had laid over an earlier stroke. He did so three more times before he got to number 12. Once it hurt so much I couldn’t help throwing back an arm. But I quickly replaced it and, as it hadn’t interfered, I got away with it.
“We’ll have no more of that nonsense, girl,” said Dad when he had finished. “Get back into bed.”
With bottom turning hot, I got between the sheets. “Goodnight, Joan,” he said as he went towards the door. “Goodnight, Dad,” I answered meekly.
Five minutes later I’d got a cold flannel and was urgently pressing it again and again to my burning cheeks. June 14th.
This morning my bottom was still sore after the strapping Dad gave me last night. 12 strokes from that strap is no laughing matter, believe me. It burns and burns, deep, deep, and I hate and fear it. But not as much as the cane. That can be absolute agony.
I’ve just worked out that I haven’t had the cane for over three weeks. That must be something of a record. Perhaps I am getting better?
Elsie has not been so lucky. She got 18 strokes just ten days ago. That was when she was caught playing with herself. 18 strokes is really terrible and I don’t think even now Elsie has properly recovered from it. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure she has not played with herself since.
Sometimes I think Dad is very strict but, talking to friends when I was at school, it seemed other parents were just the same. Sometimes the Mum handed out punishments but, as often enough, it was the Dad.
Mrs. Jenkins our elderly charwoman has been today so that the house is quite clean and nice. I cooked Dad’s supper of liver and bacon and he seemed quite pleased with it.
Early to bed as usual. Eight o’clock sharp, in fact.
June 16th
This has been a terrible day and I scarcely know if I will be able to write down all that has happened. But I must make a big effort to record everything in my Diary. I don’t quite know why but I think, one day, it might be quite important.
From time to time I start crying and tears drop and smudge my Journal pages. I am working in my bedroom, secretly, by candlelight, but I can always easily hear Dad coming up the stairs. So I have plenty of time to blow out the candle, push the Diary into a drawer, and leap back into bed. It’s a simple precaution; on the other hand, Dad very rarely comes into our bedrooms unless he is going to punish us.
This morning, as usual, I left just before nine am. to walk to Mr. Mason’s office. He has a wife named Daisy who I once briefly ran into just outside the office. She is about Mr. Mason’s age, round forty, very skinny and rather haggard. She looks as if she could do with a lot of feeding up.
I reached the office on time and found Mr. Mason already at his desk. He usually arrives about a quarter of an hour after I do. Coming out of the inner office, he gave me a half smile and took my coat. I felt his fingers brushing down my arms and shivered. Mr. Mason could not be said to be exactly unpleasant but there are moments when he makes my flesh creep. Like when he looks at my breasts. Sometimes I wish those breasts were not so large and prominent, but I can’t help it.
We exchanged the usual pleasantries, with him saying how nice I looked. As he did so I was aware he was looking at my breasts at that moment. I had on a pale blue, rather tight blouse and felt very self-conscious and could not help flushing a little.
“I want you to come into my office right away, Joan,” he said. “I have something important to discuss.”
I supposed he had some urgent letters. I have learnt shorthand and take all his dictation; type his letters and do the books. It’s quite hard work really and I don’t get paid much. Thirty shillings a week to be precise. As Dad takes a pound of that I’m not left with much.
Anyway I went into Mr. Mason’s office and sat down. My chair is kept away from the desk and I suppose this is because he likes to get a look at my legs. I used to think I might be imagining such things but now I am quite sure I was right.
“Joan,” he said solemnly, “I am very disappointed in you. I never thought a girl like you would do such a thing.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Mason?” “About stealing from the Petty Cash.”
At once, though I was completely innocent, I blushed scarlet. “I have never stolen a penny, Mr. Mason,” I blurted out.
“Naturally, you would say that, Joan,” he said calmly, “but I have been keeping an eye on the float for the last few weeks. There have been discrepancies.”
“That can’t be true!” I cried out,
“I’m afraid it is, Joan.” He gave me a condescending smile. “After all, I am an accountant.” He flipped through some notes. “In the last few weeks, the float has become thirty pounds short. How do you explain that?”
“I ... I can’t ...” I answered weekly. I was bewildered. All so unreal. I had stolen nothing, yet he seemed so assured. Could I have done it without knowing? It did not seem possible.
“Then,” said Mr. Mason, “I shall have to inform your father ... and the police.”
Panic gripped me. The thought
of this - innocent as I was - being revealed to Dad and that odious Sergeant Faraday at the Police Station was quite unbearable.
“Nooooooo!” I cried out despairingly.
I am not going to write down a lot of unnecessary details of what followed. I have not got the time nor the inclination. All I will say is that he kept on accusing me and showing me ‘proof’ from his figures. I went on denying it all.
Finally he said: “We shall have to let the Law decide. I shall want you in my office at five o’clock this evening, Joan, when I shall come to a final decision. Now ... I have clients to visit. Get on with yesterday’s dictation and do the filing. I shall be back some time this afternoon.”
It can be imagined what kind of day I spent. Alternately going hot and cold. Thinking about what my father would say ... and DO! Thinking about what the Police would do. Although I was innocent, I sensed everything was against me. A respectable accountant’s word against mine. Who would win?
By the time Mr. Mason returned my nerves were in a terrible state. I had been crying a lot and knew my eyes were red. By the time Mr. Mason called me into his office, my nerves were ragged raw. I had been constantly thinking about what Dad would do to me. I would get the worst caning I’d EVER had! Worse, I might be sent to a Reform School.
Mr. Mason’s eyes were upon me. I felt like a rabbit before a snake. “Joan,” he said softly, “I can’t tell you how much this upsets me. I have come to a decision. To give you a sort of ... another chance ...”
Relief swept through me like a strong tide. “Oh Mr. Mason, I can’t thank you enough ... I’ll always ... always ... be grateful!” I cried.
“Steady Joan. You don’t know what the alternative is yet.” “Alternative?”
“Yes. The alternative to my telling your father and the Police what you have done.” I wasn’t protesting my innocence any longer. Why?
“What is it?” My voice was no more than a whisper.
I saw Mr. Mason looking pleased and confident. Excited almost.
