by Victor Bruno
Norma was made to kneel on a kind of step, then bent forward over the framework, her wrists being corded to rings at the far end. Cords were then placed around her lower thighs and fastened to two further rings at the back of the framework. Now rendered helpless, Norma began to sob even more fervently. Then her dress was roughly pulled up high, so that she was naked from the small of her back to her ankles.
I looked on in a kind of dream of disbelief, noting how exceedingly white was young Norma’s flesh. Milk white. I saw her rounded buttocks quivering slightly.
“Don’t ... don’t ... ooohhh ... please don’t ...” whined Norma.
Miss Wainwright and the other warder, whose name I learnt later was Miss Harding, went to the bucket and each removed a birch. They were between two and half feet and three feet in length and consisted off some ten to twelve slim, supple twigs held together by cords around the handle end. Water dripped from the twigs on to the floor. I saw that those twigs were green.
Now Miss Wainwright and Miss Harding took up their positions, one on each side of the framework. “Begin,” said the Governor.
Miss Wainwright raised her birch high, water from the twigs spraying. Then those twigs came slashing down, splaying out so that they virtually covered the whole of Norma’s bottom, which was not particularly large. As the twigs spread out and bit individually into the milk-white flesh, Norma was robbed of breath. There were two sucking intakes of air, then a scream of pain was torn from her. Miss Harding now had her birch raised high and this too came slashing down. Once more Norma was robbed of breath, momentarily, before a series of agonised shrieks burst from her.
There was a pause. Norma went on shrieking, her lacerated buttocks clenching and quaking as they twisted left and right in torment. Something like ten seconds must have passed before the birch rods were lain on again. The sound of them descending and lashing into the helpless flesh was hideous. So was the sight of the mass of weals they raised, not only over the buttock cheeks themselves but also around each flank.
Another pause, then two more merciless strokes.
Halfway. Norma had begun to tug uselessly on her bonds. “M-M-M-Mercceeeeeeeeee!” she cried out in a piteous voice. The flogging continued remorselessly. My throat felt as dry as dust; I could not swallow. I was trembling all over and my nails were digging painfully into my palms. Sweat prickled under my armpits. Soon this would be me!
But worse. Twenty four strokes.
Behind, the inmates looked on in silence. Few felt any compassion. Most were simply glad it was not them who was suffering. Before, the Governor and the four warders looked on pitilessly. For her crimes, this girl deserved what she was getting.
Seven! Eight!
“Yyyyyaaaiiiggg .... eeeeeegghhhhh! Oh no more ... NO MORE!” Pause.
Nine! Ten!
Two more stokes to come. That young, writhing bottom was now a complete mass of weals, with scarcely any white flesh to be seen. Yet surprisingly, the skin has not broken.
Eleven! Twelve!
Norma’s voice cracked under her ear-splitting screams. Yet, for her, it was now over. The actual birching, if not the pain. The birches were replaced in the bucket, the two warders standing to one side. In deathly silence, apart from Norma’s incessant sobs and moans, her buttocks were kept on display to all for a good two minutes. An example had been made, a lesson must be fully learned. I watched the tormented twitching of that lacerated bottom. What can Norma have done to deserve this?
“Take her down,” ordered the Governor.
Norma’s wrists and thighs were uncorded and she was lifted off the framework. She could not stand. Unceremoniously she was more or less dragged from the hall by two of the warders. Her sobs and moans faded into the distance.
I saw the Governor’s pitiless eyes upon me. “Put up Joan Reeve,” I am like a zombie, paralysed with fear as I am lifted up. I feel the rough timbers under me. The cords are fastened tight; I am utterly helpless. Then there is the cold air on my flesh as I am nakedly and so shamingly exposed. “Twenty four strokes,” I hear the Governor say and, involuntarily, my buttocks clench violently as I hear the birches being withdrawn from the bucket.
It is about to begin.
***
I do not know how I lived through that terrible experience. It was worse even than the most terrible thrashing Dad had ever given me. An institutional flogging, given in public, is beyond all imagining. It is something quite inhuman.
As the first stroke slashed across my bottom, quickly followed by the second, the biting twigs splaying out, I knew what true torment was. Twelve twigs cutting individually, followed by another twelve falling in the same area.
Agony ... agony!
As Norma had been I was robbed of breath, making the same kind of gasping noises I had done under the freezing shower. Then the cries of pain erupted from my gaping mouth. My head jerking up, I saw the five faces gazing upon me. Cold, smugly satisfied. I was a prostitute. It was only right that I should be flayed.
But, in my own mind, one thing was certain. I would not possibly be able to endure twenty four
Excruciating strokes like that! I would die first. I must die first! Ssssllllaaaasssshhhhhh! Then again. Sssslllaaassshhhhhhhh!
Those green supple, twigs bit deep, deep. Like individual streaks of fire, especially cruel as they whiplashed into the flank. Breathtaking; mind-bending.
Ssssllllaaaasssshhhhhh! Then again. Ssssllllaaaassssshhhhhhh!
That was six. It was only just the beginning and, dear God, already I could not stand anymore! Like Norma had done, and with equal futility, I screamed for mercy. I might as well as screamed at a stone wall.
All the same, as the strokes mounted steadily, I went on screaming for mercy. Even if one knows one is not going to get it, it is pure instinct to do so. My hindquarters became a constant frenzy of motion. I was bucking up and down, twisting and jerking, writhing uncontrollably. Saliva ran out of my gaping mouth as I screeched; my eyes seemed to be bolting from my head and I was blind with tears.
The relentless twigs continued to come slashing down from left and right. My buttocks and thigh tops became one mass of blazing fire. The skin was literally being flayed off me. I lost count of the strokes. My mind was in such a turmoil of torment, there was no room for anything else. I became a ‘thing’ totally and utterly absorbed by pain.
Dimly I was aware that the halfway point had passed. It must have done! I felt trickles of blood creeping down my thighs. Yes .... I was being flayed raw! My brain seemed to be boiling. About to burst. I was sightless. I had lost my voice. It had cracked to a rattling hiss.
I couldn’t stand one single more stroke! I couldn’t!
I got two more in quick succession. It was at this point I must have fainted. For how long, I know not. But I became aware there were smelling salts under my nostrils, choking me back to hideous life. At first I thought I was over the back of Dad’s armchair and Sergeant Faraday had the bottle. Then the true reality came flooding in. True reality when my flogging was re-commenced.
I cannot recall just how many strokes I still had to endure but I know, just before the end, I could endure it no more and I fainted yet again. I was once more revived to receive my final two strokes.
The next thing I remember is being dragged from the hall, rather like a carcass of meat. The
Excruciating pain was incessant, driving out every other sensation in my being.
Then there was the hardness of my plank bed. The ringing clang of my cell door slamming. I was alone.
Half senseless; in a state of semi-exhaustion. I either lost consciousness again or fell into a deep sleep.
The next thing I recall is a warder examining my poor bottom ... and then making me put on a voluminous pair of drawers, the inside of which was thickly coated with some kind of healing ointment. “You’l
l be as right as rain in no time,” she said cheerily as she left.
That was cold comfort indeed!
***
It took three or four days for me to heal sufficiently to be admitted to the prison system.
Up at 5.30 a.m., we slopped out, then took communal shower, under supervision. First hot, then freezing. Breakfast followed, consisting of bread and margarine and sweet tea. We were all at work by 6 a.m.
I was assigned to a squad of girls, mostly newcomers, performing the most menial tasks. We scrubbed the stone floors. Everything ... the corridors, the cells, the lavatories. It was back-breaking work and it went on for hours and hours. We were not constantly under supervision but a warder was likely to appear at any time. If any girl was caught taking a ‘breather’, or appeared to be slacking, she was punished on the spot.
Each warder carried a cane hooked to her belt. The culprit would be approached and receive the order;
“Bare it!”
The girl had, immediately, to pull up her dress as high as possible then, in a kneeling position, place her palms flat on the floor. She then got a stroke of the cane. Or maybe two or three. Even more. It depended whether the girl was thought to be a habitual slacker or not.
I first got the cane from the young, rather pretty warder I had seen on the stage when I had been flogged. She stood over me for quite a while and my nerves were stretched. “You’re not putting enough elbow grease into it, girl,” she said. Did she know I had been scrubbing for three hours and was growing very tired? Moreover, I was new to such arduous work. That made no difference. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Joan Reeves, Miss,” I said in a hoarse voice.
“Ah yes ... I remember now. I watched you recently getting a good birching. Most thoroughly deserved in my opinion. Bare it!”
I bared my bottom in the humiliating fashion demanded, feeling my nates clench in anticipation. Naturally, I was still quite tender. She kept me waiting some time, no doubt happily examining what was left of the ravages of the birch twigs. Then she gave me two stinging cuts in quick succession, which drove me down squirming, on to the floor. I forced myself back up on to my hands and knees, shuddering with dread. “I should inform you, Joan,” she said, “that, if I deem it necessary, I can take you to my quarters and give you a dozen. Even more. I shall be keeping an eye on you ... and I want a much greater effort. Got it?”
“Yes ... M-Miss ...” I answered, absorbing the painful throb of two new weals.
“Get on with your work.” I pushed down my dress and began to scrub again. There were tears in my eyes, partly pain, partly self-pity. I had heard Reform Schools were terrible places and now I was quickly discovering the truth of that. No girl would ever want to be sent back to such a place so she would certainly keep on the straight and narrow when she left.
In short, as the system decreed, she would be reformed.
After a while, the warder mover away. (I later discovered her name was Joy Brown). Though she seemed to have gone, I went on scrubbing vigorously. It was quite possible she would come back to try to catch me out.
Work continued until midday. Warders inspected us from time to time. The whistle and bite of the cane was heard with monotonous frequency. I, however, escaped further punishment that first morning.
We were taken to the Mess Hall which was filling up with inmates from all over the School. Here we received a bowl of soup with bits of stringy meat in it, dry bread and water. A typical meal, I may say. Then we were allowed to rest in our cells until 2 p.m. and then it was back to scrubbing, until 6 p.m.
Some time in mid-afternoon I was aware of Miss Brown alongside me again. I intensified my efforts.
“Back aching, Joan?” she enquired casually. “Yes, Miss,” I replied weakly.
“Arms, too?”
“Yes ... Miss ...” Oh how I hated her for standing there gloating over my suffering! In fact, every muscle in my body seemed to be one long, burning ache.
“Excellent,” she said. “That is the purpose of this kind of discipline.” Then, to my intense relief, she moved away. But, as she had said, she would, there was no doubt she was keeping an eye on me.
***
Daily, from 6 a.m. to midday, and from 2 p.m. to 6 p.m., I scrubbed and scrubbed. A day did not pass when I did not feel the stinging bite of a cane. Maybe just one cut, maybe two. Once I got three from a very hefty warder indeed. Those cuts were like stinging bees. Breathtakingly fiery. I don’t think the bottom of any girl in the School was ever completely unmarked.
I suppose, after a while, one got acclimatised and one’s muscles strengthened but it was still always a most tremendous effort and one’s back was breaking from dawn to dusk.
After a month, I was transferred to the laundry.
At first I was grateful for this but it soon turned out that the work was no less arduous. We washed uniforms, cell blankets and all the linen used by the warders. We washed in stone sinks, in a large room always filled with steam. The washing part wasn’t so bad but it was the rinsing and ringing out that were so tiresome. The results of our efforts were inspected frequently.
Miss Joy Brown continued to plague me. One afternoon she made a prolonged inspection of my work and pronounced her dissatisfied. It seemed that I had not rinsed out properly nor had I rung out properly.
“This is slack work, Joan,” she said, “and it will not be tolerated. Follow me!” My heart sank. She must be taking me to her quarters ... and I was obviously going to get more than just two or three strokes.
What a striking contrast were a warder’s quarters to the rest of the School! A comfortable bed, good furniture, soft chairs. It was a world apart. I stood there trembling, watching Miss Brown take a hook-handled cane off the mantelpiece. It looked to me rather heavier cane than the one she had hanging from her belt.
“Take your dress off,” she ordered crisply. I was startled but did not delay in obeying. It was embarrassing, not to say shaming, to have her walking around me, flexing the cane and examining me as if I were some kind of animal.
“You’ve got a good body, Joan,” she said at last, “I can see why you decided to make a living out of it.”
That angered me ... and shamed me more. One would have imagined I had been a prostitute for years and not just for a week or so. I found myself flushing furiously but I dare say nothing against what she had said. Then I was even more startled - and shocked as well - when she came close to me and fondled one of my breasts.
“Very nice,” she said, smiling at me. Instinctively, I recoiled. My mind went back to Mr. Mason’s maulings, but this was different. “What’s the matter, Joan. Don’t you like being touched?”
“N-N-No ... ooo ... M-Miss ...” I stammered.
“Pity,” she said, “you could make life a lot easier for yourself in here, you know.” Of course, I knew what she was driving at but the idea was abhorrent to me. All the same, an easing of the daily, grinding toil would be wonderfully welcome. “Think it over,” said Miss Brown, playfully tweaking a nipple. “Meanwhile, I am afraid I shall have to give you the punishment you deserve.” She tapped the back of an armchair with her cane. “Over you go,” she ordered. It was almost like being at home! Hopelessly I bent over the back of the chair. It felt far softer and smoother than Dad’s. My wrists were corded to the front castors and that familiar sensation of hopeless despair filled me. “I am giving you a dozen, Joan,” said Miss Brown, “and I trust the result will be an improvement in your work.”
My bottom was flinching as I waited. Would she cane as hard as Dad? Or Sergeant Faraday? Probably not.
However, when Miss Brown began to lay on - taking her time - first from one side, then the other, she seemed to cane just as hard. Or perhaps it was because the cane was meatier that the one I was used to. At all events, I gasped and yelped loudly as each stroke bit cruel
ly into my flesh, writhing convulsively and kicking out wildly. No doubt Miss Brown found that most satisfyingly amusing.
After six strokes, she paused for quite a while. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Perhaps I would only get six after all. I sincerely hoped so.
“How many’s that, Joan?” she asked, her voice almost silky. “S-Six ... Miss,” I answered.
“Correct, Joan. Your arithmetic is good, anyway.”
The cane began to fall again, contorting me convulsively. My cries got louder and more agonised. I was heaving with sobs and weeping copiously by the time she had finished with me.
Miss Brown left me secured over the chair for quite some time. I heard her light a cigarette and then caught a whiff of the smoke. Then her hand began to run lightly over my new weals, making me wince and flinch. All the same, in an odd way, that hand was strangely comforting. It was the first piece of tender attention I had received for longer than I could remember. “Such a pity,” said Miss Brown, “but, as I say, it doesn’t have to be like this.” Then she released me and I stood up stiffly, gasping out, wiping my tears away. “You will think it over, won’t you Joan?”
“Yes, Miss ... I will ...” I faltered. She smiled condescendingly. “Put your dress back on Joan,” she said, “and go back to work.” Then she slumped into the chair over which I had just been bent and continued to smoke her cigarette. The contrast between her way of life and mine could not have been greater.
Still wincing, I stumbled wretchedly to the door. Soon I was back in that hideous laundry, toiling interminably.
Certainly I had good reason to ‘think it over’.
***
I continued to work in the laundry for another two or three weeks, getting a ration of regular cuts from the cane of one warder or another. Including Miss Brown. At times it seemed impossible to me that I could endure a further ten months of this hideous existence. Yet what option had I?
