The Academy

by Arabella Knight

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Jane said, taking down a tray.

  Miranda nodded her agreement and started to cut up a fresh grapefruit for Miss Eaddes. As her hands dealt with the pliant flesh, opening up readily beneath her firm thumbs, Miranda suddenly thought of how the headmistress submitted and surrendered to the touch of Miss Eaddes. Those strong, capable fingers…

  ‘Ugh,’ gasped Jane. She had been wiping the tray with a cloth. The soiled cloth sticky with spilled egg. She held out her hands, glistening with yolk. ‘Who did this?’ she demanded crossly.

  ‘Please, Jane. It was an accident,’ whispered the guilty greenband.

  Jane snorted and turned to Miranda.

  ‘You’d better take her coffee, I’ve got my hands full here.’

  She certainly had, Miranda reflected, as she assembled the cup and saucer, sugar, fresh cream and coffee pot on the tray. Jane dragged the whimpering, large-eyed girl over her knee and jerked down the taut shorts, her thumb under the elastic waistband. The large, bare bottom lay passive and vulnerable across her lap, patiently waiting for the punishment to rain down. The blows fell, a rapid staccato of spanks that stung the bunched buttocks harshly. The slaps and squeals echoed up the stairs behind Miranda as she bore early morning coffee towards Mrs Boydd-Black’s study. The heavy walnut door was slightly ajar.

  ‘But that is impossible, simply impossible, Mr Porteous,’ the agitated headmistress was saying as Miranda approached.

  Porteous. Miranda’s hand froze inches away from the polished panel. Bending close to the narrow opening, she listened, her heart thumping wildly. From the silences between the concerned tones of the headmistress, Miranda realised that it was a telephone, and not a face to face, conversation.

  ‘Sixty-five per cent? But you already get over fifty. There are the running costs, the overheads. The heating alone…’

  Miranda suddenly understood. Porteous was more than merely the middle man, the family friend, the fixer. The quiet solicitor who referred errant girls to the Academy. He ran it. Owned it. Was in overall control, and profited hugely from the entire enterprise.

  ‘But sixy-five per cent, Mr Porteous,’ Mrs Boydd-Black protested.

  Another pause.

  ‘No, I cannot reduce the food bills. One cannot economise with the diet of growing girls. Protein is most important… No, I’m afraid those measures too are impossible. Quite impossible. Salary cuts? I will have to consider that, of course…’

  Obviously, under considerable pressure, the head-mistress was trying to reason and negotiate with the greedy solicitor. As he played his trump card her tone faded, tinged with resignation.

  ‘The leasehold. Yes, I quite understand. Yes, your powers of administration are… I understand. You leave me with no option.’

  Putting the squeeze on her for more. The Academy must draw in at least a quarter of a million every year. Half to run it, and the remainder went straight into his greasy little High Street suit pocket. And now he wanted more. Fifteen per cent more. Then a flash of anger sparkled in Miranda’s grey-blue eyes. Porteous had not merely suggested or recommended the possibility of the Academy to Aunt Emma. He had orchestrated the entire thing.

  She suddenly realised the presence of his hidden, manipulating hand behind her downfall. Porteous raising the matter of the Brompton party with Aunt Emma. Porteous hinting at the scandal of those press snapshots hurting Uncle Peter’s Cabinet post. Porteous. She was consigned to this place of privation, humiliation and severe discipline all because of him. And the weasel was getting handsomely paid for it. A crimson flush of rage stole into Miranda’s pale cheeks. Then her face drained to a sallow, waxy white.

  She suddenly remembered the letter. Her SOS to Aunt Emma. Porteous, greedily swallowing strawberry gateau and pocketing her letter. He would tell Mrs Boydd-Black — must have already told her — then her bottom would taste the full meaning of punishment. Probably a Chair and Half Exercise. A Chair. Oh God, thought Miranda, trembling slightly. The coffee pot and cup rattled dangerously on the shaking tray.

  ‘Who is there?’

  Miranda took a deep breath and tapped respectfully on the walnut door.

  ‘Your coffee, ma’am,’ she called.

  ‘Enter,’ the headmistress replied.

  Miranda went into the study. The curtains remained closed, yellow lights burned softly. Paperwork told Miranda that the headmistress had been busy at her accounts since very early on, probably working on them since four that morning. Mrs Boydd-Black, her hand placed over the receiver, managed a weak smile as she nodded to her desk.

  ‘Put it there. Thank you, Miranda.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Miranda closed the door firmly behind her, a surge of relief sweeping over her as she left the study. There had been no mention, by look or by word, of the letter after all. He had probably simply torn it up and thrown it away.

  Back down in the busy, bustling kitchen, Miranda tried to put her troubled thoughts aside and concentrate on the tasks in hand. She began to prepare Emily’s breakfast, taking an ovenproof dish, buttering it and placing a piece of white haddock in it lengthways. Emily enjoyed a breakfast of poached haddock and Miranda loved preparing it for her. It was a little act of love.

  ‘Don’t forget a bay leaf. Emily likes it that way,’ Jane said as she passed by on the way to the fridge for another couple of pints of milk.

  Miranda’s eyes narrowed. She frowned, resenting the intimacy that lay buried within the remark. She hated Jane’s intrusion.

  ‘I’m cooking it. Leave me alone,’ Miranda muttered.

  ‘Touchy,’ smirked Jane, closing the fridge door with her elbow. ‘Didn’t you know she liked a bay leaf? I knew that. But then I know all sweet Emily’s little… likes and pleasures.’

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped Miranda, stung by a sudden flash of possessive, jealous anger.

  It was not the first time that Jane had teased her about Emily. She waited until she thought she was not being observed, then slipped into the pantry and returned with a bay leaf. As she placed it on top of the fish, she turned instinctively. There, watching her with mocking eyes, was Jane. Grinning, catlike and triumphant.

  The Lear screamed as it climbed steeply over Slough, the powerful thrust easing back slightly after the pilot banked the executive jet and pointed its silver nose through the crisp blue air towards Bonn. Hazim settled back comfortably in his luxurious seat. An attentive stewardess, sweetly perfumed and very generously bloused, placed her soft, scarlet-nailed fingers on his shoulder. He barely felt their light weight on his pure silk jacket.

  ‘Breakfast, sir?’ she whispered invitingly, the voice soothing but not entirely calming in its tone and effect.

  ‘Juice and coffee,’ he replied, his lips smiling automatically, his narrowed eyes hard.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she cooed, as if promising prompt obedience and managing to suggest much, much more. Men with hard eyes paid well for whatever pleasure they took.

  The Bihar bullion millionaire frowned. He had, unusually, been somewhat unsuccessful. He had been unable to make contact with that Porteous fellow, the one who might lead to knowledge of his beloved Jaya’s whereabouts. The thought had crossed his mind to telephone Jaya’s parents. He hadn’t. It was a tricky business. Very delicate. Much discretion and tact would be required. He knew where he could buy a few hard men if the going got rough. Men he could rely on. Money spoke, and people listened.

  That stewardess. Hazim’s mind wandered. He pictured her kneeling for him in the gangway, in the airport toilet, in his hotel room. Kneeling, glossy lips open, cobra eyes shut tight. Kneeling, with the navy blue skirt riding high up over her splayed thighs. For a rustle of notes, in any denomination, he could have her. Any way he chose. In his brief fancy he chose the breasts. Blouse undone and swept open, he would take his full pleasure in the breasts. Yes. The breasts. He swallowed hard as he imagined his hot erection, trapped under the lace strap of her wispy bra, nestling into the pillows of the cool, creamy c
leavage, soon to spill the hotter seed over the deeply curved slopes held in brassie`red bondage. Money. He licked his lips. His throat felt dry.

  ‘Juice, sir,’ the scented breath of the heavily breasted stewardess whispered. Her pale hand brushed the swelling in his trouser crotch as she adjusted his collapsible tray. The gesture was one of careful negligence, no more than a butterfly’s wingbeat.

  ‘Fresh?’ he queried.

  ‘Just squeezed sir. Are you stopping overnight in Bonn, sir?’

  The engines roared lustily, drowning his reply.

  Whatever her problems and pressures were, the head-mistress showed no signs of them as she entered the refectory for breakfast. All the girls dutifully murmured good morning to her as she strode regally up to the top table. She sat down, undid her napkin and inspected it closely — causing the laundry girl’s heart to skip several beats — and then surveyed the room. She nodded. The girls sat down to their breakfasts. Mrs Boydd-Black nodded again. At the lectern, Miss Eaddes began to read aloud from the life of Oliver Cromwell.

  The maths tutor had a certain weakness for those who could shape events and control those around them. Heads bowed in silence, the girls, the green-bands shivering in fearful expectation and the red and bluebands living in constant hope, ate their breakfasts. Jaya, the only goldband, sat between Clarissa and Miranda. Since Matron’s hurried departure it was now the custom for the headmistress to make all the announcements. She had only one to make that morning.

  ‘The cross-country race will not take place as scheduled. I am reliably informed by my wireless that the weather will be quite wintry by the weekend. We shall, therefore, hold the race today. At two-thirty. That is all.’

  Jaya’s shoulder, soft and dusky, brushed Miranda’s reassuringly. Under the table, Clarissa caught and squeezed Miranda’s hand affectionately. Miranda was excited. She would have preferred to have had a little more time with Susie, Zoe and Clare. But they would, she knew, run well. Jaya’s plans had seen to that. They would be spurred on by fear and drawn to the winning line by loyalty and devotion.

  Miranda sipped her tea and gazed up at Mrs Boydd-Black. How cool and professional she seemed. How dedicated. It was intolerable that she should be in the clutches of a toad like the odious Porteous. How she would love to have him all to herself for just one hour. But even in her spurt of rage she softened slightly. Despite the Porteous connection, the Academy was different. Interesting. After years of bored privilege, aimless hedonism and wasteful, if conspicuous, consumption, the last few weeks at the Academy had been a sharp and not altogether displeasing contrast.

  It had certainly been an adventure. An adventure into new physical and emotional territories hitherto unchartered and unexplored. How delicious a simple cup of tea or stolen biscuit had become. How thrilling to share a piece of stolen cake in the dormitory of a friend after lights out. How beautiful were the bodies of the girls around her, displayed not in sultry bikinis but in the strictly severe white uniforms. And Miranda’s sharpened senses now knew that no liquefied golden droplets of the most exquisite perfume could excite as much as a freshly soaped girl being towelled dry. Carbolic won hands down over Diorissimo. Miranda had never realised just how delicious a freshly washed girl could smell at close, very close quarters.

  Other senses and sensibilities had been honed to a razor-like acuity. There was Jaya, beside her. Trusting, gentle and wise. Still innocent in her realm of richly dark experience. Then there was dear Clarissa. Fun loving, reasonably virtuous and frequently delightfully naughty. Emily, the art tutor, who had taken Miranda tenderly by the hand and led her through the gates of paradise, there to eat plentifully of forbidden, golden fruits. The darker pleasures, of chastising and, yes, of being chastised. Of punishing and being punished. To whip a naked bottom, or to have one’s own bare buttocks spanked. The darker pleasures, of punishment and dominance, of submission and surrender. Of these and other forbidden fruits Miranda had eaten full and plentiful measure. And the fruit was exceedingly sweet and luscious.

  Discipline. The hot, wet thrill of discipline. Of reigning supremely for the absolute moment over a bewitchingly thrashed bottom. There was also a new sense of inner strength, purpose and resolve. A gritty determination had blossomed and flowered within her even over the short space of time she had spent at the Academy. Miranda suddenly felt herself — for many, many reasons — interested in those around her. Where once contemptuous neglect or bored indifference had held sway, now she truly cared for the fate and future of many of the wayward girls incarcerated at the Academy. For the most part strays and unruly misfits, they too would, once firmly disciplined, be released to live rewarding and fulfilling lives.

  And it was all due, acknowledged Miranda, to the dedication and the care, the firm supervision and the strict control of one person — Mrs Boydd-Black. That lonely figure who loomed large in Miranda’s concern. An isolated, burdened woman, whose secret Miranda had discovered. Yes. The Academy had such memories for her. The headmistress was doing sterling work. It was, thought Miranda, a pleasure to serve her. Especially down in the darkened gym at night…

  After lunch, the two teams of girls lined up at the start. The girls bounced up and down to keep warm. Zoe, being so generously endowed, bounced slightly more than her fellow competitors. The route of the course was pointed out to the six runners, three representing Jane’s hopes for the blueband and Zoe, Clare and Susie running for Miranda. The entire estate being completely encompassed by a high, crumbling red brick wall, there was no hope of making an escape bid.

  ‘And I’ll skin the backside off anyone who even thinks of trying to look over it,’ Mrs Boydd-Black warned them grimly.

  Susie, the least capable of scaling the wall, blushed transparently.

  ‘I wasn’t going to, honestly,’ she lied prettily.

  Within the extensive park land that surrounded the Academy there was ample scope for the two and a half mile run. The runners were instructed to make their way down the gravel drive towards the gate lodge, then bear right and run clockwise within the perimeter wall.

  ‘Run through, not around, the spinney. Take your marks,’ the headmistress ordered.

  The six girls bowed their heads and flexed their thighs.

  ‘Ready… wait for it Susie… steady… go.’

  They scampered off, their pumps, especially provided for the event, crunching the gravel underfoot. Miranda noticed that Jane trotted off around the back of the imposing Queen Anne house as soon as Mrs Boydd-Black had withdrawn to make some phone calls.

  ‘There’s not much we can do but hope,’ she said, turning to Jaya.

  ‘Don’t worry, Miranda. They will run well for you. You inspire them.’

  The minutes ticked by. It was dank and chilly in the raw November air. From time to time, Miranda stood up on her toes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the returning runners.

  ‘Relax,’ Jaya comforted her. ‘Two and a half miles. That will take twenty minutes at least.’

  A little later, the headmistress rejoined them.

  ‘Eighteen minutes gone. They should show up soon. Jolly good.’

  Jane returned to their group, red-faced and sly-eyed. Miranda caught the ugly, cat-like grin of mocking triumph in her rival’s expression. She shivered. She knew, intuitively yet decisively, that there had been mischief afoot.

  The small figures emerged out of the distant mist, disappeared behind the line of thick holly bushes and then reappeared. Jane’s three runners took the first three places, winning the contest unopposed. Clare limped home, followed by an equally lame Zoe. Of Susie there was no sign whatsoever until, almost half an hour after the start, she trailed in, dripping from head to toe in stinking black slime. Tear tracks washed single clear lines through the sticky mire.

  ‘A decisive victory. Most decisive. Well done Jane’s team. Now off into hot baths, all of you.’

  Clare’s white rump wobbled slightly as she stepped over and into her bath. She looked up in alarm when Jaya en
tered the steam-filled cubicle.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she shuddered. ‘I couldn’t help it. My feet…’ she explained.

  Jaya frowned, bent over the side of the bath and picked up Clare’s pink feet, examining them carefully one by one. The toes were red raw. Calming the frightened girl, and reassuring her that no punishment would be administered just yet, she stooped and picked up the mud-spattered, soaking black pumps. Her fingers felt their way blindly down into the toe section. She smiled grimly as she extracted a thin ribbon of wire wool, torn from a scouring pad, from each pump.

  ‘You said you could not run properly?’

  ‘No,’ said Clare, ‘my feet hurt. It was very painful.’

  Jaya entered the next cubicle where Zoe was running cold water over her reddened toes.

  ‘Jaya. They put something in my pumps…’

  Jaya grimaced and picked up the left pump. A ribbon of wire wool fell to the bathroom floor.

  Susie was sitting on the edge of her bath. Jaya approached her and placed a consoling arm around her shoulders. Susie sniffled and buried her tear-stained face in Jaya’s gently heaving bosom.

  ‘She jumped me from behind that big juniper and I went straight into a quagmire and the mud went in my eyes and I swallowed at least a ton of it and I bet I die and then she’ll go to prison or at least be —’

  ‘Who?’ Jaya asked, stemming the outburst at last.

  ‘Jane, of course,’ Susie sobbed.

  After the clinical, clockwork precision of Bonn, London felt scruffy, infuriating and was totally irrepressible. Hazim paid the taxi then paused, gave the cabbie an extra fiver and asked him to wait. The cabbie spread out his hands in a gesture of disbelief. Already the air was bruised by impatient horns. Sixfifteen, he implied in mime because of the din, was no time to sit down in the Fulham Road. Hazim shrugged and nodded. The cabbie smiled sympathetically and offered to return the fiver.