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The MP Visits Part X — A Closing Essay OR Loose Ends, Properly Filed

Posted on By Mija

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Introduction

The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages: tensions,  alliances,  secrets far too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

The Archivist Gets the Last Word: 

When the last ink dried on Mr Fowler’s log: petrol topped, ham sandwiches eaten, punctual return to St Albans at four o’clock, the day and its record appeared, on their surface, neatly concluded. A tidy ledger of routes, meals, and mild discontent is precisely the sort of document one expects from a conscientious chauffeur in the summer of 1955. And yet any record, by its nature, resists such tidiness.

(more…)

fiction

MP Visits Saint Clare – Part IX – Statement of J. Fowler, Chauffeur

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Banner of "How to Read Inez of the Upper iV"The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next.

Archivist’s Foreword

The following document is a statement by J. Fowler, chauffeur to Mr Gerald Charrington, MP, covering the journeys of 12–13 July 1955.

Unlike the diaries and letters elsewhere in this sequence, Fowler’s account is procedural rather than reflective. It records times, routes, meals, weather, and behaviour with the precision of a man accustomed to being accountable for vehicles, schedules, and other people’s movements. Emotional interpretation is minimal; judgment, where it appears, is plainly marked as such.

It should be noted that although styled as a log, this document was not drawn from an official motor book. It survives as a copied statement, taken down after the fact and retained alongside other materials relating to the Saint Clare incident.

That it exists at all is, perhaps, the more interesting fact.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

Statement of J. Fowler, Chauffeur

12 July 1955 – Outward Journey
Departed St Albans residence at 9:00 AM driving Mr Charrington, with Miss Williams also in the car. Sky overcast, Traffic heavy, but cleared past High Wycombe. Arrived Oxford at approximately 11:30 AM. Topped up petrol. Stopped at Lyons Corner House for tea. Miss Williams appeared late, having missed breakfast; expressed dislike of the buns.
Resumed journey at 12:00 noon.
Conditions improved past Oxford, skies clearing, weather warm. Miss Williams requested windows down; request refused on account of disturbance to Mr Charrington’s papers. She sighed and appeared out of sorts, but did not argue.
Proceeded via Gloucester and Hereford. Checked radiator water near Hereford at approximately 1:30 PM. Opened housekeeper’s hamper for luncheon. Miss Williams dissatisfied with contents, suggesting we stop at a tearoom. Mr Charrington and myself found the sandwiches and biscuits satisfactory. We still had a long drive ahead.
Progress steady thereafter. Arrived Shrewsbury at approximately 3:30 PM. Weather warm, skies bright. Entered North Wales by the trunk road; roads narrow but passable. Arrived Saint Clare School at approximately 4:45 PM.

12 July 1955 – At Saint Clare
Mr Charrington and Miss Williams proceeded inside. I remained with the motor and drove into the village. Took refreshment at the Crown public house (pint and pie). Proprietor’s boy fetched me when called for; returned to the school with the motor at approximately 5:30 PM.
Departed Saint Clare at approximately 5:45 PM with Mr Charrington and Miss Williams. Weather fine, sun still high, clear visibility. Proceeded back via Shrewsbury. Miss Williams silent for most of the journey. Mr Charrington read papers.
Stopped at petrol station near Oswestry at approximately 7:00 PM. Checked oil and tyres. Continued without incident. Arrived Charrington residence (Bryn Derwen) at approximately 8:15 PM. Motor garaged in the carriage house.
Supper taken at table. Hot meal provided by housekeeper. Mr Charrington ate well and expressed approval. I was given a place and did the same. Miss Williams declined supper and took only tea, stating she felt unwell from the travel. (more…)

fiction

MP Visits Saint Clare – Part VIII – Mustn’t Grumble Gladys

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The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next.

 

Archivist’s Foreword

The following entry was written on the evening of 12 July 1955, after the party from Saint Clare had arrived at Bryn Derwen.

Unlike the previous document, which was composed under some pressure and at speed, this account was written in a place that ought to have been familiar and consoling, but was neither. It does not revisit the events of the Headmaster’s study (those are recorded elsewhere, and at some length), but concerns itself instead with what lingers once the official business is concluded, everyone has been properly seen to, and there is nothing left but supper, accommodation, and, possibly, tears at bedtime.

Former pupils may find the tone uncomfortably recognisable.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

Gladys’s Diary

12 July 1955

Evening (at Bryn Derwen)

The scene in the Head’s study was the worst of it. The rest of the day wasn’t as loud or dramatic, but it sat on me just as heavily. I cannot remember feeling so weary, so empty.

I never did drink the Head’s tea. Even the sandwiches looked poisonous, the bread curling at the edges, the ham shining faintly in the heat. I watched Gerald eat, cool as a cucumber. When the Head returned, he thanked him as if nothing more awkward than a recent school report had been discussed.

(more…)

discipline

MP Visits Saint Clare – Part VII – Ghastly Gladys

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The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next..

Archivist Foreword

The document that follows was written in the back seat of a carefully maintained Humber on the afternoon of 12 July 1955, shortly after its author had been summoned to the Headmaster’s study at Saint Clare’s. Although Gladys Williams was no longer a pupil of the school, this distinction proved to be of limited practical importance.

Readers familiar with the school story will recognise the situation without difficulty. A former girl returns, meaning well, and finds herself required to explain her conduct, to wait, and to remain present. The rules, once learned, are not easily forgotten, and are applied with particular confidence to those who ought to know better.

This entry does not attempt to set out the facts of the incident in full; those are recorded elsewhere, and in proper order. What Gladys provides instead is a running account of the afternoon as she experienced it: the Headmaster’s study, the formalities observed, the tea tray, the silences, and the journey that followed. She writes quickly, with feeling, and at some length. This too will be familiar to readers of school diaries.

With this entry, the Saint Clare record pauses. Lessons resume, bells ring, and the school continues. The account that follows travels on.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

Gladys’ Diary

12 July 1955

Later (the Head’s Study; continued in the car)

I won’t forget today, no matter how old I get or how many pages I scribble. Ghastly. Utterly ghastly. There were so many awful bits I can’t even decide which was the worst, nor which to write first. Now that we are back on the road I am writing as fast as I can, partly so I don’t have to look up. If I don’t look at him, perhaps Gerald won’t speak to me. I can feel him watching me over the tops of his papers, but I go on as if I were completely absorbed.

Instead of letting me slink away after that wretched drive up from London, Gerald marched us straight down the dim corridor to the Head’s study. The cabbage smell clung to the walls and our shoes echoed like a sentence already passed. He opened the door, stood back, and waited for me to go in first, as if I were being presented for inspection. We weren’t expected — not then — but he behaved as if the place had been waiting for him all along, papers under his arm, that terrible air of purpose he puts on when he’s decided something. I think Miss Kelley tried to say something, but I barely caught her eye before I was all but pushed into the Head’s office.

Mr Lewis blinked at us from behind his spectacles, plainly surprised to see a party from London descend on him without warning. Gerald merely inclined his head and said, smooth as you please, “A word, if you please.”

The Head invited us as if we had not already imposed ourselves, and then, almost absurdly, rang for a tea tray with sandwiches .

These niceties over, Gerald turned on me, using that dreadful low voice of his, the one that weighs more than shouting ever could.

“Miss Williams,” he said, quiet and clipped, “I wish you to tell the Head exactly what you have done.”

There was nowhere to look. My heart sank straight through my shoes. I am not a pupil; I have not been one for years. And yet there I stood, spluttering and stammering like a schoolgirl hauled up for passing notes. Gerald would have none of it. I had to admit everything: Clarissa’s letter with Inez’s enclosed, the request to send it on to her mother, my saying yes, my writing a cover note and posting them off to Lady de Vries. I told it in silly little scraps, and every bit felt worse once the Head had heard it. The words slid out like stones, and the room, large though it was, felt very small as the shelves of books seemed to close in around me.

When I finally finished, Mr Lewis did not address me at all, but remarked, almost to the furniture, “Ah, so that is how she knew.” The “she” was certainly not me.

Then, more formally, he straightened in his chair and addressed us both. He was polite, firm but almost apologetic, and said the School could not possibly condone letters carried privately. He paused and added (as I could have told him) that as I am no longer a student, my part in the matter was not his affair, but one to be settled between my brother-in-law and me.

Gerald nodded, but replied that he wished the matter on record, and asked that Clarissa be called.

Mr Lewis went to the door and asked Miss Kelley to have a prefect bring Clarissa to his office. We heard her give instructions to “Fairfax” — a prefect, I suppose — just as one of the kitchen maids came in with the clattering tea tray. Then, adding to the whole Lewis Carroll feeling of the afternoon, the Head apologised for the tray’s “meagre fare,” offhandedly blaming our sudden appearance for leaving the kitchen unprepared.

What followed was an extreme bout of conversational awkwardness. He talked about anything except what we were really there for: the heat, the gardens, the fête already past, the coming holidays. His small talk sounded thin and nervous to me. Gerald answered in kind, dry but courteous, as he ate sandwiches and drank two cups of tea. I never touched mine. No one seemed to notice. Everyone else was fed. The silences between the men grew longer and heavier until they felt like stones piling up. Despite the tea, my mouth was completely dry, and I contributed nothing.

After what felt like hours, but was probably no more than twenty minutes, Clarissa arrived, walking through the doorway as if to her doom, her legs so embarrassingly bare and vulnerable in her field hockey skirt, grass stains still on her knees. I saw the shock on her face when she took in Gerald and then me, sitting there together. Her eyes were huge and round. I heard Miss Kelley say something low to the prefect as Clarissa crossed the threshold. Mr Lewis remained at his desk.

Gerald didn’t waste a moment. After the briefest of greetings, he took Clarissa through the same wretched confession he’d forced out of me, making her tell the Head exactly what she had done. My stomach clenched and I was glad I hadn’t touched the tea. I felt her eyes on me, begging for help, but I couldn’t meet them.

I won’t pretend I listened to every word. I heard her first stumbles, the brave little resolves, the determined refusal to betray Inez. Clarissa would not, could not, name her. Gerald repeated my admissions for her benefit and scolded her for involving me, his voice dry and clipped, as if this were all part of a lesson that needed to be properly understood. Mr Lewis sat very straight in his chair and said nothing, nodding only occasionally.

When it was done, the Head stood, cleared his throat, and spoke with that careful, official politeness of his, saying he was satisfied he understood the situation. He added that the School could not be party to further discussion of family discipline, and that Gerald was welcome to make use of the study. Then, murmuring something about other duties, he left the room.

The door shut behind him and, just like that, the air changed. We were alone.

(more…)

Saint Clare

The MP Visits Saint Clare, Part VI – Inez’s Diary, 13 July 1955

Posted on By Mija

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The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next.

Foreword

The following diary entry was written by Inez de Vries during the night of 12–13 July 1955, after visiting Clarissa Charrington in the infirmary. It was not intended for circulation and does not appear to have been shown to anyone, the author having taken the precaution—elsewhere noted—of invoking a suitably comprehensive curse against unauthorised readers.

It is reproduced here without alteration as part of the Saint Clare materials relating to the events of that week. The entry does not describe the incident itself, which is documented at length elsewhere, but records Inez de Vries’s role in the aftermath.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

13 July 1955 – after midnight

I went to the infirmary after lights-out, waiting until Matron’s rounds had slowed and the house settled again. It didn’t seem right to go while things were still actively happening.

Clarissa was awake. She looked different, the way people do when they’ve stopped performing. Smaller, younger — or simply unfinished. She tried to sit up and then thought better of it. Good move.

She wanted me to stay (even asked me)  and I didn’t know what to say. Stay?

But I sat down and we talked a little. Well, I talked a little. Clarissa talked a lot. It more or less balanced out. She’s still very young, new to school, new to boarding. She hasn’t yet learned that what girls say rarely matters, and that everything passes — and quickly.

Two months is nothing. I’ve been here for years now. (more…)

Gym Rules (2011) – Reader Request

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Below is a post from The Punishment Book, a domestic discipline blog I hosted about 15 years ago that ran for about eight years. There were a number of friends in various sorts of relationships who wrote for it. Someone recently asked me what sort of things got posted there. There were posts like this one that were basically accounts of discipline/punishments. Also, discussions of what discipline and punishment meant to us. We could go on and on… and we did.

My personal archive of posts reads like proof of AuDHD. If only someone had said.

[This post has been written twice. The first draft got eaten by TypePad (boo!). I thought maybe this was a sign that this story wasn’t meant to be shared, but Zille and Paul convinced me that if I didn’t share the story here, pictures of my bottom and its cane marks could end up on Twitter. Since the last thing I want to do is show my bottom to the world for being caned for not going to the gym enough, and thus prove why I need to go to the gym more often, I’m busy re-typing this on the bus.]

As those of you who read here and / or Spanking Blog1Hey! Spanking Blog! So glad to see you’re still out there.  know, I’ve asked Paul to help me make better use of my gym membership by giving me 49 strokes of the cane, that’s one for every dollar my membership costs, any week I don’t make it to the gym at least three times. Paul gets to pick everything about the caning except the number of strokes. He can choose the cane he wants, what I wear and what position I’m caned in. This week I only went to the gym once. My reckoning was last night (Sunday).

Now I wasn’t entirely sure I would really get caned for missing the gym this week. I had some very good excuses. First, my gym isn’t air conditioned and last week it was very hot several days. So I didn’t go to the gym for fear of getting over-heated. Then my mother showed up with all her loveliness and drama. I spent one whole day running errands with her. So I didn’t go to the gym that day either. Saturday was taken up with a family party. I couldn’t go to the gym Saturday. And Sunday I had to go out to brunch with a friend of my parents. And then I had to come home and get my writing sample ready. I couldn’t go to the gym on Sunday. Suddenly all the days were gone and a week had past with only one gym trip. But of course Paul would understand.

He understood and even agreed I had very good reasons for not having gone to the gym. But that didn’t matter. I hadn’t gone and I’d asked him to punish me, to cane me, if I didn’t go. I think if he had made the rule, he might have let me off this week. Maybe not. But because I asked for this and didn’t say “except for weeks when it’s really hot or I’m really busy” he followed through. And that’s right. My gym opens at 5:30 AM and is open until 11:00 PM. We make time for things that are important and getting good use out of my gym membership and spending some time on my body is important. Truth be told, for all that my excuses are good, I could have gone.

Paul let me know yesterday afternoon that I was going to be caned. I struggled a bit with the knowledge. I was in the midst of wrestling with the text of my writing sample and couldn’t quite make room in my head for the idea of being caned. So I buried myself in my work and didn’t think about it. Even as evening progressed (with me still working away) I was in denial. You see, not only is my dad with us this week, my mom is here as well. They sleep in the bedroom next to ours. And unlike my dad, my mom is a light sleeper.

When I came out of the bathroom after doing all those evening things, the nursery cane was at the end of the bed. He was going to go through with it.

I thought about calling safeword on the caning. I mean, my mom.

But the thing is, part of me didn’t want to. I want to be held accountable. I asked for this. So I cowardly tried to slide into bed with the vague hope that if I fell asleep fast (all that writing and editing had made me tired) Paul wouldn’t cane me. After all, he’s always trying to get me to sleep. He sternly told me not to get into bed.

So I took a deep breath and stood next to the bed, after closing the door, and, rather sadly, pushing my bed stool up against it. I hoped that like last week, this week he’d be using the cane over the knee (thats’ what the nursery cane, which is short and thin, is made for). Sure enough, he sat down on the bed and had me pull down my pjs. I took them down and climbed over his lap. He spent a good amount of time adjusting my position, turning the top of my body closer to the head of the bed and my bottom further down his leg. What he was doing wasn’t clear to me until the first stroke landed.

He was giving himself more room to swing so the tip of the cane would land harder.
The first stroke landed like a cut. The thing is, the nursery cane is very very thin and really really stings. That was true last week, but from the start it was clear this caning was a lot harder than the one the week before before. But, my brain cried, as I considered screaming, my parents are in the next room. So I pulled my hands forward (my arms had been folded behind my back) and started counting off the strokes on my right fingers, one at a time, while on my left I kept track in groups of twelve.

The thing about the thin cane is that it really stings. When Paul used it on me it felt more like a switch than a cane. By the time he reached twelve I could feel the tip marks crossing. The sting was terrible and I fought with myself to lie still. Paul will probably say I wasn’t still, but I’m sure I mostly was. As I counted each one off it seemed an impossible number was left. When he reached twenty-four I started to panic and tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to keep my breathing slow and even because I knew if I started crying I might make noise. And making noise, being heard by my parents seemed much worse than even the hurt the cane was doing.

Strange as it may seem, at thirty-six I felt a sense of relief because it meant there were only twelve left. However much they might hurt, I could get through twelve more. Paul sped up and the strokes landed harder still and faster, making me gasp into the sheets. My feet fluttered as I tried hard not to kick. After quite a build-up of pain, it ended in a rush — an almost “is that all there is?” moment. Then the burn started to soak in.
Paul kept me over his lap as he rubbed some LUSH dream cream into my bottom. It stings, but in a soothing sort of way. It hurt enough that I teared a bit as we snuggled close but I expected all signs to be gone by morning. This is so not the case. Almost 24 hours later and I’m still sitting tenderly, the right side of my bottom is still hot to the touch. Yes, this is me pouting a bit.

But not too much. I did, after all, ask for this. And I’m sure this week I will make it to the gym at least three times. Why am I sure? First because I want to. Second because my bottom really hurts. And third, my parents will not be here next weekend. Paul has let it be known that should he have to cane me next week, I won’t be getting off with the nursery cane.
I’m going to be such a good girl. No, really.

Posted by Mija on 17 October 2011 at 09:46 PM

Lots of posts like this one. Some of mine will be part of The Treehouse site when it goes live. There are also a couple here: Careless Girl (2006),  A Sunday in Disgrace.

  • 1
    Hey! Spanking Blog! So glad to see you’re still out there. ↩︎

November Update OR Michaelmas 2025 Evaluation

Posted on By Mija

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Filed belatedly in the Saint Clare Archive Room, Lower East Wing (Door sticks; mind your fingers.)

Archivist’s Note №0: On Optimism

This November began with a plan that, in hindsight, displayed an admirable optimism and a truly reckless ignorance of scale: I intended to move the entirety of my Saint Clare writing into Scrivener, that elegant, beguiling piece of software whose beauty has lured me back again and again like a siren calling from a very aesthetically pleasing rock.

I convinced myself it would take …oh, a weekend? A long afternoon? Perhaps two pots of tea?

It did not.

What followed was a full-scale archaeological expedition through twenty-five years of stories, fragments, experiments, timelines, drafts, doodles, false starts, and worldbuilding ephemera, all scattered across my digital landscape in a manner best described as “enthusiastically feral.”

Thankfully, I was not alone.1Which, had I been, frankly I would have curled into a weeping ball before abandoning the plan. A number of very patient members of a certain spanking fiction Discord server offered structural wisdom, folder hierarchies, and moral support. And ChatGPT (who, whatever one thinks of AI overall, deserves hazard pay) burned the midnight oil with me as we attempted to devise a file system capable of housing a school that has been expanding and building back on itself since 1999.

The Archivist observes that this endeavour, though wildly underestimated at the outset, has proven both necessary and heroic, and will likely be cited in future staff meetings as an example of “proper archival zeal,” though she refuses to say by whom.

Only once this digital excavation was complete  (or at least, complete enough) could November’s real work begin.

Only then did #AdAstraWriMo dare to commence.

Saint Clare November: 42,924 / 50,000 words

Across November, I wrote and revised just under 43,000 new words, and the unified Saint Clare Scrivener project crossed the 100,000-word threshold with another ~200,000 words still waiting to be added.

Now that December has settled in and put its cold nose against the windowpanes, it is finally possible to look back at November with the proper mixture of satisfaction, disbelief, and a strong desire to reorganize the stationery cupboard. What began on October 31st as the ceremonial reopening of the Saint Clare gates for #AdAstraWriMo became, by month’s end, a surprisingly architectural endeavour: walls rebuilt, floors relaid, entire wings reconnected.

Archivist’s Note №1: On Word Count Inflation

Surpassing 100,000 words  has not reduced paperwork. If anything, several documents appear to be… multiplying. Inez’s diary is now claiming territorial rights over two shelves and a hatbox.

Much of the work was archaeological: retrieving scenes that had fallen behind digital radiators, consolidating timelines, and coaxing the Honour and Ned materials into something resembling linear time. Though no instalments of their series were posted publicly this month, the amount of research and drafting devoted to them was considerable. It’s the kind of subterranean work that rarely shows above ground until suddenly, in December or January, something significant blooms.

Archivist’s Note №2: The Honour and Ned Wing

Formerly classified under “Active Chaos,” this collection has been promoted to “Promising Disorder.” The Archivist requests patience. And possibly biscuits.

Alongside the fiction, November included a rigorous supplement of what Saint Clare’s catalog calls “Contextual Studies” but the Archivist insists on calling “External Distractions.” These were, in truth, vital:

  • A full watch-through of Downton Abbey (for the first time!), which proved unexpectedly useful for calibrating tone, class choreography, interwar emotional vocabulary, and the particular art of descending staircases with news both grave and thrilling.

Archivist’s Note №3: On the Downton Effect

Several staff, including Matron, appear to have adopted a “Carson stance.” This is being monitored.

Books

And then: the books. A great many books. A November so saturated with debutantes, spies, secret codes, and family secrets that the Archivist considered issuing ration cards.

Fiction Reads  in November

  • Balogh, Mary – The Ungrateful Governess – A Regency tale illustrating how governesses, when sufficiently provoked, can upend entire households with nothing but moral fortitude and a well-placed silence.
    The Archivist notes its relevance to understanding staff power dynamics, which remain as treacherous in 1955 as they were in 1815. Particularly instructive for crafting Saint Clare teacher backstories, and for imagining precisely how a seemingly meek woman might ruin a man’s day using only propriety.
  • Georgie Blalock – The Last Debutantes  – A chronicle of the final season before the lights go out.
    Archivist’s warning: Handle with care; nostalgia is flammable. This bit of historical fiction offers the precise atmosphere needed for Honour’s cohort… all glitter on the surface while the floorboards creak ominously underneath.
  • Rhys Bowen – In Farleigh Field – Aristocrats, sabotage, secrets in the hedgerows. Fantastic fun! The Archivist approves.
    Offers a model for depicting how “important national events” collide with rural tranquility. Saint Clare is no stranger to such events.
  • Hannah Byron – The London Spymaker – A brisk tutorial on clandestine operations, especially those conducted by women who cannot be trusted to stay in the drawing room.
    Highly relevant for any MI6-adjacent business the de Vries family has been concealing behind those polished vowels.
  • Julian Fellowes – Belgravia – Fellowes delivers his usual parcel of secrets, velvet drapery, and the soft rustle of hidden motives. The Archivist recommends this as a structural guide for crafting intergenerational mischief, something Saint Clare has in abundance.
  • Brianne Moore – A Bright Young Thing – A scintillating primer on the hazards of Being Presented to Society.
    Archivist’s assessment: Most useful for charting the emotional topography of Honour’s world — champagne bubbles floating over deep chasms of expectation. Readers are warned not to inhale too closely; class pressure can be intoxicating.
  • Kate Morton – The Forgotten Garden – A multi-generational tangle of secrets, lost documents, and mysterious relatives. Highly recommended for offering understanding of ways archives acquire the stories no one meant to leave behind.
    The Archivist has made several exasperated noises while reading it (mostly envy). 
  • Kate Quinn – The Rose Code  – A lively account of codebreaking, secrets, and women who refuse to sit quietly on the sidelines of history. The Archivist expects this history to prove highly instructive for the Honour-and-Ned materials, for reasons that will become evident as certain files are declassified. She also observes that several Saint Clare alumnae would have made formidable cryptographers, especially if told they were not permitted to. As for the question of whether any member of the current staff once served in similar capacities, the Archivist declines to comment.2She merely straightens a folder marked “K.” and moves on.
  • Isabella Valeri – Letters from the Dead – A most unsettling (and therefore highly useful) novel in which the past haunts the present. Novel has the air of a dream and is, happily, the first of a series of novels.  The Archivist notes that its treatment of memory, guilt, and the inconvenient persistence of the written word is directly applicable to Saint Clare’s archives, where several documents have similarly refused to stay quiet. Particularly instructive for crafting the emotional undercurrents of the Honour & Ned years, given the way old correspondences can haunt, clarify, or incriminate, and for reminding the writer that words, once written have a habit of outliving their authors’ intentions. Further, at over 480 pages, my hardbound copy could serve as a useful kudgel 3The Archivist declines to confirm whether any Saint Clare files have behaved likewise.

  • Jacqueline Winspear – Maisie Dobbs – The entry text for a wonderful detective series. The Archivist notes that this text is ideal for understanding individuals who have known both war and peace and find neither entirely restful. Particularly relevant to Ned, who absolutely carries more history in his pockets than is good for him.

Non-Fiction read in November

  • Anne de Courcy – 1939: The Last Season – A beautifully detailed record of Britain on the brink.
    Vital for staging Honour’s final prewar months — the dresses, the dances, the approaching sense of doom that everyone pretends not to notice. The Archivist notes: Nothing ruins a ball like impending global conflict.
  • Anne de Courcy – Debs at War – A striking chronicle of debutantes becoming drivers, codebreakers, and women who stepped into critical wartime roles without hesitation. Essential for envisioning Honour and her cohort as they navigate the moment when society’s expectations transformed overnight and the “girls” transformed with them. The Archivist would like it recorded, for the benefit of any future Head Boys reading over our shoulders, that these accomplishments were achieved without the benefit of an Eton education. A useful reminder, she feels, that competence has never been the exclusive property of any one male in a striped tie.
  • David Kynaston – Austerity Britain – A monumental social history of the immediate postwar years, chronicling everything from bombsites and ration books to political reinvention and the small domestic triumphs of making-do. For Saint Clare, this volume is indispensable. Its insight into postwar everyday life informs the emotional and material world that shapes staff, parents, and students in 1955. A must for any writer attempting to chart how the war’s aftermath shadows even the most polished corridors. The Archivist particularly recommends it for reconstructing:

    – the lingering shortages still felt in 1955
    – the clash between old expectations and new realities
    – and the quiet determination of households (and schools) to rebuild dignity from frayed cloth and ingenuity.

  • Angela Lambert – 1939: The Last Season of Peace – A clear, steady look at Britain in the final months before WW2. The  months shaped by parties, picnics, and social rituals carried out with the uneasy knowledge that their time was passing and might not come again. It captures the peculiar mental climate of the upper classes at the time — that blend of we must pretend nothing is wrong and we know everything is changing,  a psychological weather pattern my characters necessarily inhabit. The Archivist finds this volume especially useful for reconstructing Honour’s last prewar summer: its rhythms, its unspoken fears, the subtle tension between carrying on and looking over one’s shoulder. Also invaluable for pinpointing the instant when “the world as we know it” gives way to “the world as it must become,” a hinge moment the Honour & Ned narrative will soon need to pass through.
  • Mary S. Lovell – The Sisters – My second of two Mitford texts, this one with even more detail, gossip, and political catastrophe. The Archivist recommends it for constructing complicated sibling dynamics, a skill that applies equally to aristocratic families and Saint Clare dormitories.
  • Virginia Nicholson – Singled Out – A powerful, humane account of the “surplus women” of post–World War I Britain, the millions for whom widowhood, loss, and demographic imbalance reshaped every expectation of adulthood. The Archivist regards this as required reading for the school’s staff files: many a Saint Clare mistress carries exactly the sort of private history this book illuminates, especially those who returned from war service with quieter wounds and unexpected independence. Offers invaluable grounding for understanding Miss Kelley, for the Honour-era future of many classmates, and for understanding the reshaped social terrain into which many of the 1955 staff were born.
  • Jane Ridley – George V – A surprisingly vivid royal biography offering insight into duty, decorum, and the national habit of saying everything except what one means. Useful for writing Saint Clare’s older staff, many of whom came of age under such regimes. Found unexpectedly moving.
  • Adrian Tinniswood – The Long Weekend – A sweeping, room-to-room tour of interwar country-house life, complete with collapsing fortunes, stubborn rituals, architectural woes, and the steady hum of modernity pressing at every mullioned window. The Archivist suggests this as essential scaffolding for understanding the houses, habits, and hierarchies that shaped Honour’s and Ned’s youth – from the dining-room choreography to the desperate attempts to maintain grandeur while the roof quietly leaks. Provides a generous supply of atmospheric detail for Saint Clare’s wealthier families, many of whom still pretend their long weekends never truly ended (despite the evidence).4Added a lot to watching Downton Abbey too.
  • Laura Thompson – The Six – A vivid, unsettling, and downright operatic study of the Mitford sisters — six women who managed, between them, to span the entire political spectrum, rewrite the rules of notoriety, and turn family life into something between a salon and a battlefield. The Archivist recommends this volume for anyone attempting to understand how brilliance, charm, loyalty, defiance, privilege, recklessness, and ideological wildfire can coexist inside a single family.5Or school, as the case may be. Particularly informative for shaping the world around Lady de Vries and any Saint Clare alumnae inclined toward dramatic convictions, fashionable extremism, inconvenient romances, or the lifelong habit of causing a stir wherever sent.

Archivist’s Note №4: Debutantes + Espionage

A naturally complementary pairing: social sparkle meets strategic secrecy. The Archivist observes that when these volumes are placed beside one another, they demonstrate an unexpected kinship. Certain alumnae were very much the same.

Archive Record: Posts Filed in November 2025

Presented in chronological order, as all reputable archivists (and some prefects) insist.

Archivist’s Note №5: Classic Editor Incident

Logged under “Sentimental Technology,” though in truth the situation was far more operatic. In the course of migrating materials into Scrivener, the Archivist was obliged to process:

  • BBEdit fragments,
  •  Word documents in every conceivable state of formatting distress,
  •  Apple Notes entries written at baffling hours on MacBook, desktop, iPhone, and, in one memorable case, watch
  • Evernote refugees,
  • PDFs of uncertain provenance,
  • Several A5 notebooks
  • And several hundred small, handwritten scraps whose survival defied both logic and humidity.

Final tally: 400+ text files, 1,000+ images, and a Classic Editor duplicate that arrived like a ghost insisting it still had business in this world. No reprimands issued. The Archivist merely notes, with a certain weary dignity, that she still prefers ink.

Archivist’s Note №6: Concerning Workplace Conditions

Following the successful migration of BBEdit fragments, Word orphans, Apple Notes midnight ramblings, Evernote exiles, mismatched PDFs, and over a thousand images (not to mention the small scraps of paper written in handwriting that can only be described as “hopeful”) the Archivist has filed a formal request for workplace compensation.

Grounds cited include:

  • emotional fatigue,
  • optical strain,
  • several near-miss papercuts,
  • and the spiritual injury caused by encountering filenames such as “final_FINAL_reallythisoneipromise_2c.docx.”

Claim pending. The Archivist awaits judgment with the dignity of a woman who has wrestled a hydra and reshelved its heads.

Closing the Ledger

November was a month of discipline, excavation, research, and tea consumption of heroic proportions.

Archivist’s Note №7: On Tea, Coffee, and Other Necessary Fuels

November’s consumption records have been subjected to the usual scrutiny.

Tea usage reached a level not witnessed since the Great Staff Conference Dispute of 1947, while coffee intake rose in direct proportion to the number of files refusing to behave themselves.

The Archivist wishes it known that her professional functioning depends on a carefully balanced regimen:

– tea for patience,
– coffee for courage,
– biscuits for morale,
– and the occasional square of emergency chocolate for existential crises provoked by unsorted metadata.

Administration, after reviewing these findings, has approved additional supplies of all categories.
(The kettle and the percolator have requested alternating shifts.) Despite the elevated beverage consumption, the Old Girls’ return, and the increased foot traffic in the Archive Room, the inkpots remained mostly cooperative.

The groundwork laid in November (particularly within the Honour & Ned Wing) should begin to bear visible fruit in December, provided no further documents attempt escape or rewrite themselves when the Archivist isn’t looking.

The Archivist has now placed two paperweights on the most volatile files, just in case.

Archivist’s Note №8: December’s Arrival

Never trust a month that hums to itself.

Archivist’s Note №9: Final Annotation

No documents were harmed in this update. Except that timetable. Which was shredded and, I would argue, was overheard snickering on more than one occasion and so absolutely deserved it.

And with that, the November ledger closes. December is already loitering in the corridor,  hands behind its back, pretending innocence.

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    Which, had I been, frankly I would have curled into a weeping ball before abandoning the plan. ↩︎
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    She merely straightens a folder marked “K.” and moves on. ↩︎
  • 3
    The Archivist declines to confirm whether any Saint Clare files have behaved likewise. ↩︎
  • 4
    Added a lot to watching Downton Abbey too. ↩︎
  • 5
    Or school, as the case may be. ↩︎

A Saint Clare Reading List for Emma Bishop

Posted on By Mija

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There’s been an outbreak of lurgy over at Bishy’s house, with poor little Emma Bishop still tucked up and recovering. Since she’s sensibly curled up watching Mallory Towers (her matron must be a total push-over compared to the one at St. Clare), I pointed her toward my most recent Saint Clare story, Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack.

She enjoyed it (no surprise given her affinity for and kinship with naughty girls and their well-earned consequences) and because I know she loves a good F/f school story, I’m sending her this reading list in the hope she feels better soonest. As I wrote it, I realized some other readers might be interested, and enjoy a less broken path through the stories.

Here you go:

Saint Clare School:

Inez of the Upper IV Path:

More instalments of Inez of the Upper IV are coming this month… provided no one misbehaves so spectacularly that I am called away to deal with them first.

Feel better soon, Bishy!

And do rest properly, or Matron will be round with her thermometer, tablespoon, and that Look.

In the meantime, consider yourself excused from lessons and fully permitted to enjoy as many school stories as you please. 😊

 

Guest Story – Naughty Arabella’s Just Desserts

Posted on By Mija

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Introduction:

What began as a playful observation on Bluesky (that the name “Arabella” is destined to belong to the naughtiest girl in any school) has now grown into a small constellation of stories. Mine took a folkloric turn with Saint Clare’s and Krampus; this one, shared here today, takes its own wonderful path.

So enjoy this spirited take on Arabella: The Patron Saint of Bad Behaviour Everywhere written by a fellow participant in the thread who wishes to remain unnamed, at least for now.

Again for clarity – this is a guest contribution to that Arabella-led challenge. It is entirely outside the Saint Clare universe. This is simply a wonderfully cheeky contribution inspired by the same mischievous spark: the girl Arabella whose name alone hints at trouble. I’m so delighted to be able to share it.

Guest Story – Reposted Here with the Author’s Permission. 

 

Naughty Arabella’s Just Desserts

Was it even real? Did that really just happen?? I slid my claw along the gilded edge of the envelope in my pocket as I threaded my way through the throngs of teenagers toward Mr Climbover’s class.

It felt real enough. But it could be a trick. Arabella had never noticed me before – not that I minded but – she was the coolest girl in school, everyone knew her name and when she walked through the halls the other kids made space for her and her trail of lackeys trying to kiss her perfect butt.

Most of us dragons, if we bother to shapeshift, stick with other animals. It’s easier. Not her.

Arabella stayed in her human form indefinitely, as far as anyone knew. There were even some rumors she was actually human who somehow sneaked into the conclave’s boarding school – how else did she get the form so perfect??

All of her lackeys tried to mimic her, of course, with varying degrees of success. Her simpering entourage looked more like humans going trick or treating. Cheap costumes even. None of us dared say anything because the comet they followed could make or break anyone’s social standing with a single sneer.

As I settled into the hard wooden student desk, I reached for my stashed envelope again. I slid it out of my pocket and smoothly slipped it into my history text book on my desk. Its golden filigree edge peeked out of the heavily thumbed pages, a sparkle of hope for my own social standing.

An invitation to Arabella’s birthday party! With my name on it!

(more…)

discipline

NEW STORY – Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack – A Krampus at Saint Clare Story

Posted on By Mija

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Foreword:

Every so often, a Saint Clare story arrives from an unexpected corner—this one came from an offhand comment on Bluesky about how “Arabella” is the name of a girl who is absolutely up to mischief. That joke blossomed into an open challenge to write a story with “Naughty Arabella” somewhere in the title.

https://bsky.app/profile/mija-again.bsky.social/post/3m754wu5vrc2n
This is my offering.

Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack – Winter 1925 at Saint Clare’s takes place firmly within the larger Saint Clare universe, but outside the Inez of the Upper IV arc. It introduces an earlier generation of girls—and a long-standing bit of school folklore involving a seasonal visitor who is, essentially, OFSTED with hooves. Krampus pays annual calls to Saint Clare’s, but this year he meets his match in Arabella Fairchild: blonde, brilliant, catastrophically charming, and overdue for supernatural accountability.

The result is part school-story romp, part institutional mythmaking, and wholly Saint Clare’s.

STORY – Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack

Chapter I – In Which Saint Clare’s Watches a Drama Unfold

Saint Clare School for Girls slept beneath a frosty moon in the winter of 1925, its chimneys puffing industriously and its corridors stretching away into dim, draughty mystery. Most of the Second Form were fast asleep in their flannel nightgowns, except for those peering nervously from their beds, listening to the unmistakable CLONK–CLONK–CLONK of something decidedly not school-sanctioned approaching.

Arabella Fairchild, however, was not in her nightgown.

Oh no.

Arabella stood at the centre of the corridor, dressed in her full uniform—immaculate gymslip, snowy white shirt, hair ribbons neat at either side of her head—because Arabella firmly believed that if one must face the supernatural, one should at least look as though one were about to captain the lacrosse team.

She was, as the Headmistress had once remarked in a despairingly admiring tone, “the sort of blonde beauty who, in six years, during her first season, will oblige her father to consider hiring armed guards1Borrowed from Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather (I think). in addition to the usual chaperones.”

Arabella knew this.

Arabella relied on this.

But Arabella’s beauty had never yet faced Krampus.

Girls Who Watched

Behind her, in the rows of narrow iron bedsteads, half the Second Form crouched behind blankets, whispering furiously.

“She’s done it again,” hissed Primrose Pembury, who had once taken the blame for Arabella’s practical joke involving a frog in the Latin master’s hat.

“And she’ll get away with it again,” muttered Clara Dawlish, who had written one hundred lines after Arabella persuaded her to switch name-tags on the exam papers.

“I’d like to see her caught. Just once!” whispered Lottie, who had been given detention when Arabella accidentally (on purpose) set off a smoke-bomb during sewing.

Little Sally Billings (who had been framed for the “ink-in-the-cocoa” incident) clutched her hot-water bottle and breathed, “Look at her! Smirking like she owns the place!”

The girls’ resentment simmered in the cold air.

This was the year Arabella Fairchild would receive her comeuppance.

They could feel it.

(more…)

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    Borrowed from Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather (I think). ↩︎
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