A Meeting With Our Headmaster
by Mija
M/f, schoolgirl
Miss Vera Kingsley
C/O Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Kingsley
4 Carlton Park Road –shire, England
18 March 19–
My Dear Vera,
I know this is days early for my weekly letter and hope this finds your lungs mending and your plans to return in the autumn still in place, but I had to tell you about yesterday’s horrid afternoon. God help me should there ever be any repeating.
How right you were about my deceptions catching up with me with a vengeance! I am writing to you while standing. Let me quickly say that while I can sit, I certainly have no desire to do so. My reason will soon be clear, though I suspect you have already guessed. You are too kind and polite to say “I warned you,” but in fairness, you did.
The reason I was summoned to our headmaster’s office wasn’t entirely a mystery to me. I am not sure why, but sometimes I can’t seem to focus on my work, fall behind, and things gradually start to slide. As that happens, I start feeling overwhelmed. After that, events sort of spiral until they’re completely out of my control. (I can imagine you rolling your eyes at my saying that, but it’s true.)
Along those lines, as you are well aware, maths has never been my best subject (and that’s to put it mildly). I’d been meaning to catch up for a couple of weeks, especially after that note about my sub-standard work was given to me to mail home, but without your cool mind, well, let’s just say my intentions hadn’t gone as far as one might like.
Today, when I got to maths, the evil Mr. M— waited until everyone arrived, called me uo to the front of the room, and passed me a sealed letter. He (far too loudly) instructed me to take it to our headmaster immediately and wait while he read. Further, he said I was to take my things with me as I would not be returning to his lesson today. Of course I’m sure my face turned ashen, as anyone’s might under the same circumstances. I slowly gathered books, pencils, and pens into my bag, aware all the while that horrible Mabel Oliver (whom I shall *hate* until the day I die) openly smirked and nudged Diana, her behavior studiously ignored by Mr. M. When she tittered my hand positively itched to slap her nasty, spotted face, but you’ll be happy to hear I restrained myself, knowing I already had a horrible ordeal before me. Poor, dear Fiona, she was almost in tears on my behalf! It was the loving look she threw me that made me determined not to show any of the others how afraid I was nor how fragile I felt.
I went up and took the envelope (it reeked trouble, addressed as it was in Mr. M’s nasty, spidery writing) and slowly walked toward our head’s office, making a quick stop at the loo for a once-over of my uniform. Dear Vera, how I missed you right then! You can go over our uniforms so well and catch the nasty little details that the head’s keen eyes never seem to miss. As it was I did my very best. Retied that d–ned silly tie at least twice, folding my collar neatly over it. I also pulled my shirt down tight beneath my gymslip so no wrinkles showed. Frankly, I thought I looked rather smart for nearly the end of the day. But, given the lack of full-length mirror, I’d forgotten to check my knee socks. I’m sure you’d have remembered, of course.
As I stood in front of the headmaster’s door, my heart felt like a hummingbird’s. Honestly, it was beating that fast. I couldn’t help but remember the last time I was there, with Fiona and you after our disastrous argument with the housemistress over table manners. Knocking, I recalled the three hard strokes of the tawse we each got across our palms, followed by a no less painful, but far more humiliating six across our knickers. You were so brave, Vera dear. I tried to remember your strength as I knocked softly on his thick walnut door.
It seemed he was waiting for me (clearly Mr. M had discussed this with him beforehand) and at once called out permission for me to enter. I entered slowly and quietly, finally standing before his desk. Vera, he walked two full turns around me in his robes like some sort of horrible circling bat, looking me up and down. At first I was confident all was right, but then I noticed his glance lingering on my knee socks. They were crooked and unfolded (I had forgotten the undergarters, you see) and so I soon was scolded and hurried to set them right.
He asked why I’d come (as if he didn’t know!) and I handed him the note. He handed it back immediately, demanding that I tell him what was in it. When I claimed not to have read it, which was the truth, he became still more annoyed and asked what I thought it said. I confessed to not having been as attentive to my maths as I should be. And, in fact, when he directed me to read him that note, that seemed the sum of its contents. Surely, nothing bad enough to warrant this manner of treatment!
But, as he soon told me, there apparently are other reports. As he rattled on and on about my irresponsible attitude toward school, I gathered he’d managed to talk to all my teachers who apparently agreed with Mr. M’s opinion I needed “waking up.” He must have repeated that expression “needs waking up” five times if he said it once. My bottom fairly tingled with fear each time he said the word “waking.” I shuddered as it was made clear I would not escape the tawse today.
But the worst was to come! Have you guessed? Yes, that note. He had the note commenting on my lack of prep in maths that I was supposed to have mailed home to Mr. B– for his signature. I know you warned me, but I was sure I could keep it from him, and signed it myself. But now my guardian’s signature was being questioned. I tried to deny it, but when our headmaster began a letter to Mr. B to be posted that afternoon asking what his reaction to news of my laziness had been, I was forced to confess my deception and forgery. Had I not, Mr. B– would have likely brought his answer in person! I couldn’t bear that for I was clearly in enough trouble already.
Our headmaster’s disapproval radiated from his every word and glance as he scolded me and demanded a full admission of guilt. I gave him that, my shame surely rendering me as crimson as our blazers, but I was informed in no uncertain terms that my further regret and attonement would be inscribed on my body. I felt a strong urge to use the loo and repressed it, fearing his sarcasm were I brave enough to ask to be excused.
My nervousness must have brought an unlooked for smile to my lips, one I tried to hide, but which our headmaster, of course, noticed.
“So you find this humorous, do you, miss?”
What on earth can one say to that I ask you? I tried to deny it of course — there certainly was nothing funny from *my* perspective.
“No sir,” I quickly stuttered. “It’s only nerves, sir.”
I cannot be the only girl he has seen react in this manner. One can’t help being nervous.
Still, he ignored my protest, fear, and repeated apologies. Again and *again* he stated I needed “waking up” and declared I’d soon be “taking my studies much more seriously. I ask you, Vera dear, how can one not simply sigh in the face of such comments, endlessly repeated? What other answer is possible? Still, I tried to reply. Something along the lines of “I’m quite sure our conversation has woken me, sir,” and thanking him.
Our headmaster held my gaze until I squirmed with discomfort. I looked away once, only to be reminded to look him in the eye, something I find profoundly difficult even in the best of times. He said in a moment he was going to see for himself how badly behind I was in maths, but first he see to my “wakening up.” I dreaded seeing the tawse, even knowing it was coming. I stood with my head up, back straight as I could as he opened the left side drawer of his desk and reached in.
The heavy tawse was, indeed, what emerged. I clenched my hands behind my back, remembering its sting. Our headmaster snapped it cruelly, for effect, his eyes never moving from my own. I swear, Vera, I could hardly swallow, my mouth was that dry. I’m not sure how I managed breathing.
At his direction I went over to the low bench in the corner of his office. He had me bend all the way over, far enough so my elbows rested on the bench. Truthfully this is lower than it would have been were I required to touch my toes. Given the position, I felt my gymslip rise up above the tops of my thighs. I could do nothing but pray for the strokes to be given over my skirt, but, after a moment of smoothing, his fingers lifted my already too short gymslip, and folded it onto my back, gravity raising it in the front as well.
You’d think that would be the very worst humiliation. I was sure it must be, but I then felt his finger touch bare skin where I would expect there to be knicker and closed my eyes, knowing I must be wearing a pair with a small tear along the hem. This discovery earned me yet another lecture on my carelessness. He called me the “laziest girl” he’d ever known, promising he would correct my lax ways.
My face flamed as he went on and on, so much I almost wished he would start. Almost. Finally he pronounced my sentence. Six strokes as my “waking up” plus an extra two for carelessness about my uniform. He delivered them slowly, having me count each in turn. The first six landed low on my knickers, the tips wrapping into my hip. Of *course* I cried out in pain, tears flooding my eyes. He was merciless and told me to be still and keep my feet flat on the floor. The final two were across the tops of my bare thighs. Each hurt more than all the other six together. Finally, after a long wait and inspection he allowed me to rise and directed me to the desk in the opposite corner.
[I’m taking a break here, Vera dear. Writing to you has been so engaging I’ve almost missed tea. I’ll finish this after my prep.
I’m back now with nothing to do until lights out except finish this letter. And yes, I finished my prep so no need to nag.]
The next portion of this “trial” was a test of how far behind in maths I’d got myself. Our headmaster directed me to sit (ouch!) down at the corner desk, facing the wall. He then opened a copy of our maths text to a mini-test on problem sets. My heart started beating again. This was work I remembered from last term when you were here helping and I moved through the problems with some confidence on the provided paper. Still, the time limit he set wasn’t sufficent for me to do careful work. Since I was to get three cane strokes for each error, I prayed to have as few errors as possible.
When he called time and collected my work he found only two errors. The headmaster seemed surprised, pleased even. I allowed myself to relax, hoping that this embarrassing scene could soon be past. After the brutal eight with the tawse, four cane strokes would seem as nothing. He told me he was pleased to see I could work when properly motivated. He said, therefore, I had the chance to skip being caned entirely. There was but one further problem more he required me to solve correctly. Having seen the remainder of the chapter, I felt sure I could answer another problem and agreed calmly to his ‘double or nothing’ terms.
So you’ll understand that my heart stopped when he pulled some ancient text from his shelf and began flipping through the pages. I tried to plead, only to have it pointed out that I’d agreed I could do one more problem. The problem he gave, Vera, was to find out the surface area of eight metal tubes of a certain length and specific width. As if any young lady would ever have any use for this knowledge! I tell you I sat there holding my pencil with my head fairly reeling and no idea where to begin. Finally in desperation I began to multiply numbers, keeping in mind that area equals length times width. Still, I knew that that formula was for squares and such and that these tubes were, for course, *round* and something was calculated differently for round things, though how or what I knew not. But I had to try despite knowing as I worked it was all hopeless.
It seemed I’d only started when he called time and picked up my paper. He gazed at it with what I can only call contempt. Finally he handed it to me and asked me to please explain my reasoning. I stammered something about multiplying the numbers and then adding them to each other. The headmaster loomed still closer, seeming still taller and asked if he was to understand that I thought I could calculate the area of a tube by multiplying the length and diameter, adding each together. I nodded, my throat totally dry. In a voice dripping with sarcasm he wondered if I’d ever been “enlightened” on the subjects of “radius” or “pi“. I could not answer, but only stared forward. I remembered the terms vaguely from moments in class when my day dreams dropped me into the reality of lessons, but that was all.
“Miss,” our headmaster demanded, “I asked you what ‘pi‘ means. Surely at sixteen you know that much.”
My cheeks burned I told him that I thought it was three-point-something or other, but that I couldn’t remember and I’d always been terrible at word problems. Anyway, I argued, what was the use of learning things like this? He interupted me and made my blood cold by telling me he could see what my maths master had to complain about, my attitude was even worse than my laziness. He stated that I’d clearly not been even attempting to learn any of my trigonometry lessons. He then continued further with some nonsense about me needing to order carpet or wallpaper once I have my own home to tend once I leave school. Ridiculous. As if I, or any of the rest of us, will ever be living in a house that’s series of eight tubes?
Wisely, though, I kept this observation to myself.
I soon found myself standing before the bench again, bent over so my elbows rested on its surface. He took some time folding up my gymslip again, telling me I’d be getting twelve strokes with the senior cane, the one rumored to be made and used only at boys’ schools. My knees were shaking even before I felt his fingers on my knickers’ waistband or heard the dreaded phrase “on your bare bottom.” It was with aching slowness he lowered my knickers to just above my knees, finally picking up the cane and swishing it through the air several times. I’m not sure what all he said — something about this being the most severe of punishments given at this school for girls who refused to learn any other way and attempted to cover up their laziness with dishonesty. I tried not to listen, tried only to focus on my breathing.
The caning did not begin immediately, Vera. He tortured me with half-strokes and tapping for what seemed like hours, until the back of my calves ached with holding this humiliating position. Until I could feel myself begin to perspire with fear and tension, the moisture collecting in the small of my back. Finally he laid the stroke on hard across both my cheeks. I swear I felt as though I’d been branded. That lighter cane the young history master uses is a mere noodle compared to this rod. A small cry escaped my lips. After a longish pause the headmaster informed me I was to count each of them and thank him for it. I did just as he asked, wanting to do nothing which would make this punishment more severe.
Still, some sort of stroppy rebellion must have found its way into my tone for at just beyond the half-way point he stopped and stated that however hardened I was, he’d find a way to get through to me. I was truly horrified as I could not imagine bearing any greater pain then he was already inflicting. After cautioning me not to rise, he began to lay the cane on again, not in the strong hard cuts he’d been using, but swift and rapid swishes which flicked arcoss my bottom and thighs feeling like nothing so much as a swarm of attacking bees. I clawed at the bench and must have made quite a sight, squirming with the struggle of keeping both feet on the floor and my elbows on the bench. The rumour that our headmaster is an expert with the rod is true. I soon found myself promising to improve my behaviour if only he would stop, my tears falling down my face, dripping onto my clenched hands.
Finally, he did pause and I, at this point almost maddened with pain, began to sob freely. He laid his hand on my back until I could be quiet, and told me that I was now to start the count at nine — that I had four strokes remaining. I swear, Vera, I almost fainted. He was counting those dozens of quick strokes as but two off the total twelve!! This seemed most unreasonable and unfair and I wished to argue but feared he would have me resume at eight or even six were I to be at all resistant. So I merely replied “Yes, sir” and began counting off the final four strokes.
I’m sure I need not tell you how awful they were, each one landing but a hair lower than the one before it across the very base of my bottom, the final two crossing in the crease where my bottom and thighs meet. I think even the headmaster was concerned the strokes had been too much, for after I counted the final one, he kept me in position, examining my bottom for damage and running his fingers lightly along each weal. One would think I’d have felt still more embarrassed, but I truthfully felt moved at his concern and, furthder, a desire that he assure himself I was well and truly punished.
After satisfying himself as to the state of my bottom, the headmaster raised my knickers and directed me to a corner of his office just behind his desk. There is something about the phrase “get your nose right in that corner, miss” that is just sooooo lacking in any dignity. Still, I was still as a mouse, not wanting to give any reason to incur further punishment.
Standing there in that corner my bravado finally slipped. I began to cry, quietly, but tears nevertheless. I stiffened my shoulders, trying not to let my shame show, but sobs began to shake me. I felt just so overwhelmed with guilt at what I’d done, humiliated by this punishment, wishing I could undo it all, be back in last term, studying by your side. I felt, well, bad and ashamed, sobbing and wondering why anyone would bother with me.
The corner-time lasted an eternity, but finally the headmaster called me over to him. I wiped my eyes as best I could (of course I’d forgotten my hankercheif) and turned to see him sitting in the armless chair before his desk. As I stood before him, I searched his eyes for the contempt I was sure I’d find. But there was none, but rather warmth and a determination that made my knees quake a bit. Despite my shame, I held his gaze.
“And now, miss,” he said, “we must deal with your lying and forgery.”
Even though I was expecting nothing less, my heart dropped at his words. Yet I nodded gravely, standing as if frozen in place. He held up a large, long-handled clothes brush. I gasped at the sight of it and quickly explained that I’d only lied because of not wanting to disappoint my guardian.
“Lying and cheating in that manner was a childish thing to do. You’d already disappointed him by falling behind on your work and now have only added to the bad report he’s sure to receive.”
I nodded, tears falling again as I hopelessly pleaded with him to keep this a secret. I have to admit I wasn’t surprised when the headmaster explained that he would of course be sending a letter with the account of the entire incident to Mr. B– by the end of the week. His only mercy was to give the choice of writing to him first, which I swear I shall do as soon as I send this letter off, though I confess I’m to dreading it.
“For such childish actions,” he continued, “I think I know just the right sort of punishment.” And with that he gestured for me to bend over his lap, which I did, awkwardly because I’m not a little girl, but practically a grown lady, only to feel him lowering my knickers yet again. I’m sure my face purpled with shame as the closeness of our bodies seemed to underline my humiliation. So I would know that this feeling was indeed his intention, he adjusted my weight so my feet were off the floor, my hands clenched around the chair’s leg. He then commented on how disappointing it was to find any girl my age still needing to go across his lap. I, of course, had to agree.
Vera, that brush hurt every bit as much at sixteen as it had at nine. I tried to be stoic, but sooner than I would have thought possible, heard myself cry, and then, finally, wail and beg. Still, the spanking and quiet scolding continued a bit longer. Finally it was ended and my clothing adjusted as I stood before our headmaster, with my bottom too sore to even tempt me to rub.
I expected further scolding, but he was quiet and listened as I pledged to do better, even agreeing with me when I said I knew I would. Finally he commented that he felt I was brave and had a great deal of potential (little did he know!) and that this correction, unpleasent though it may have been, was needed to ensure that I didn’t waste any talents.
When he finished speaking, I nodded and signed the punishment book on the space he indicated. And then I surprised even myself by thanking him. He put his hand on my shoulder and instructed me to return to the dormitories and tell Matron he said I should change and spend the afternoon and evening in bed in her ward, not returning to my room until the following day.
A day later and I’m still musing over his words. Did our headmaster really punish me so severely because he cares about me? I’ve always thought of being punished as a sort of revenge, by the school or my guardian, for my transgressions — a sort of payment in kind. But if he spoke the truth then there must be something more.
Or perhaps it is merely something he says. I beg to know your thoughts.
Please keep yourself well and be of good cheer. I’ll write with more pleasant news at the weekend.
In deepest friendship and wishing you speedy good health,
All my love,
Mariana