BEXHILL SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, Assembly (2 page)

“Debbie!” her
father’s voice boomed from the hallway, “Debbie, are you
there?”

She opened her
door. “Hello, Dad.”

“Debbie, come
down here please. I want to talk to you.”

Oh Lord. This
was it.

Debbie tripped
on the last stair, but regained her balance before she fell. She
was feeling rather self-assured after the stiff drink.

“Yes, Dad, what
can I do for you?”

“Come into the
drawing room, please. Close the door. Sit there.” He indicated the
sofa while he sat in his usual armchair.

“Now, I’m sure
you know what this is about, don’t you?”

Debbie returned
his gaze in a slightly unfocussed way.

“It’s about
those wretched mock GCE results,” he continued. “They’re pathetic.
I was ashamed today when people asked me how you’d done.”

“What’s it got
to do with anyone else? Those old farts in your office should mind
their own business!”

This wasn’t a
smart start to the proceedings, but, as we have seen, Debbie was a
bit of a slow learner.

“Do you mind
not being rude about by work colleagues! They’re all highly
qualified lawyers, which is something it seems that you’re unlikely
ever to be!”

“They’re just a
bunch of prats making money every time someone’s wife catches their
husband shagging the nanny! They should get a life!”

“Debbie, how
dare
you!”

Debbie was on a
run. “All you people are the same. Look at Mum. Spends her life
slicing up people’s smelly feet. How much of a loser is that?”

“Debbie, shut
up! Your mother is one of the most respected orthopaedic surgeons
in London!”

“She still
deals in smelly feet. Anyway, so what about my results. I don’t
want to go to university anyway!” This was a new line, invented on
the spot. “I want to travel. I’ll go to Africa or somewhere with
Julian. We’ll become big game hunters or keep lions or something
like those Atkinsons or Adamsons or whatever they’re called on
TV!”

Debbie’s
immaturity was showing rather too clearly.

“What you’ll
do,” said her father, controlling his composure with some
difficulty, “is what I’m about to tell you.”

“Oh yes, and
what’s that?” snapped Debbie.

“Keep quiet and
listen. I’ve spent most of the day considering what to do about
you. I’ve spoken to St Mary’s and they’ve been kind enough to give
me some excellent advice...”

“I suppose I
have to say twenty ‘Hail Marys’ and flagellate myself!”

“I’ll deal with
the flagellation side,” said her father grimly, neatly regaining
the initiative as Debbie recalled the lurking presence of the
strap. “I was in two minds: let you go to hell your own, ignorant
way and muddle through life without a qualification to your name;
or to persevere and put you back on the road to a proper future. I
decided on the latter.”

“How
awfully
kind of you!” Debbie said, sarcastically. Her father
ignored her. She was going to pay for this, but not just yet.

“The reason
that your mother and I decided that we’d keep trying is that we’re
a family of achievers...”

Debbie was just
about to give some more lip, but her father held up his hand.

“I don’t want
to hear another word from you until I’ve finished. Is that
clear?”

“Democracy
rules, OK!” It came out a little slurred.

“Whatever, in
your ignorance, you may think of the firm of Arbuthnot and
Bellweather, we’re well on our way to being one of the most
respected family lawyers in the city. Your brother will shortly
join the firm and shows great promise. Your mother has her own
clinic in Harley Street. Only
you
present a problem, and I
believe that the problem is fixable with a bit of discipline.”

Debbie
misunderstood this to mean that she was going to get her strapping
there and then.

“OK, let’s get
it over with then,” she said impudently. “How do you want me? Over
your knees? Touching my toes? Hands on a chair? Bending over the
back of the sofa here perhaps?”

“I told you not
to speak until I am finished. The discipline I referred to is the
Bexhill School for Girls.”

“What the hell
is that?”

“Exactly what
it says: it’s a school in Bexhill which has a firm approach to
discipline. I believe they’ll keep girls like you on a short rein,
hammer knowledge into your head, and - hey presto! - in a few years
time you’ll emerge as a beautiful, educated swan!”

“Sounds like
crap!”

“Possibly, but
worth a try. I enrolled you today. You start in September.”

“No I
won’t!”

“Debbie, you
exhausted your mother’s patience this morning. You’ve exhausted
mine now. Thanks for your suggestions: I think over the sofa will
do nicely. Get into position while I fetch the strap.”

Debbie opened
her mouth.

“Not a word.
And I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here, so that will
be a few extra. Now prepare yourself!”

Suddenly, the
fight went out of Debbie. She was no longer a feisty teenager
telling the world what to do with itself. She was a frightened
little girl who knew that she was going to get the thrashing of her
life. She got up, a little unsteadily, and walked to the back of
the sofa. She bent over and grasped the satin cushions tightly.

“Good,” said
her father. “Now wait there. I won’t be a moment.”

Debbie could
hear a brief exchange of conversation with her mother. She must
have come in through the back door, into the kitchen. Oh God, was
her brother there, too? She hated it when she knew he was listening
in to her punishments. She heard the kitchen door close, and then
the closet door open. The closet: repository of the clothes brush
and the strap. It was like a torture chamber!

Her father came
back in and closed the drawing room door. He held the heavy, brown
strap in his hand. It was something of a family heirloom. Had
Debbie been remotely interested in history, she might have been
intrigued to know that the leather belt that was about to cause her
backside so much grief had once belonged to a Boer
commando
who had been besieging Mafeking. Her grandfather, taking part in
the historic relief of the town, had seized the belt from a
protesting captive when his own Army-issue webbing had been severed
by a ricocheting bullet. But Debbie knew nothing of the Boer War.
If she’d ever even heard of it, she would probably have called it
the Bore War, or - even more hilariously - the Bored Whore.

Returning from
South Africa still in possession of the thick rawhide belt, the
Colonel had later used it on the backsides of Debbie’s father and
his siblings, and now in his turn her father used it on her and her
brother. Actually, although her father had thrashed Michael once or
twice a year when the boy was younger, he had only used it on
Debbie twice, but those occasions were burned into her memory.

He stood behind
her. The white miniskirt had ridden up so high that he barely had
to adjust it. Out of respect for her decency, he allowed her to
keep her knickers on.

“You’ll stay in
place. If you get up, I’ll have to ask your mother to come in here
and hold you down. I’m sure you don’t want that. You can howl as
much as you like: no-one’s going to take any notice. And just to
make it clear, this thrashing isn’t only about your disastrous exam
results: it’s also about your abysmal attitude. Are you ready?”

Debbie was
afraid she’d sob if she spoke, so she just nodded. Her father laid
the strap across the crown of her bottom, raised it high, and
brought it down with as much force as his strong tennis arm could
muster. The stroke landed with an almighty thwack. Debbie reared
and yelled, but quickly lowered herself back into position. Her
father paused, letting the blazing sting percolate through every
tissue in her backside. Then he swung again.

Out in the
kitchen, Michael and his mother sat in a rather awkward silence,
sipping mugs of tea. The sound of the thrashing taking place in the
drawing room was unmistakeable.

“I feel a bit
sorry for her,” said Pat at length, “but she really brought this
upon herself today.”

Back on the
sofa Debbie was screeching and writhing and twisting under the
onslaught as the leather slapped against the frail protection of
her panties. Beneath them, her bottom was turning from red to
purple to blue. Her father had never thrashed either of his
children as hard as this before, but then neither had ever
previously merited such punishment. It seemed to go on forever, but
in reality it was probably not even five minutes. Finally, her
father stood back and let the strap swing beside his right leg. He
was slightly out of breath.

“Right. I hope
that has taught you a lesson. Now get up, compose yourself, and go
to your room. We don’t want to see you again tonight. Your mother
will bring you some supper later. I suggest that you use the time
to reassess your attitude and get used to the idea that the next
year is going to be one of hard work.”

Debbie rubbed
vainly at the furnace in her backside. She cast a red-eyed glance
at her father and then scuttled upstairs, closing (not slamming)
her bedroom door.

***

“Where do you
think you’re going?” Debbie’s mother had found her ironing her pale
blue ball gown.

“Julian’s
taking me to Tessa Fanshawe’s coming-out dance on Saturday. I
thought I’d wear this. Can I borrow one of your necklaces?”

“You’re not
going anywhere, young lady! After your behaviour on Tuesday you’re
gated for the rest of the holidays.
When
you’ve gone to
Bexhill
and
started studying properly
and
learned to
behave respectfully, you may be allowed a social life again. Now
put that dress away.”

“Oh,
Mummy
! Don’t be so mean! You can’t treat me like a child
anymore!”

“I seem to
remember that I treated you like a child the other day, whilst you
lay on your bed, and your father treated you like a child that
evening over the sofa.
When
you show a bit of maturity,
then
you can go out to grown-up events like balls. Right
now, you’re staying in this house every night.”

“That’s just
the stupidest thing I ever heard! How am I supposed to tell Julian
that I can’t go out with him on Saturday? And what will Tess say
when she sees I’m not there - I’m one of her best friends?”

“Perhaps your
father or I should ring up and tell them why you’re not going.”

“Don’t you
dare
! Don’t even
think
of doing so! I’d die of
shame!”

“Debbie, you’re
going the right way to send me down to the closet again.”

“Go and shut
yourself in it for all I care!” With that Debbie threw the iron
down and stomped off to her room. This time she did slam the
door.

Her mother
raised her eyes to the ceiling: ‘Teenagers! Roll on September!’ she
thought as she switched the off the iron and carefully folded the
shimmering blue silk.

Later, when
no-one was around, Debbie phoned Julian.

“Julian,
awfully bad news! I have to go to a family funeral on Saturday. I
won’t be able to make it to Tessa’s party.”

“Never mind,
old thing. We’ll just have to get along without you. Have a nice
time at the - what did you say it was? Oh, a funeral. Well I don’t
suppose that’ll be much fun. Anyway, see you later, alligator!” He
was already thumbing through his address book to see which of the
debs might be most likely to succumb to his charms. A few minutes
later he paused. ‘I say,’ he thought, ‘wasn’t she expecting a
thrashing from her father? Must ask her about it sometime.’ He went
through to the kitchen of his Sloane Street flat and picked up the
bottle of Spanish medium white. When he reached Oddbins, he found
the young manager.

“I say, old
chap, would you swap this for a Bollinger. Changed my mind, or
rather, changed the tottie! Ha! Ha!”

Unlike Debbie,
Catharine was looking forward to starting at Bexhill. Her elder
sister, Jane, had been there and had apparently enjoyed it. In her
time she’d played games for the school and done creditably well in
the GCE exams. She’d been made a Dormitory Captain and then a
Prefect.

The sisters got
on well. Catharine was sitting on Jane’s bed while her sister made
herself up for a date that evening with her new boyfriend, Steve.
Catharine approved of him and had been trying to wheedle out Jane
just what stage the relationship had reached, but Jane was
remaining frustratingly coy. Now she changed the subject.

“So, are you
looking forward to going to Bexhill?”

“Oh, rather. I
think it should be good. Anyway it’ll be better than having all
those juniors around at South Lane.”

“But you’ll be
a junior yourself when you get to Bexhill. Won’t you find that
hard?”

“I don’t think
so. There’ll be other new girls starting with me and the whole
place sounds much more grown-up. You liked it there, didn’t
you?”

“Yes, very
much. The other girls were fun to be with and most of the teachers
were OK. Mrs Winchester is great: you think she’s stuffy when
you meet her, but underneath she’s fine - quite cool, actually.
Lots of us wish she’d been made the Head instead of ‘Three
Taps’”.

“Why’s he
called ‘Three Taps’? You’re talking about Mr Masterson, aren’t
you?”

“Yes, the
Headmaster. Well, I hope you never find out for yourself why he’s
called ‘Three Taps’. Do you really want to know?”

Catharine drew
her legs up underneath her and hugged her knees.

“Go on, tell
me.”

“It’s because
when he beats you, he always taps your bottom three times before he
gives you the first whack. One, two, three, then you know it’s
coming: thwack!”