BEXHILL SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, Assembly (11 page)

“Sally, go to
your room. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day. Linda,
get in the car. I’m taking you home.”

The journey to
Linda’s house was completed in silence. Linda sat in the back and
pressed down on the seat with both hands to relieve the pressure on
her aching behind. Her mother had heard the car approach and was
waiting at the door.

“What
have
you been up to?” she scowled furiously at her daughter.
“Go to your room immediately and stay there until I come to see
you.”

She turned to
Sally’s mother. “I’m so sorry about the trouble she’s caused. I
hope you dealt with her severely?”

“Well, I don’t
think she’ll forget our little meeting and she certainly won’t be
sitting comfortably for a few days!”

They smiled at
each other. “Thank you,” said Linda’s mother. “Teenagers - who
would have them?”

“I’m told they
grow up - but I’m not sure I believe it. Must go, bye.” She got
into the car and drove off.

***

Much later,
when parental fury had slightly abated, Linda crept downstairs and
rang Sally’s house. Luckily, it was Sally, not her mother or
father, who answered.

“How are you
doing?”

“Sore.
You?”

“I think my
bum’s still smoking. Wow! Your Mum can really dish it out!”

“I know. Next
time, let’s get your Mum to pick us up.”

“She’s almost
as bad, and Dad’s even worse when he uses his paddle,” she paused,
“but it was fun beforehand, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It
certainly cured my boredom. We must do it again soon.”

“Well, perhaps
not
all
of it! Goodnight, Sally”

“Goodnight,
Linda. You’re a real pal.”

Amélie ran down
the corridor of the school, scattering pupils out of her way.

“Nicole!
Nicole! Where are you? Quick - amazing news!” She was, of course,
speaking in French (or what passes for French in Corsica) because
the school was located in the sunny port city of Ajaccio.

She swung into
one of the classrooms.

“Nicole - there
you are! Guess what! We got it!”

“Got what?”

“The exchange!
To the English school! You and me! It’s on the notice-board.”

“
Magnifique!
Oh, we’ll have such fun!” They threw their arms
around each other and hugged.

“When do we go?
And where is this school?”

“The term
starts next September and it’s in a place called Bexhill. Let’s
look it up on a map.”

They rushed to
the glass-fronted cupboard where the classroom’s books were kept
and pulled out an atlas.

“I think it’s
on the south coast somewhere.”

They traced
their finger along the map.

“Weymouth,
Bournemouth, Portsmouth. How many ‘mouths’ do they have? They must
spend the whole time eating.”

“But English
food is supposed to be revolting. They don’t use garlic.”

“Keep going.
Bognor Regis - what a weird name. Brighton: I’ve heard of that one.
Eastbourne, Hastings. Oh - that’s where we won a battle, isn’t
it?”

“Look, you
missed it. Here it is in small letters, next to Hastings. Bexhill.
I can just imagine it. There must be cliffs and everything. I bet
they have tea-shops. Do you like tea?”

“No, it’s
disgusting. Maybe they serve coffee as well.”

“I shouldn’t
think so, the English like tea. We’ll have to learn their customs.
Oh, isn’t it exciting!”

The bell rang
to mark the end of the break, but the girls were still poring over
the atlas when the teacher walked in. Professeur Dubois taught
maths. He wore an ill-fitting grey jacket and baggy grey trousers.
His thinning hair was grey and so was his droopy moustache. He
lacked any sense of humour. His whole being was grey.

“Amélie,
Nicole, what are you doing?”

“Oh, sorry sir.
We were looking at a map. We’re going on exchange to England. Isn’t
that wonderful?”

“I don’t
suppose so. Why would you want to leave a French school? Anyway,
this is a maths lesson, so put that atlas away and go to your
places.”

Nicole took the
book back to the cupboard and then she and Amélie went to the desk
they shared at the back of the class. The lesson began.

“Algebra,”
intoned Prof Dubois. “A very interesting subject.” Twenty pairs of
eyes began to glaze over. Eighteen pairs, to be more precise. Four
eyes still glittered with excitement.

Amélie picked
up her pencil and doodled a double-decker bus.

“Do you think
they have those in Bexhill?” she whispered to Nicole. Prof Dubois
turned round from the blackboard and frowned at the class. After a
moment, he returned to face the board and continued to copy out an
equation.

“No, only in
London, I think”.

“I hope we see
London, too.”

“Yes. We must.
It has palaces and everything. I want to see the Tower of London.
It’s where they keep people before they cut their heads off.”

“Do they still
do that?”

“I’m not
sure.”

Dubois turned
round again.

“I can hear
whispering. Now settle down. If I catch anyone talking, they’ll be
in trouble.” The chalk squeaked as he added some brackets to the
formula on the board.

Nicole took
Amélie’s pencil and drew a strange picture. It looked a bit like
the sun rising over a curved horizon. She passed it to Amélie,
raising her eyebrows. Amélie studied it.

“What’s that
supposed to be?”

“It’s a
chapeau melon
. I think they call it a ‘bowling hat’. It’s
what Englishmen wear. They also carry their umbrellas all rolled
up.”

“What if it
rains?”

“They don’t
unroll their umbrellas. The bowling hat keeps them dry, I
suppose.”

“How
strange.”

Prof Dubois
swung round, scowling.

“I can
still
hear whispering! Who was it?”

Silence.

“Nicole,
Amélie, if it was you, this is your last warning. Keep quiet and
pay attention. Now, how do we reduce this equation?” he pointed to
the formula on the board. As the teacher looked around the class,
hoping for an answer, Nicole put her hand in front of her mouth and
muttered “Put it on a diet!” Amélie disguised her snort of laughter
by pretending to sneeze. Prof Dubois glared at her.

“Very well.
Open your text books at Chapter 10. It explains how we simplify
formulae. You were supposed to learn it for your homework last
night.”

For a few
minutes there was silence as the class read the impenetrably boring
text, most of them for the first time.

Prof Dubois
cleared his throat.

“So, ladies and
gentlemen,” it was a mixed school, “suppose we amalgamate these two
brackets, this is what we get.” He struck a line through one side
of the equation. “Therefore ‘a’ plus ‘b’ squared now equals...”

Amélie took the
pencil and sketched a stick man holding what looked like a plank. A
blob was flying towards him.

“What on
Earth’s
that
?” whispered Nicole, looking amused.

“It’s a man
playing ‘croket’.”

“What’s
‘croket’? Do you mean croquet?”

“No, ‘croket’.
It’s their favourite game in the summer. Lots of them take part,
but they mostly just stand around. It lasts all day, sometimes five
days. My cousin went there on holiday last year and told me all
about it.”

“
Five
days?
For a single game?”

“It’s called a
‘Test Match’. I suppose that’s because it tests the spectators’
patience.”

“How weird.
Don’t they play tennis like we do?”

“
Amélie!
Nicole!
I warned you. Stay behind after class, both of you.”
Prof Dubois glowered at them; there was a flinty edge to his voice.
“Now, Amélie, you change places with Pierre. I don’t want you
sitting next to Nicole again for the rest of the day.

Amélie and
Nicole had paled. They had an intimation of what was coming. Amélie
slid out of her seat, gave Nicole a nervous look, and changed
places with Pierre. The boy who now sat beside her at Pierre’s desk
put the back of his hand across his mouth and, looking straight
ahead, murmured “Swish! Thwack!” It was his interpretation of the
sound of a
martinet
. Nicole shuddered.

The lesson
dragged on interminably. Neither Amélie nor Nicole could really
concentrate. Their eyes kept turning to the locked wooden cupboard
below the glass bookcase. They knew what it contained.

At last the
school bell rang, announcing the end of the day’s classes.

“Very well, you
can go. But do your homework diligently this evening.” The teacher
started wiping the blackboard clean, little puffs of chalk emerging
from the felt face of the board-cleaner. “Amélie and Nicole, you
wait here please, in front of my desk.” The girls made their
hesitant way to the front of the class.

Professeur
Dubois was in no hurry. He cleaned the board fastidiously,
returning to go over every tiny smudge. He was smiling. Not visibly
so, of course: his thin grey lips were set in their usual thin grey
line. But inside he was beaming at the thought of what he was about
to do to these two miserable girls. Not that he was a sadist, or
that he got any sensual pleasure out of beating girls - or boys,
for that matter. Far from it - sex was not something that remotely
impinged on his life. Rather it was a question of
empowerment
. These girls would bare their bottoms because
he
told them to do so; they would bend over in the manner
he
prescribed;
he
would decide how many lashes they
received and
he
would determine how hard those were
administered;
he
would tell them when they could get up. He
would be in total control. There would be no glazed eyes now, no
fidgeting while he tried to explain some astute mathematical point,
no bored or smirking faces.

He walked over
and closed the classroom door. Then he took a bunch of keys out of
his pocket, carefully separated the one for the cupboard, and
walked deliberately over to it. The scared eyes of the two girls
followed his every move. He bent down, unlocked the wooden door,
and slowly opened it. From the dark interior, he withdrew what the
girls had been dreading - the classroom martinet. The wooden handle
displayed the patina of age and use; the dozen leather thongs
dangling from it, like black and brown bootlaces, swayed
seductively as he carried the implement back towards them.

“I warned you
to stop talking in class. What a pity you didn’t listen because now
you are going to learn the consequences of indiscipline. Which of
you wants to go first?”

Nicole and
Amélie glanced at each other. Amélie stepped forward.

“Very well. Go
to that form there, put your legs under the seat and bend over the
desk.”

Amélie did as
she was told, gripping the wooden crossbar that ran along the front
of the desk. Her long, fair hair fell down in front of her face and
she could see the end of her striped school tie swinging loosely.
The Professeur moved round behind her, gently slipped her knickers
down to the top of her thighs and tugged her skirt up until it lay
bunched across the small of her back. She had to stand on tiptoe to
stay in position. She felt the thin wooden seat pressing into the
back of her legs, just above the knees, while the edge of the desk
dug into the top of her thighs. Her bottom felt very exposed, which
- she assumed - was the whole idea.

The teacher
laid the leather cords across her buttocks, inching them towards
him until he had placed them where he wanted them to land. He
raised the wooden handle until it was level with his ear, and then
brought it sharply down. The braids wrapped themselves around
Amélie’s bottom with a loud crack. She jerked and let out a very
French ‘
Pouf!’
of exclamation. Prof Dubois left the
martinet’s strands to linger on her cheeks for a few moments and
then lifted the whip again. Nicole, watching from in front of the
backboard, felt her stomach knot.

Ten times the
martinet flayed down, each stroke leaving Amélie’s bottom decorated
with more pink stripes. As the flogging progressed and the later
lashes criss-crossed earlier lines, streaks of magenta and purple
appeared. Amélie wept and uttered small cries as each blow
landed.

“You can get up
now,” the teacher grunted. “I hope you’ve learned a lesson. Nicole,
your turn. Take Amélie’s place.” The two girls passed without
catching each other’s eyes. Nicole stuck her legs under the seat,
but pulled her own panties down and lifted her skirt before bending
over the desk. She held on tightly to the wooden crossbar, noting
how warm it was from Amélie’s grip.

Professeur
Dubois, still expressionless, laid the thongs of the martinet
across Nicole’s cheeks in the same way that he had done with
Amélie. Nicole winced and moaned. He raised the wooden stock,
paused, lashed it down. Nicole yelled with pain. Amélie put her
hand to her mouth and bit on her thumb, shocked at her friend’s
reaction. Amélie had managed to stay more or less still throughout
her ordeal, but Nicole reared and bucked and squirmed, squealing
and howling as each stroke landed. At last Prof Dubois whipped down
the tenth and last blow. Nicole was blubbering, tears running down
her cheeks and splashing softly on to the floor.

“Get up,
Nicole. Let that be a lesson to you, too.”

Nicole
extracted herself painfully from the desk, carefully pulled up her
pants and smoothed down her skirt. She felt in her pocket, took out
a handkerchief and blew her nose.

“You may go.
Goodnight, girls. I trust your behaviour will be better when we
next meet.”

“Yes,
Professeur. Goodnight, sir.” The girls let themselves out of the
classroom. The old cleaner was mopping the corridor. He must have
heard what was going on. He stopped working as the girls
approached, clutching their backsides. As they passed him, he
mumbled, almost as much to himself as to them: “Touch of the old
martinet never did anyone no ‘arm.” The girls gave him a hard
look.