Over the Knee (10 page)

‘They’ had suddenly changed to ‘we’. ‘So you were involved in it?’

Peter looked down at his plate and sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not proud of it now, but back then I wasn’t about to stick my neck out for a dayboy, especially a little showoff like Fletcher.’ He spread his hands. ‘It doesn’t excuse anything, but it’s just …’

‘The law of the jungle,’ I supplied.

He nodded his head with a wry smile. ‘Well, either Fletcher broke down and told Litchfield who was behind it or one of our lot confessed. We never found out. But Litchfield was furious. He hadn’t exactly punished an innocent boy, but I’ve no doubt Fletcher made it seem that way. Litchfield wanted to make an example of us. He knew everyone in the dorm must have known about it and even the ones who weren’t directly responsible he considered guilty by association. No matter how bloodless, it was still bullying. We were all in for a damned good thrashing.’

I was short of breath and I tried to act nonchalant as I drank my wine, barely tasting it. I squeezed my legs together, feeling guilty for my response, but still dying to hear the denouement.

‘That night Mr Carew, the housemaster, had us stand at the foot of our beds and wait for the headmaster. Fourteen boys, standing in our bare feet, shivering in our thin cotton pyjamas. It was deathly quiet. No one said a word.

‘Finally, Litchfield arrived. I remember how the silence grew even more ponderous at the sight of the cane. I’d never been caned before, but I’d seen what it could do. Boys showed off their marks, you see. And just a month earlier my two best mates, Caithness and Mercer, had shown me theirs. Each of them had two vivid red raised weals.

‘The headmaster held the cane behind his back as he stalked up and down the room, between the lines of anxious boys, as if we were soldiers on parade and he was the general about to have us shot. Mr Carew was standing by the door, watching coldly. Our actions had reflected just as badly on him as on us; our reign of terror had occurred right under his nose. No doubt he was there to prevent us from bolting.

‘The headmaster pursed his lips and said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was just one word. “Four.” I had been expecting six, but four was no relief. The fixed number suddenly made it more real. As though up to that point it had all been just a bad dream and we could still wake up.

‘We all knew it would hurt. Some of us even knew we deserved it. He had pronounced sentence and now he would carry it out.

‘With one last sweeping glare up and down the lines he chose his starting place. Dering, a boy in my row, two beds down from me on the right. He was cox of the First Eight and something of a natural leader.’

Peter paused to take a sip of wine and I realised I had been holding my breath. I could actually feel the crackling tension in the air, hear the soft rasp of frightened shifting feet on the cold floorboards.

‘Dering stood to attention as the headmaster stopped in front of him. “Turn around, boy,” he said. “Feet apart. Elbows on the bed.” Dering glanced fearfully down the row at us and got into position, bending across the iron-framed bed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The position pulled his pyjama bottoms tight across his seat. Litchfield stood almost directly to Dering’s left side and measured the cane out across his bottom. Then he drew his arm back and raised it high in the air. It seemed to hang there forever before he finally brought it down like a sabre. It carved the air and there was an almighty whack as it met Dering’s backside. I think we all flinched as one, but Dering made some kind of horrible yelping cry. An animal in pain. He sank halfway to the floor, reaching around
with
his right hand to clutch his cheeks. Litchfield didn’t say anything. He just waited. And Dering pulled himself together and got back in position. The cane went up again and Dering handled that stroke with a little more dignity. The last two were real stingers and I could tell the headmaster was laying it on as hard as he could. I shuddered. It was almost my turn.

‘When he finished with Dering he moved to the next boy, Underhill. Dering got up stiffly and stood in front of his bed. I stared intently at his face. He did his best to disguise the pitiful sniffle, but his eyes were streaming with tears. He was a pretty tough customer, normally, and that scared me more than anything. Suddenly my flimsy pyjamas felt like a winter coat, glued to my skin with icy sweat. Dering slipped his hands behind him and gingerly touched his bottom, baring his teeth with a soft hiss.

‘Underhill was stoic and I was immensely grateful for that. If he’d howled and wriggled I think I’d have been even more terrified. But he’d been caned before and knew what to expect. His legs vibrated madly with the effort of staying in position while the cane slashed into his bottom four times. Only the last one dragged a noise from him, a sort of half-yelp, half-grunt that he couldn’t quite suppress. He looked pale, but there were no tears in his eyes as he stood up. Then Litchfield stopped in front of me.

‘I assumed the same position I’d seen the first two adopt, my face burning as I awaited my fate. There was a reeling, light-headed sensation, as though I were slightly drunk. And I remember being thankful for my position in the queue. I really felt for the ones at the end, having to watch all of us get it first. The waiting must have been torture.

‘I heard the swish and crack and then my backside came alive with pain. I made some strangled gasping noise like Dering had and bent my knees. The headmaster waited for me to get back in position before continuing. I decided it was better not to delay it. I locked my legs in place and gutted it out, anticipating the pain, taking it and letting it course through me like an electric shock. A detached part
of
me was watching with morbid fascination, analysing. This was a proving ground. For each of us and our masters. None of us could argue that it wasn’t fair. It was richly deserved.

‘I stared at the bedclothes, in a kind of trance, as the cane rose and fell. And a strange sort of exhilaration came over me as I imagined having that kind of power over someone else. Having someone offer their bottom up to me like that, wanting to make me proud by taking it. I was removed from the pain by my thoughts, as though I’d made a great discovery. And, just like that, it was over. My bottom throbbed with a pulsing fire, until I seemed to feel every line separately. But I had survived. Litchfield moved on to the next boy and then the next. Right the way round the room until we’d all been dealt with.’

I was right back there with Peter, watching the mass execution, feeling their strokes and feeding on their pain like a vampire.

‘There was one boy who’d worn underpants beneath his pyjama trousers. That just wasn’t done. It was stupid too. Litchfield saw it as soon as he bent over and he got an extra stroke for it. Two of the boys broke down in tears before the end, but that didn’t make Litchfield go any easier on them. After all, it was considered to be character building.’ He thought about it and added with a touch of irony, ‘It certainly helped build mine.’

I laughed, shaking my head at the story. ‘Amazing,’ was all I could say.

‘That’s what I thought at the time. And, of course, once Carew had left, we inspected one another’s marks. They were good ones, too. Red tramlines and blue bruises. Flawlessly aimed and well laid on. You had to admire it. Litchfield was a bloody good swisher and we held him in even higher regard after that. I was never closer to any group of boys at any time in my life. We’d been through something intense together. I guess that’s what they call male bonding.’

I felt a little stab of envy. ‘Did you leave the dayboys alone after that?’

He nodded solemnly. ‘Oh yes. We all learnt our lesson. They weren’t any higher in the hierarchy, but they didn’t get bullied any more.’

I sighed. ‘I wish I’d had that sort of experience. I wonder how it would have changed me. I was a good girl at least, though. Mr Chancellor should have known how hard it was for me to break the rules just to be sent to his office.’

‘True. But what if it had been effective? Curbed your behaviour and cured you of the kink?’

‘It certainly didn’t cure you!’

‘No, but who’s to say it hasn’t cured others?’

‘Well, it would be a tragedy,’ I admitted. ‘Though it would have saved a lot of frustration in later years. God knows what I’d be doing my thesis on in that case.’

Our waiter appeared to clear away our empty plates and asked if we wanted to see the dessert menu. I looked pleadingly at Peter until he relented. We shared a decadent slice of raspberry cheesecake, Peter feeding me like a cherished pet.

The unspoken threat of what awaited me at his house hung in the air like fog. I couldn’t see anything else for it.

Peter asked for the bill and my heart began to flutter. I had reached the front of the queue for the roller coaster and was about to climb aboard. All I could think of was Peter’s description of the dormitory caning.

He gave his credit card to the waiter and looked at me. His whole demeanour had changed. ‘Are you nervous?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded once, no trace of a smile. ‘So you should be.’

I picked up my wineglass, disappointed to find it empty. So I plucked distractedly at crumbs on the table, my chin in my hand.

‘Angie,’ he said in a low tone. ‘Stop sulking. Sit up straight.’

I obeyed instantly, lowering my head as the waiter returned with the credit card receipt.

‘You’ll have plenty to sulk about when I’m finished with you,’ he continued, well aware that we weren’t alone. ‘Just wait till I get you home, young lady.’

The waiter stopped short, blinking in surprise at Peter. I chewed my lip, wishing I were invisible. The waiter cleared his throat awkwardly and fumbled with the receipt as he set it on the table, darting a surreptitious glance at me. ‘Have a good night,’ he said, before hurrying away.

Eight

I MOANED SOFTLY
and clenched my cheeks in dread. Gooseflesh stood out on my arms and legs and I repressed a shiver as I watched his hand close around the cane, lifting it up and out of my line of sight.

‘The Old Vicarage’ said the placard on the stone wall. Set well back from the road into the village, the double-pile house stood at the end of a short winding drive, nestled among the trees. Chimney stacks rose from the side walls of each of the four gables. The keystone above the panelled front door gave the date: 1726.

I had never been intimidated by a house before. But the simple elegance of the Georgian façade seemed to enhance the formality of what was about to happen to me. Its symmetrical proportions promised order and stability. Uncompromising tradition.

I lingered on the drive, gazing up at the house. The dark brickwork glistened from the recent rain. Elaborate stucco architraves surrounded the five bays of sash windows.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, sincere but also playing for time.

‘Thank you.’

With a knowing look, Peter took me by the hand to lead me inside. As the door closed behind us, I had the sense that I was stepping back in time. I couldn’t help but admire the period details. We stood in a wide panelled entrance hall flanked by two pairs of doors. Regency chairs sat between each pair and a faded Oriental rug ran the length
of
the hallway. The farther door on the right led to the kitchen, but the other three doors were closed. At the rear of the hallway stood a painted pine staircase with slender turned balusters, three to a tread. The handrail swept down over the newels, ending in a spiral flourish over the bottom tread. A stately grandfather clock stood facing us beneath the landing, ticking loudly.

I’d grown up in a rather plain Victorian terraced house in Camden Town and had only ever gazed covetously at the exteriors of the fancier Georgian elevations. And this was a simple vicar’s house.

‘You didn’t tell me you worked for English Heritage,’ I said casually, trying to restrain my awe.

He acknowledged my compliment with a modest smile.

‘You’ll have to give me the grand tour,’ I continued, in no hurry to be beaten.

‘Afterwards,’ he said, brushing aside my clumsy attempt at distraction. ‘Right now you’re to go upstairs. Second door on the right. Everything you need is in the wardrobe. Report to my study in fifteen minutes.’ He indicated the closed door to the left of the staircase.

I glanced up at the clock to note the time. ‘OK,’ I croaked, my throat suddenly parched.

He raised his eyebrows and I corrected myself quickly. ‘Yes, sir.’

I took a moment to stroke the gracefully curved hand-rail before heading upstairs to the room he’d directed me to. I supposed it was a guest bedroom, as it didn’t look lived in. A mahogany armoire stood against one ochre wall. Inside it hung a crisp white shirt, a navy-blue pleated skirt and a matching school blazer. On the floor of the wardrobe was a paper shopping bag with my surname written on it in neat black marker. Inside I found a pair of white knee socks, white cotton knickers and a blue and grey striped tie. I knew everything would fit perfectly. The precision and planning both fascinated and frightened me.

Inside the bag was an envelope labelled ‘Angie’. With shaking fingers I fumbled it open.

‘You’ve been warned before about safety,’ it read. ‘And you’ve always seemed to feel that rules are there for others and not for you. Last night, your housemaster, Mr Taylor, caught you sneaking back into your dormitory in the small hours, having slipped out to meet a boy. The next morning you are summoned to see the headmaster, Mr Markworthy.’

I bit my lip as I read. True, it was just a roleplay, but the offence was real and serious. A genuine safety issue. Authenticity would demand an equally serious punishment.

I’d felt I was stepping back in time when I crossed the threshold of his period house, and putting on the school uniform regressed me in age. Suddenly I was that shy desperate sixteen-year-old again, preparing to meet her fate. This time, though, the headmaster was a disciplinarian. It wouldn’t just be a simple telling off and a hand cramped from writing lines. If Peter wielded the cane as heavily as he had his belt, I would have a very sore bottom indeed. I thought about the story he’d told me at dinner and how the cane had reduced boys to tears. What would it do to me? My heart fluttered against my ribs like a bird desperate to escape its cage.