Over the Knee (25 page)

I squirmed. ‘Oh. Um, Shepherd.’

‘I’m Carruthers. I was a prefect at Eton many years ago. I’m going to take you back in time, Shepherd. You’re going to see what Eton College was like in my time. In the good old days.’

‘Yes, Carruthers,’ I said nervously. It sounded like Peter had something very specific in mind. Courtney’s comment about the birching block had almost sent me over the edge. I couldn’t guess what he was planning.

‘I’ll be home by seven,’ he said. ‘I’ll expect to see you at half past. Don’t be late, boy.’

‘I won’t, sir.’

Peter hung up and I closed my eyes in blissful dread. I didn’t have much time and I didn’t want to make matters worse than they were already. I knew this prefect would view any mistake as deliberate disobedience.

I took one last look at myself in the mirror and set off, reminding myself that I wasn’t a girl disguised as a boy; I
was
a boy. This was going to be intense.

I’d never get to Peter’s house in time on the Tube, so I treated myself to a cab. The driver didn’t even bat an eye as I got into the taxi and gave him the address. I was a bit disappointed, but I supposed he was used to fancy dress. He’d probably seen a lot stranger things than me.

It took me several seconds to get up the courage to knock and it seemed an age before I heard the slow deliberate footsteps increasing in volume as he neared the door. There were a few more agonising seconds of silence and then the door swung open. Peter stood there, dressed immaculately in tails. He gave me a sardonic smile, then made a big show of looking at his watch.

‘You’re late, Shepherd,’ he said icily.

I gasped. ‘But I’m –’ His look silenced me at once. He didn’t need to say it. If Carruthers said Martin was late, then he was late.

Peter stood to one side, a silent command.

I obeyed, stepping inside as though for the first time.

He shut the door and strode purposefully down the length of the hall and headed up the stairs. I hesitated at the bottom, not sure whether I was meant to follow or not. But he looked down at me and waved his arm impatiently. ‘Well, come on, snotty,’ he snapped.

I flushed at the name. It was what they called midshipmen too. My anxiety began to grow as I followed him into
the
master bedroom. Standing in front of the window, Peter crossed his arms, scorn and disapproval written across his face. ‘You’ve done it this time, boy,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘And get that hat off! Anyone would think you were never taught proper manners.’

I hurriedly removed my topper, clutching it in front of me like a shield.

‘I want to know what you’ve been doing all day, boy. Did I not tell you to clean my study?’

I opened my mouth to protest, but I didn’t know what to say.

‘Well? Speak up!’

‘I – I thought I did clean it, Carruthers,’ I mumbled.

With a cold smile, Peter ran his finger along the windowsill and looked at his fingertip, just like Galloping Foxley. He tutted and crossed the room, holding his finger right up to my face. In my mind he was wearing Foxley’s white glove.

‘You call this clean, oik?’

I could clearly see the line of dust on Peter’s fingertip. I didn’t know how to respond.

‘So that’s yet another offence,’ Peter said. ‘Albeit a minor one compared with telling tales.’ He glared at me.

‘Telling tales?’

‘Yes, boy. Whining about your treatment. Complaining about deserved punishments. Ring any bells?’

I shook my head slowly.

‘Fleming seems to think I’ve been bullying you. Why would he think that, Shepherd?’

I could see where the roleplay was going. And now I was genuinely frightened. This was going to be intense. I looked pleadingly at Peter, then followed where he had led me. ‘But Fleming asked and I didn’t know how much he already knew. I couldn’t lie to him!’

‘You couldn’t lie,’ Peter repeated mockingly. ‘No. It doesn’t work like that, boy. That sort of thing is not done at this school. Not done at all. We’re not little cry-babies here. We don’t go running to masters when life gets a little rigorous.’

‘But he asked …’

‘And you told.’

‘What was I supposed to say?’

‘Don’t answer me back, snotty. You need to learn some respect. You’re the lowest of the low. A little rat. You’re here to do what you’re told, when you’re told. And to take your medicine when your elders and betters think you deserve it. Got that?’

His words were making me feel smaller and smaller. ‘Yes, Carruthers,’ I said meekly.

Peter drew himself up indignantly. ‘The thrashing I gave you last time doesn’t seem to have taught you anything at all, Shepherd. So I think I shall have to make sure this one is more instructive.’ He paused to let his words sink in.

I looked at the floor.

‘I think it’s time for you to find out what a Pop tanning is like.’

I blinked. I didn’t know what he meant, but it didn’t sound pleasant. I shook my head slowly in baffled ignorance.

Peter’s mouth spread in a slow predatory smile. He walked to the table near the window. On it was a cane. But it wasn’t the usual kind of cane. It was shorter, thicker and knobbly. Malacca? Peter picked it up and flexed it slightly to demonstrate how little it would bend.

I took a step back. Where in the world had he got that? Had he been hiding it from me, waiting for the perfect scene to use it in?

‘Pop was the club of senior boys who ran the school,’ Peter explained in a silky voice, relishing every word. ‘When a boy had done something particularly reprehensible he was summoned to their common room. He wasn’t told what was going to happen, though. Oh, no. The note merely said he was to present himself wearing a pair of old trousers.’

Eyeing the cane fearfully, I swallowed.

Peter was standing by the window now. He beckoned me closer.

‘The boy had to put his head out the sash window. Then
they
lowered the window on to his neck like the blade of the guillotine.’

As he spoke I was visualising the scene. I peered through the window, down at the drive. I tried to imagine being trapped like that, my bottom helplessly served up to those inside, my cries audible to everyone outside.

‘It is said that boys feared a Pop tanning far more than a birching from the headmaster,’ Peter said, caressing the length of the cane. ‘And, as you can see, a Pop cane is much nastier than an ordinary prefect’s cane.’

The knuckles in the malacca looked savage. They would leave deep bruises where they struck.

‘The president of Pop administered the caning while the others watched. Naturally, a boy would try to be brave and keep his composure but, after two or three dozen good hard strokes, the seat of his trousers – not to mention his dignity – would be in tatters.’

My mouth drifted open in silent horror. Two or three dozen strokes? He couldn’t possibly be intending to subject poor little Martin to that! I would never be able to suppress my screams and the police would be banging on the door within minutes.

Peter raised the cane and brought it down with a ferocious swipe. It cleaved the air with a deep full-throated carving sound that made me jump.

With a dangerous smile, he laid the cane on the table and raised the window. My eyes bugged.

‘Head out, boy,’ he said.

I was terrified. My knees turned to water and I made my way to the window as though in a dream. I kept looking back at him, hoping he’d laugh and tell me he was just trying to scare me.

I realised I was still holding the topper and I blinked at it in surprise.

Peter gave me a withering look. ‘You may set it on the desk,’ he said, as though speaking to a feeble-minded child.

With trembling hands, I placed the hat on the desk and turned back to the window. I had to bend my knees to get my head down low enough to rest it over the windowsill. I
felt
like Anne Boleyn stretching her head out on the block. I caught the pungent scent of wood smoke from a chimney near by and I looked across at the houses on the other side of the village green. Lights shone in several windows. There was traffic noise in the distance and the voices of people talking not too far away. Anyone going for a stroll past the old vicarage would hear me.

Without a word Peter lowered the window down. It rested loosely enough on the back of my neck, but it would hold me in position. My chin pressed uncomfortably into the sill. The difference in temperature was disorienting. Outside, the air was bitterly cold, isolating me from the warmth of the room inside. I placed my hands on the edge of the windowsill for balance. At least he hadn’t made me take my trousers down.

Then I heard the muffled swish of the cane as he sliced it through the air again. I flinched and gave a little yelp of fear, but the cane didn’t strike. I was shaking all over, in utter terror over what he had described.

I turned my head as far to the left as I could and I could just make out his arm, raising the cane to strike. I knew it would be a real stroke this time and I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut tightly, digging my nails into the windowsill.

The cane slashed through the air and into my bottom with astonishing force and I couldn’t hold back the breathless cry of pain as my body tried to process the unusual sensation of the Pop cane. It had the penetrating thud of a much heavier implement, and the knuckles in the wood made the impact even worse.

The pain began to swell and crest until I thought I couldn’t bear it. I bounced on my heels, trying to will the sting away. My nails gouged into the windowsill and I gritted my teeth, reminding myself that I was a boy.

Boys don’t cry
, I thought, desperately needing courage. I repeated it in my head like a mantra.
Boys don’t cry, boys don’t cry, boysdon’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry
…

There was no placement tap, so I wasn’t prepared for the next stroke. My right foot flew up behind me, shielding my
bottom
. The struggle to keep silent took all my willpower. In my mind the shadowy village dissolved and I was looking out over School Yard at Eton College. It bustled with activity as the other boys went about their business, oblivious to my disgrace. If I made a sound they would look up and see me. I couldn’t shame myself by yelping after only one or two strokes.

‘Get those feet out of the way, oik,’ said Peter scornfully. ‘I can’t cane you if you’re writhing like a cut worm. If you can’t take it properly, it’s likely to become a very much longer caning.’

I instantly stamped my foot back into place on the floor. The position was ingenious. It was impossible for me to straighten my legs and lock them into place. Nor could I simply lie across the sill and surrender to the beating. I held my breath, flinching in anticipation.

Again, there was no warning tap before the cane attacked again, knocking the wind out of me. I struggled as much as the position would allow, holding my foot up behind me to deflect further attack until my tormentor snapped at me to remove it.

I tried to be stoic, but the next stroke wrenched a howl of agony from me.

‘Your behaviour is unseemly,’ Peter said. ‘Don’t disgrace yourself further by putting on a display for the whole school.’

My face burnt with shame and my breathing grew fast and shallow as I awaited the next stroke. I couldn’t un-see the image Peter had painted in my mind. A boy’s trousers shredded by the relentless slashing Pop cane, his face stained with tears of pain and humiliation. He wouldn’t be showing off those marks as proudly as he would a simple six of the best from the headmaster.

The next one was the hardest of the lot, but somehow I managed to gut it out without yelping. The well-aimed stroke fell just at the tender crease where the bottom and thighs meet. I clawed at the windowsill, scraping flecks of paint loose as the scorching line flared and intensified until I thought I would faint.

I gasped for breath as it burnt and throbbed, hissing through my teeth and tensing for another whack. The suspense lengthened and my fear intensified with every second I was made to wait.

But then I felt Peter’s hand by my throat and he raised the window. ‘In you come,’ he said gruffly.

I scrambled to my feet instantly.

‘Not pleasant, is it, boy?’

‘No,’ I panted.

He smiled and slammed the window. It thunked shut like the chopper’s axe burying itself in the block.

‘That’s just a little taste. That’s what you can expect the next time you go crying to Fleming like a girl.’

I melted with relief and genuine gratitude. I wanted to kiss his feet for sparing me. I could scarcely conceive of taking any more and yet boys had taken dozens of such strokes through the years. The idea made me dizzy. ‘Thank you, Carruthers,’ I said.

He snorted. ‘I hope you don’t think that was your punishment, oik. No, that was just a warning for next time.’

My heart sank. He was a sadistic one, this Carruthers.

‘You’re due a bloody good hiding, Shepherd. And you’ll get one. But first I’ll address your laziness and indolence in neglecting to clean my study.’ Peter pointed to the centre of the room. ‘Stand there.’

With weak legs, I did as I was told. Peter rummaged in the wardrobe while I fidgeted, straightening my jacket and shifting my feet back and forth. I didn’t dare rub my bottom.

Peter found what he was looking for very quickly. It was a slipper – a heavy battered plimsoll. He smacked it imperiously against his palm.

I told myself to be thankful I wasn’t getting the full Pop tanning. The slipper would have a wicked bite, but it couldn’t be anything like the malacca cane.

‘Touch your toes.’

I bit back a whimper. I hated that position. It tautened the flesh of my bottom, making the punishment sharper
and
even more painful. But I bent down and placed my fingertips on the tops of my smartly polished shoes.

‘Bend over properly, boy. Grab your ankles.’

I took hold of my ankles, gritting my teeth. I felt so exposed and vulnerable.

Peter tapped the slipper against my bottom. It was extremely tender from the cruel treatment at the window and I cringed like a beaten dog at each little slap. I took a deep breath, bracing myself.