The punishment book, once more (a spanking story – sort of)

Browsing Hansard (the official record of UK parliamentary proceedings) last night, as one does, I uncovered an interesting debate from 1998 about corporal punishment in schools. I’ll post more once I’ve had a chance to pull out the juicy highlights – the transcript of the debate is some 14,000 words long!

One phrase, though, sparked a kinky bedtime conversation with Haron last night, what with her being a lawyer. Much of the debate had focused around human rights legislation; Baroness Warnock then commented that: “I am not much enamoured of the concept of human rights.”

My mind wandered… Their Lordships were debating abolition from the standpoint of the pupils: of course, it would infringe their human rights were they to be caned.

But what, I asked, about the human rights of the teachers? I pictured the test case that would be taken before the courts. A schoolmaster with a group of misbehaving young ladies, who are supposed to be studying in silence for some test. One flings a heavy textbook across the classroom, missing her target and clattering across the teacher’s desk at the front of the classroom. The book catches him a glancing blow; the red ink he’d been using to mark exams floods across his suit. Pray, what of his human rights?

The case would proceed, of course, to the European Court. Learned lawyers would debate at length and at cost. The judges would make their pronouncement: where two sets of rights conflict in this way, they would of course defer to the gentleman in the position of authority.

Meanwhile, such cases taking not a little time to be resolved, the young lady would have escaped to the relative safety of a good University. Its Vice Chancellor would have followed the case with interest. On hearing of the judicial decision, the culprit would be invited before him. He’d reach for the university’s rules and regulations.

“When you entered the University, you went through a formal process called Matriculation. In it, you confirmed that there were no outstanding issues with your former place of education that might prevent you from taking your place here. I now find that to be untrue.”

“Please, sir…”

“Whilst, strictly speaking, I should send you down immediately, there is another option. I have spoken to your former Headmaster at length this morning, and we believe that we have found an acceptable solution.”

She wouldn’t sleep that night before catching the early-morning train, dressed in her smart interview suit. She’d avoid the eyes of the other passengers lest they recognise her from the now-dated photograph of her in school uniform, clipped from an old house photo and used in so many of that morning’s newspapers to illustrate the reports of the case.

She’d change onto the local train, rattling through the countryside to the small stop a mile down the road from her old school. Never would the walk through the village, up the hill, have seemed so long. She’d hesitate in front of the grand school building: to use the front door, or walk to the back and go in through the pupils’ entrance? The latter, of course.

She’d find herself almost bowled over as she entered, by a group of giggling fourteen-year-olds rushing out to the hockey field. Along the corridors, with their familiar musty smell; up the stairs, someone answering her prayers as she crept past the staff common room unnoticed.

The Headmaster’s Secretary would expecting her, but, “Mr. Jenkins is engaged at present.” Would she mind awfully taking a seat? Ten-minutes-that- felt-like-an-hour, before he would emerge, smiling his farewells to a distinguished couple – potential parents, maybe, their eyes alighting momentarily on her as they wondered where they’d seen this familiar face.

He’d be surprisingly welcoming. Thank you for travelling all this way so promptly. How nice it was to see her back, albeit not in such unfortunate circumstances. Had she had a good journey? How was she finding University life? Were her studies going well? A postgraduate degree afterwards, my dear? How very interesting. “And shall we move on and deal with the matter which brought you back to St. Christina’s?”

The cane would be hanging on its old hook on the back of the study door. She’d wince at the thought that his previous visitors would have seen it there, must have guessed. “I had to ask the porter to dig this out from the storeroom, to be honest, and get him to give it a good soaking overnight. We wouldn’t want it breaking, now, would we?”

“We’d better do this the conventional way, I suppose. Knickers down, skirt up, touching your toes. And I agreed with the Vice Chancellor that the traditional six would be appropriate.”

Her tears would drip onto the carpet before he even started; the undeniable, shocking pain of the first stroke seemed almost incidental in the context of her overall nightmare. Almost. By the third, the burning stripes would be all-consuming, despite the Headmaster’s best attempts to re-assure. By the sixth, she’d – just – have managed to regain some degree of composure: mustn’t let myself down….

She would dress painfully, as he filled in one last entry in the long-neglected punishment book. He would hand the leather tome to her, a calming hand briefly resting on her arm. “If you give this to Mrs. Burton on the way out, she’ll take the photocopy that the Vice Chancellor will need to file away.” And then she’d was free, the gravel crunching under her feet as she walked away from the school as quickly as she could, the autumnal air chill on her burning face. Trying to forget.

Trying to forget. Despite every bump of the train on the narrow branch line, every glance from passers-by, every newspaper stand trying to remind her.

—

Haron. do I win the prize for the longest post ever?!