The Punishment Committee

Over the weekend we visited our favourite private library, which provides us with so much inspiration and material for our historical posts. We captured a strategically placed table, stacked it with promising-looking volumes and set to research.

On the other end of the reading room, the library regulars were convening over their newspapers, coffee and biscuits.*

“That’s the punishment committee,” Abel murmured in my ear. “They are having their weekly meeting.”

I looked at the tweed jackets and home-knitted cardigans, the tidy hair, the sombre expressions, the tobacco stains on the fingers of the older men, and realised that Abel was right. This had to be the local punishment committee.

As well as receiving parents who came here with their grievances, these conscientious members of the community would go through the local papers, looking for reports of misbehaviour by the young people. They would discuss each instance in a polite debate, decide on the most appropriate measures. The secretary would write up a notice for the culprit, who would have a week to submit any defences or objections.

These would be looked at – and most certainly dismissed – at the following meeting, after which a volunteer from among the committee members would be dispatched to the culprit’s house armed with punishment instructions and a suitable implement. Case closed.

It’s amazing how innocent these people looked in the bright light of Saturday morning, while accomplishing such tasks in plain view of the reading public.

—————————————-
* You’re allowed to talk and eat in this room. In fact, they sell you the food. I nearly had a heart attack the first time I saw somebody munch a lemon drizzle cake over a 19th-century book, but I guess they trust you to be careful.