Note from Abel: here’s Cath’s perspective, after she and I played the scene that I described planning yesterday…

The night before, Abel and I had sketched out the scene and gathered some smallish branches from the olive grove over the road.  I returned home from work that afternoon knowing that we would play, feeling like “Sophie” – the English-bred daughter of a Cypriot mother and English father, staying with her uncle (the local chief of police) and cousins in Cyprus for the summer holidays.  Sophie was eighteen and about to start university, so had got a summer job cleaning for Mr Jenkins, a rich ex-pat, in order to pay her tuition fees.

The week before, she had been collecting Mr Jenkins’ mail as usual when she noticed a torn envelope which contained a cheque for €500.  It was made out to cash.  Feeling somewhat short of spending money, and hoping that the wealthy Mr Jenkins wouldn’t notice, Sophie had cashed the cheque locally and spent the money.

Unfortunately, she was about to discover that things hadn’t quite gone according to plan.

“Ah, Sophie,” said Mr Jenkins, smoothly, as I turned the key in the latch.  I had arrived in good time to start my afternoon job, cleaning his house.

“Come here.”

I did as I was told, and sat facing him at the dining table.

“Sophie,” he began.  “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?  To confess?”

I pretended to rack my brains.  “No, Mr Jenkins… Should there be?”

“Sophie, I am waiting for a cheque.  It is an important one and it’s worth €500.  I assumed that the company had failed to send it, but when I telephoned them today, they assured me that they had sent it by registered post.  And then when I checked with the Post Office, I found that it had been signed for.  By a young girl speaking English.  Can you cast any light on the matter?”

I looked – and felt – guilty.  Clearly the game was up.  I could only apologise profusely and promise that such a thing would never happen again.

“You’re quite right.  It won’t ever happen again.  I am going to report you to the police.”

The police?  Surely he wouldn’t do that.  My cousins had already told me that they would do anything to avoid the police being involved in any of their misdoings as my uncle would immediately hear of it and insist on dealing with the matter summarily – and severely.  I gaped at Mr Jenkins in shock.

“Oh, Mr Jenkins, please, not the police.  Anything but the police!”

“Anything, young lady?”

“Anything, sir.”

“Well, Sophie, had you been a local girl, I’d have whipped you for this – it’s what they do.  But you’re English, so I’m going to have to leave this to the police.”

“Sir, please, not the police.  And – I’m half Cypriot…”

“Hmmm….”  Mr Jenkins picked up a local paper that was sitting on the sideboard.  He flourished it at me and started reading out the sentences that local girls had recently received for theft… eighteen months’ detention, a year’s hard labour.  He seemed to be getting rather excited at the thought and I cringed.

“Well, Sophie, if you’d rather be whipped…”

“Please sir, anything but the police.”

“Sophie, give me your skirt and knickers and put your hands on your head.”

I obeyed, suddenly scared.

“Bend over the table and hold tight to the other side.  If you stand up or move your hands, we’ll start again.”

I gripped the edge of the table hard and resolved not to get up as Mr Jenkins manoeuvred himself behind me.  I saw him pick up a wicked-looking birch made of four olive branches, gaffer-taped together at one end.

“Five hundred Euros.  That’s a lot of money.  Forty strokes, I think.  You will count them and thank me”

I yelped as he let fly the first stroke but didn’t let go of the table.  He seemed rather affronted that I hadn’t let go, and started whipping me harder.  Sometimes he spaced the strokes out, and sometimes let loose with a flurry of quick ones.  I find strokes in quick succession rather hard to take, and although I didn’t let go, the table moved several times and I was made to drag it back into position in the middle of the room.

Eventually the forty strokes were done and I breathed a sigh of relief.  I was allowed to stand up and retrieve my clothes.

But then: “I am now going to write a letter to your uncle,” pronounced Mr Jenkins, “so that he knows what you have done and can be assured that I have dealt with the matter.  You will take it to him now and will return within an hour, so that you can start your cleaning.”

He handed me a note.  Dutifully, I thanked him, and mournfully turned to the door, walking a little stiffly.

As I reached the door, I heard a laugh.  Abel was back.  We hugged and admired my stripes, and headed for the bedroom.  And then, as we cuddled up, a thought struck him…

“Sophie, how would your uncle deal with this?”

Oh no.

“Er… he’d probably strap me, sir.”

“With something like this?”

Abel was now holding a black strap.  It’s one of his meanest implements.  I’d felt it before and knew what a nasty sting it was capable of imparting.

“Bend over the end of the bed.  Forty strokes.”

And that’s how Sophie ended up getting not only a birching, but also a sound strapping – and all before dinner.