Caned in parallel

Hotel bar the other night. The rather delightful lady at the next table turned to me and apologised for any disturbance that her charges were causing. They were on a school trip, she explained: “seeing Europe” in a month. In fact, the youngsters were impeccably behaved.

That said, one of her fellow teachers kept checking up on the whereabouts of some of the party. Were they under suspicion of sneaking out for a furtive cigarette, I wondered? Had any of them boldly ordered booze at the bar, to be smuggled upstairs?

My imagination ran riot later. He’d conduct a room check: the hotel would have issued him with a master key to open the various doors. He’d knock loudly before entering: even that wouldn’t give Lisa and Vicky, two of the most senior girls, time to disperse the clouds of smoke, or hide the empty bottles.

They’d have been lectured at the start of the trip in no uncertain terms about the consequences of breaking the clearly-set-out rules. Reminded, on a regular basis. A ‘final final’ warning issued to all after some shenanigans the previous weekend in Paris: confirmation that the usual school punishments would apply for breaking the usual school regulations.

“I’m so very disappointed in you. Of all the girls I’d have imagined having to punish on this trip, you would have been the very last.” He’d leave them for a moment, telling them that by the time he returned, he’d expect them to be in position to be caned. Kneeling on the bed beside each other. Shoulders down, arms outstretched, pyjama bottoms down and backsides up.

It would take him a few minutes – to find his cane, to find his female colleague, and for her in turn to find her cane.

The girls would be ready on their return: he’d position himself to the side of one, right-handed, whilst his left-handed fellow disciplinarian measured out the rattan from the far side of the other. “Smoking always results in six strokes of the cane,” he’d remind them, before laying the first red strip across Lisa. His colleague would go next, paralleling his line across Vicky.

Then simultaneously. Then Vicky. Lisa. Simultaneous. Up to four each. He’d notice them holding hands: he’d choose to ignore it.

Vicky, Vicky. Lisa. Lisa.

He’d pause, allowing the girls a moment to try, in vain, to compose themselves. And then the best friends would hear the next dread sentence. “And drinking alcohol, too, always results in six strokes. Would you care to swap positions, Mrs Sandton?”