The deputy headmistress

An evocative photograph on Tumblr the other day showed a serious, smartly-dressed, middle-aged woman sitting on a chair, hairbrush in hand.

Studying it, I pictured myself as a housemaster, talking to one of my girls and discussing her misconduct. I was seated at my desk; she stood next to me, nervously clutching the hems of her school sweater in her fingers.

Propriety dictated that the male members of staff could not administer corporal punishment to the pupils, but her fate was sealed when I took a form from my desk drawer and started recording details with my fountain pen. “Take this to the deputy headmistress, and then come back here once she’s talked to you.”

‘Talked’, indeed. For the girl who returned some ten minutes later, the deputy head’s counter-signature on the form, would be tear-stained; apologetic; ashamed; holding her bottom. She’d avoid my eyes. She might even deserve a comforting hug before I sent her on her way to her next class…