Cordelia Lavington

Cordelia Lavington 11 to 20

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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Chapter 11

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when Lacy was sent to her. He had been aware before lunch that his bladder was full, and he was worried that he might not be able to contain himself until four o’clock. But after lunch, he became increasingly sure that he would not. By half past two he was desperate, chewing his lip, and almost bursting. He was reprimanded for his lack of attention and then, just before three, he felt that sharp insistent feeling that presages a bowel movement. He clenched; but to his horror began to go in his pants. Then almost immediately he emptied his bladder.

There are few things more shaming and distressing for a small boy than publicly defecating in his trousers. And to empty the bladder, too, so that urine runs down his legs and on to the floor, is a burning and shaming humiliation. He looked down and began to cry. Then he was sent to Matron with the sniggers of his classmates in his ears.

"Come in."

He stood at the door, clutching his short trousers and trying to bunch them up around his legs. His face was hot and tear-stained. Mrs Lavington smiled. A grim, hard-lipped smile. She stood for a while savouring the boy's distress.

"So, you have disgraced yourself, Lacy."

She pointed to the shower.

"Stand in there. Off with your shoes and socks. And now undress. And hand your clothes to me as you do so."

Soon the boy was naked. She had taken his soiled pants and placed them to the side. Now she picked them up. Carefully turning them inside out.

"Do you know how they teach a young puppy not to mess on the floor, Lacy? How they toilet train him?"

"N . . . no Matron."

She stepped towards him.

"They rub his nose in his own mess, Lacy."

She pulled his head back by his hair and rubbed the brown, soft, faecal material over his face. She poked it up his nose and then, holding his nostrils together, forced it into his mouth. He was choking now, wriggling furiously. But she held him tightly by the hair, almost lifting him off the ground. There was a sickly but bitter taste in his mouth.

"Stand with your hands on your head, Lacy."

He stood shivering and sobbing, his feet on the cold tiled floor of the shower. In fact, it was not a true shower for there was no overhead unit, only a cold tap at knee height to which was attached a length of hose. Mrs Lavington deposited his soiled clothing in a sealed bag and dropped it in a basket. He watched nervously as she continued to busy herself. Then, after several minutes, that seemed to the boy a good deal longer, she put on a long rubber apron and came over to him.

"And kneel."

He went down. The tiles were hard and painful against his knees. Turning him round so his head was facing her, she picked up the hose and turned on the water. It gushed across his back and he gave a scream at the icy cold poured over him. Slowly, she hosed him down, paying particular attention to his buttocks and legs. And then his anus. Then she turned the fierce stream full on his face. He twisted to avoid the choking flood, but she grasped him by an ear and forced his head up and back played the stream of water over his face. He struggled, spluttering and choking. When she was satisfied that he was clean, she ordered him out of the shower, still wet and dripping, and pointed to a long oval shaped bench over which a towel had been placed.

"Sit on the end of the bench, Lacy. No, not sideways. On the end of the bench facing forward toward the clock."

She went to a cupboard and took out a large roll of lint bandaging about nine inches wide. He watched as she unwound it and cut off two very long lengths. At one end of each piece, she tied a loop and knotted it. She then turned to the boy.

“Lie back Lacy and put your knees up toward your chin.”

Deftly she slipped a loop over each leg and eased it up until it was just above the knee. She then dropped the ends of each length over the sides of the bench and pulled them sharply forcing the legs apart. She then she passed the ends under the bench and up over his chest and knotted them. She smiled, relishing his exposure.

He could see her walking across to the cupboard, and opening it. She took out a martinet.

Mrs Lavington's mother had been born Marie Réglat, a French woman from a strict Protestant family in Provence. She had married an Englishman and had moved to Northumberland just before Cordelia's eighth birthday. The martinet had been regularly used during her childhood, and was a formidable implement of correction. This was the one from her childhood. It consisted of a wooden handle, to which were attached ten leather lashes or lanières, thick and hard, cut square down their length so that each lash would bite into soft flesh. After her mother's death, Cordelia had kept the martinet, smearing it with a thick leather dressing to preserve it until such time as she had her own children to discipline. However, it had become her practice to rely more on the traditional English implements of hairbrush and cane, and the martinet had languished in a drawer until she brought it to the orphanage for use there.

She stood behind the boy. There were beads of water on his buttocks and legs. With his bottom bare and his legs forced apart, his small puckered anus was clearly visible. Above it, his limp penis and tight little scrotum. She gave a smile of satisfaction, as she ran the lashes through her hand.

"Well, Lacy, I thought you were instructed to exercise some self-control over your bodily functions."

She paused.

"I am very disappointed in you, Lacy. Very disappointed."

She flicked the lashes of the martinet so that they dropped over his genitals. She drew them away and he gave a gasp at the soft creeping sensation.

"But there is a remedy, Lacy. And this is it. A little whip that most French boys of your age are very familiar with. It is called a martinet."

She paused.

"Let me show you how a French boy of your age would be punished.”

She moved to his right side and again flicked up the martinet but this time she lashed it down on the exposed inner wall off his thigh. He gave a shrill scream at the sharp burning pain. The stroke was repeated and then another and another. After twelve such strokes, she paused, waiting for him to compose himself. And then moved to stand on his left side. Another twelve strokes were lashed across his left thigh.

“This is a very versatile little whip, Lacy. Very versatile. It can be lashed across a boy’s bottom and thighs. Or around his legs, or across any part of his plump little body."

She paused. And then flicked the lashes forward into the cleft of his bottom.

"Tell me, Lacy, what are the parts of your body over which you seem to have little or no control?"

She waited.

"I am surprised that you find the question so perplexing. Let me help. You have messed your trousers, Lacy. Where did that come from?"

The boy was terrified. He could hardly speak.

"F . . . f . . . from, my bottom, M . . . Matron."

"And where in your bottom?"

Any embarrassment at speaking of such things had been driven out by a terrible fear.

"F . . . f . . . from the hole.

"The hole, Lacy, is known at the anus."

"And there is another part of the body over which you have shown no control, isn't there?"

"Please, Miss."

"'Please' does not answer my question, does it, Lacy? And you will not address me as Matron, not Miss."

She waited.

"Y . . . yes, Matron."

"So over what other part of your body have you shown a complete lack of control? The answer is surely obvious?"

"My . . . my . . . thing, Matron."

"Your 'thing', Lacy? And what is your 'thing'?"

He was squirming now, as she tortured him with her probing inquisition.

"I said what is your 'thing', Lacy?"

"It . . . it's what I wee with . . . Matron"

"What you wee with? What you wee with into your trousers, Lacy? And what is its proper name?"

"My . . . my . . . my penis . . . Matron."

"Yes, your penis. And that's not all you do with your penis is it, Lacy? Wee into your trousers."

The boy was now a small snared animal with no hope of escape.

"Well, is it?"

The reply was barely audible.

"No . . . Matron."

She walked round and with the handle of the martinet, reached out and tapped his limp, flaccid penis.

"So, what do you do with this? Apart from weeing? And let's use the correct word for what you do, shall we? What is It?

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Matron.

"What you did is ‘masturbate’, Lacy."

She walked around him and lifted his chin.

"And do you enjoy masturbating? Does it give you a good feeling?"

His face was burning. There was a drumming in his ears.

"Well? Is it enjoyable?"

His voice was dry and barely audible, a croaking whisper.

"Yes . . . Matron."

His chin was forced back, and she held him in her gaze.

"So, tell me, Lacy, what do you think would stop a boy masturbating when it's so very, very enjoyable?"

"I . . . I'm not sure . . . Matron."

"You are not sure?"

"N . . . no, Matron"

"But the answer is surely obvious. It has to be a punishment that is so painful and so unpleasant that no boy would dare risk it even for the pleasures of masturbation."

She paused.

"But I am going to be merciful, Lacy. I am going to restrict your punishment on this occasion to merely teaching a lesson to those parts of your body that have let you down. That need training in better behaviour. And we have already identified which they are, haven't we?"

"Ye . . . yes, Matron."

"Yes, Lacy. We have. A lesson to that little hole in your bottom, not to mess in your trousers. And a lesson to your penis not to wet in your trousers, and not to become over excited first thing in the morning and tempt you to masturbate."

Suddenly, he knew what she intended. He wriggled desperately and stretched out his neck.

"No . . . no. Please, Matron. Please. I'll never do it again. Please. I promise."

Chapter 12

Cordelia ran the lanières of the martinet through her hand, feeling their punishing thickness. It was a pity that Camille had not replied to the request in her last letter. She had asked her to send a smaller lighter martinet that would be suitable for dealing with masturbation. This had had been provoked by her increasing suspicion that Samuel had discovered its delights. And had she had such a martinet she would certainly have used it to whip Lacy.

She could recall exactly what she had written to Camille.

Thank you so much for your letter with all your news. I was sad to hear that Jean Palomer has broken his leg. I remember a few years ago how he was the pétanque champion of Sainte Foy. He must be sad not to be competing this season. And I do hope the surgeons are able to restore him to full health.

And congratulations on finding such excellent and plentiful truffles in the woods. I have always believed that a pig is by far a better truffle hunter than a hound. I only wish we could find truffles in the orphanage grounds!

And I so sympathise with your problems with Anna. Like my Elizabeth, she is a self-willed child who demands much discipline. And I am sure the martinet is neither begrudged nor stinted.

And it is concerning the martinet that I write, Camille. Samuel has now reached an age when he is tempted by masturbation. And as we both know, a child is only going to desist from sin if the ensuing punishment is such that the pleasure gained by sinning is outweighed by the pain inflicted. This applies to all sinning, but particularly to masturbation. For a boy, the pleasure is so intense and so beguiling, that only the severest of punishments will deter him. And without that, he will become a slave to a most dreadful and debilitating habit.

I would therefore be grateful, my dear Camille, if you would ask M Durand, to make me a martinet suitable for disciplining an older boy. The lanières should be at least fifty centimetres in length, be cut square and be capable of inflicting a whipping that any boy would fear to have repeated.

Would you also ask him to make two smaller, less heavy martinets that could safely be used for punishing boys in the place where they choose to sinfully abuse themselves. I remember my mother employed this method of correction for my two brothers. Perhaps you would explain to M Durand what is intended and he can then craft them accordingly. Tell him that it is meant to cause considerable pain but without damaging the boy. I will use one for punishing Samuel and the other for use in the orphanage. At the moment I have been using my mother's old martinet in the orphanage for punishing self-abuse, but it has to be used with such care that the vigour that should accompany such correction cannot be applied.

I enclose sufficient francs to cover the cost of this work together with the postage. If there is anything remaining, please purchase some small gift for the children – if they deserve it. Otherwise buy a treat for yourself, Camille.

This comes to you with my very best wishes and the hope that we may meet soon, either here or in Ste Foy.

Well, she hoped Camille would respond soon. In the meantime, she certainly had no intention of remitting Lacy’s punishment. She would just need to be a little careful in applying the lashes.

Forcing apart the legs apart had invitingly exposed his anus and genitals. She raised the martinet and lashed it into the cleft between his buttocks. The boy screamed and writhed helplessly, and his head went back.

The leather thongs were lashed down a second time and then a third. There was something exquisitely pleasing about a boy secured as Lacy was secured, and she relished his helpless exposure and savoured each piercing shriek of agony as it rent the air. She smiled, and continued to lash him, allowing the tips of the leather tails to bite alternately into his anus and then into his scrotum and penis. After a dozen strokes, with some reluctance, she laid the martinet aside and released him.

"Stand up, Lacy."

Still weeping copiously, the boy struggled up. He stood before her in his nakedness, bent over, his right hand cupping his genitals, while the left reached round to his sore, smarting anus.

"Stop crying this instant. And place your hands on your hips."

With the tips of her fingers, she tilted his head back.

"Like all small boys, Lacy, you have little self-control. And self-control is more than just not wetting yourself and not messing your pants. And It’s more than not masturbating. Self-control is as much about getting on with your work when you would rather be playing, and obeying those in authority over you."

She walked across to a drawer and took out a small jar.

"Bend forward and I'll put some cold cream on your bottom where it's sore."

He gave a gasp as her finger pressed on the small burning aperture as the cream was smoothed in. She then gently massaged the cream into his penis and scrotum. He gave a little moan of pleasure as she did so.

"Now dress and return to your class. And I hope not to have to deal with you in this way again."

She watched with folded arms as he slipped back into his clothes. As he turned, she called him back.

"Aren't you forgetting something Lacy?

"I'm sorry. Thank you, Matron."

"Good. Now off you go. And remember, I will have my eye on you."

Mrs Lavington looked at the clock. It was just gone four. Time to collect the children who would be waiting in the large hall to be escorted home. She wondered whether Edward Crawley would have provided a report on Samuel or whether he would wait until tomorrow to start the new arrangement. And then there was the issue of the boy's masturbation. That must be addressed. She had a horror of his growing up in the grip of such a debilitating and sinful habit. Well, she would have that little talk with him this evening. She smiled to herself. A full day promised to extend into a full evening.

The three children were already waiting in the hall by the time she arrived. Samuel looked anxious, his eyes cast down. She surmised that Edward Crawley had indeed provided a report on his behaviour and that it recorded things that the boy would rather not have been mentioned.

"You look down in the mouth, Samuel, what is the matter?"

"N . . . nothing, Mother. But Mr Crawley asked me to give you this."

He handed her an envelope. Mr Crawley had told him that from now on, at his mother's request, he was having to submit a daily report on his conduct in the classroom. And at the end of the day had given him the envelope. The boy had anxiously reviewed the day and could think of several things that might have been mentioned. His mother slipped the envelope into her bag.

"Come along, children, home to tea and homework."

Each of the children had a task in the daily routine of tea. William and Samuel set the table, carefully carrying the plates and cups from the dresser and then laying out the knives and spoons, before putting out the jam and butter. Elizabeth was responsible for slicing the bread, making the tea and placing a jug of milk and a sugar bowl on the table.

As usual over tea, Mrs Lavington questioned the children about their day.

"Well Elizabeth how was your day?"

"Very good, thank you, Mother. I got the best mark of everyone for geography. Mrs Fairclough was very pleased with me."

"That is very heartening, Elizabeth. I'm very proud of you. And was there anything else.

"Yes. Mary Coward got the tawse. Six strokes on each hand. And she really deserved it. She was cheating and looking at Sarah Buckley's work."

"I am sure she deserved it if she was cheating. I hope none of you would ever cheat. And what about you, William?"

"Nothing really, Mother. We did a lot of arithmetic, and some history."

"And I hope you did well at it? Did you?"

"Yes, Mother."

She nodded.

"And what about you, Samuel?"

She paused.

"But of course, there's no need to ask. Mr Crawley has kindly provided a note on your achievements today."

She reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope. She handed it to Samuel.

"Read it aloud, Samuel. I am sure we're all eager to hear how well you've done today."

Samuel took the envelope nervously. His mother passed him a knife so he could slit it open. Slowly, he took out the note.

"Stand up and read it, please."

He shuffled up and read haltingly.

"Samuel did some good work this morning scoring twelve marks out of twenty for his arithmetic and ten out of twenty for his spelling.

Unfortunately, the afternoon was marred by his talking during a period of silent working. For this he received three strokes of the cane.

I hope this is helpful.

Edward Crawley."

"So, Samuel what have you to say to that? I find it rather disappointing."

"But Mr Crawley said I did some good work, Mother."

"Indeed, Samuel. But why do you think Mr Crawley considers a mark of ten out of twenty a good mark?"

"But Mother, Roger Millen only got five right."

"And so, you consider any mark better than five a good mark? Is that what you are saying?"

"N . . . no, Mother. But I wasn't the worst."

"That Samuel is not the point. The point is that a boy who listens to the lesson and who applies himself diligently should be able to achieve twenty right out of twenty. Every time."

"But Mother . . . "

"Every time, Samuel."

"But the question was why do you think Mr Crawley regards your getting only half the questions right as a good mark? Have you any ideas?"

He hung his head. He could feel the tears pricking at his eyes.

"No, Mother.

"Then I will tell you, Samuel. It is because like the boy Millen your result is usually much worse. Because this time as you listened a little more attentively and made a little more effort, you did better. But because it's better than your previous lamentable attempts, does not make it good. Good is twenty out of twenty. Or at least eighteen out of twenty. That is good. But ten, even twelve out of twenty is bad."

She paused.

"And why is it bad, Samuel. Why is the result not good?"

He bit his lip, his hands twisting by his side, a small boy being slowly nailed to the cross of his mother's disapproval.

"Well?"

"Because . . . because I couldn't do better."

"No, Samuel. That is not the reason. You could have done better. You choose not to make the effort to do better."

She looked at the small tearful boy.

"And that is why you have to be punished."

"No, Mother. Please."

"But that is not all, is it, Samuel. Read the note again."

He did so, his voice husky and anxious. She listened her eyebrows raised.

"So, you received three strokes of the cane for talking in a period of silent working."

She paused.

"And where were those strokes given, Samuel?"

"On . . . on my bottom, Mother."

"Across your trouser seat you mean."

"Yes, Mother."

"Then they need to be given again. Across a completely bare bottom."

She rose.

"But first, the tea things have to be cleared away and homework done."

Again, each of the children had a task to do. On the wall was a rota and from this it could be seen that Elizabeth was to clear the table and put away the food, while Samuel and William washed the plates, cups and cutlery and then, after drying them, were to replace them on the dresser with Elizabeth’s help.

The children than sat at the table for their homework. Elizabeth had to trace a map of Great Britain and then mark and name all the places where coal was mined. She enjoyed such a task and got on with it eagerly. William had to write a short account of the history lesson he had had that day. This had been on the Norman Conquest and required him to set out the events immediately preceding the Battle of Hastings. Samuel had been set eight sentences to parse.

"You have an hour. So, no talking and I expect to see everything completed and finished to a high standard."

Mrs Lavington fetched her embroidery and sat in the armchair. She enjoyed this hour. It was a time of quiet recollection as she watched the children working. She could see that Elizabeth was applying herself well and clearly enjoying her work. William, however, was sucking his pencil and finding it difficult to get started. And Samuel was frowning as he carefully wrote out a word that he had to parse, and then puzzled over whether it was a noun or a verb, an adverb or an adjective; and how it related to the other words in the sentence. She had no doubt that he would find it a very testing exercise.

After a while, Mrs Lavington put aside her embroidery.

"Samuel, you don't seem to be making much progress? Is there some difficulty?"

"Please, Mother, I don't understand what I have to do."

"But surely, Mr Crawley has explained. He's not likely to set work without telling you how to do it."

The boy hung his head.

"But I didn't understand him."

He looked up, his eyes glistening.

"Please, Mother."

"Samuel, if you don't understand what Mr Crawley is telling you, then you must ask him for a further explanation."

She looked at him.

"What you are being asked to do is to explain what job each word in doing in a sentence and how together with all the other words it makes sense and has a meaning."

She paused.

"Write the word Samuel. On the left of the page."

He did so.

SAMUEL

"That is good clear writing. Now what does that word tell us?"

"It . . . it just says Samuel."

"Yes. It's your name. It is a noun because it is a thing or a person. And because it's a name it’s called a proper noun. Now let us add something."

She took his pencil and wrote an apostrophe S.

SAMUEL'S

"Now what does that mean?"

He surprised her by knowing the answer.

"It means that something belongs to Samuel."

"Good. That is excellent. Now write the word mother."

SAMUEL'S MOTHER

"So, what does that tell us?"

"It . . . it doesn't tell us anything. It just says Samuel's Mother . . . Mother."

"Well, it tells us that Samuel has a mother. But you are right it doesn't tell us more, because there's no verb. Every sentence has to have a verb. Without a verb a sentence is not a sentence. What we want to know is what it is that Samuel's mother is doing."

She paused.

"Write the word canes after Mother."

He reddened as he did so.

SAMUEL'S MOTHER CANES

"And now we have a real sentence. A sentence is a group of words that together make complete sense. Just saying Samuel's Mother didn't make complete sense. But this does. So, what does it tell us?

"That . . . that you cane."

"Yes. But although it makes sense, isn't there something else we want to know? We want to know whom Samuel's Mother is caning, don't we? Is it William? or is it Elizabeth?"

She paused.

"Or is it you Samuel?"

He hung his head. The exercise in parsing had become deeply personal, with him painfully at the centre.

"Well, I think it's you, Samuel, don't you?"

He nodded, agreeing with her in his desperation.

"Yes, I am sure it is. Now listen carefully. We could add Samuel and say Samuel's Mother canes Samuel. But that sounds very awkward and odd, doesn't it?"

He nodded.

"So instead we put a little word that stands for Samuel. The word him. It is called a pronoun, because it is put there instead of your name which is, as I have said, a proper noun. So, add it, please.

SAMUEL'S MOTHER CANES HIM

"Good. So now we know who did the caning, the mother. And because she did it, she is the subject of the sentence. We know whose mother it is. It is Samuel's mother. And more importantly for you, we know whom she is caning. Samuel is the object of the verb canes, or rather him is the object because we didn't need to write Samuel again. Both mother and Samuel are nouns, name words, while canes is a verb, a ‘doing’ word. And that gives us a nice, little sentence, full of meaning."

Again, he nodded.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother. Thank you."

"But I see from the exercise Mr Crawley expects you to know a little more than that. About adjectives and adverbs, even adverbial phrases. In the last question he has set, there is even a clause. So, we need to add a little more to our sentence."

"For example, we might want to know how Samuel is caned."

She looked at the boy.

"So how do I cane you, Samuel?"

He was now scarlet.

"Well. Surely not a difficult question. You've been caned often enough."

His voice was small and reluctant.

"Hard . . . Mother."

"Yes, hard, as all boys should be caned. Hard, swishy strokes. So, add hard to the sentence."

SAMUEL'S MOTHER CANES HIM HARD

"And because hard tells us more about the verb, about how Samuel's mother canes him, it is an adverb. An adverb tells us more about the verb, just as an adjective tells us more about a noun. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"I said did you understand."

"Y . . . yes, Mother."

"Good. And now a further question. Where do you think Samuel is caned?"

She smiled.

"Well?

She waited.

"On . . . on the bottom . . . Mother."

"Yes, but more than on the bottom. Do I cane you over your trousers like Mr Crawley?”

“No, Mother.”

“So how do I cane you?”

“On . . . on my bare bottom.”

“Good. So, add that at the end.”

SAMUEL'S MOTHER CANES HIM HARD ON THE BARE BOTTOM

She smiled inwardly at his discomfiture.

"And because on the bare bottom tells us more about where Samuel's mother canes him, it is known as an adverbial phrase. A phrase is a little group of words that don't make much sense on their own unless they are attached to something else. In this case the verb canes. Just as hard told us more about how Samuel's Mother canes him, so does this. It tells us where she canes him. On the bare bottom. And that is why it is called an adverbial phrase. A little group of words that works like an adverb."

She paused.

"So, what part of speech is the word on, Samuel?"

"I . . . I'm not sure, Mother."

"It's a preposition, Samuel. Prepositions go before nouns to help you understand how they are being used by the verb. And in the phrase on the bare bottom, do you see a noun?"

He nodded, almost pleased that he knew the answer despite the circumstances.

"Yes, Mother."

"So, what is it?"

"Bottom, Mother."

"Good. And is there an adjective there? A word that tells us what sort of bottom it is."

"Yes, Mother."

"And what is it?"

"The word bare."

"Excellent. And what about the. What is that?"

He bit his lip.

"I . . . I'm not sure . . . Mother."

"It is known as the definite article. It might be a bare bottom which would mean any bottom. A being the indefinite article. But it is the bare bottom. Which means not any bare bottom but a particular bare bottom. In this case, your bare bottom, Samuel. And, as it tells us more about the noun bottom, it is an adjective. All articles are adjectives, whether it's the indefinite article a or the definite article the. Do you understand?"

He was not sure he did, but nodded nevertheless. She pursed her lips and studied the boy.

"But there is something the sentence doesn't tell us, isn't there, Samuel. Why is his mother caning him?"

The boy wriggled in his seat.

"Well?"

"Because, he . . . he didn't do well enough at his work."

"And why was that? Was it because he didn't try hard enough?”

"Yes, Mother."

"And did he know he should work hard and apply himself to his work?"

He bit his lip. This was certainly no longer just an exercise in parsing.

"Yes, Mother."

"And so, what words or word would you use to describe that, to describe choosing deliberately to do the wrong thing? Well?"

"Disobedient . . . Mother."

"Yes, disobedient. But also, lazy. Shall we add those as the reason?"

He nodded.

"So, we are going to add a little clause that tells us the reason why Samuel is being caned. A clause is a little sentence that is attached to a main sentence. And as the clause gives the reason for Samuel's being caned it is introduced by the word because. So, add because please.

SAMUEL'S MOTHER CANES HIM HARD ON THE BARE BOTTOM BECAUSE

"And now let us add the reason. After because write he is lazy and disobedient."

Slowly he added the required words.

SAMUEL'S MOTHER CANES HIM HARD ON THE BARE BOTTOM BECAUSE HE IS LAZY AND DISOBEDIENT

She pointed at the page.

"So, what sort of word is He?

He thought hard.

"Is . . . is it a pronoun, Mother?"

"Yes, it's a pronoun. Because it stands for Samuel. He is the subject of the verb is. And what about lazy and disobedient?"

"They are adjectives, Mother."

"Yes. They describe Samuel's behaviour. Behaviour that is earning him a sound caning."

She looked at the boy. He was on the point of tears.

"So read the sentence out, please, Samuel. So, we can all hear it."

He did so in a low voice.

SAMUEL'S MOTHER CANES HIM HARD ON THE BARE BOTTOM BECAUSE HE IS LAZY AND DISOBEDIENT

Again please, and a little louder.

SAMUEL'S MOTHER CANES HIM HARD ON THE BARE BOTTOM BECAUSE HE IS LAZY AND DISOBEDIENT

She smiled. And looked at the clock.

"And that is what one small boy has to look forward to in half an hour when homework is over. But I hope, before then, he will complete an excellent piece of work after all the help he has been given."

Chapter 13

Mrs Lavington looked at the clock.

"Stop writing, children. Elizabeth let me see your homework, please."

The map was neatly drawn and coloured. And the places where coal was mined had been carefully marked and named. Her mother knew that Elizabeth enjoyed making maps. Indeed, she excelled at all aspects of geography.

"This is very well done, Elizabeth. Mrs Fairclough should be very pleased."

She gave a little frown.

"And now William let me read your essay on the Norman Conquest."

Diffidently he brought it out. He had not found it easy. The events preceding the invasion by Duke William had been quite difficult to grasp. Something about a battle with people called Danes at a bridge somewhere. And then a rush to get to Hastings in time for another battle. He handed the exercise book to his mother.

"Thank you, William."

She read his effort through.

"A most untidy piece of work, William. And not a very clear account. Did you listen to the lesson?"

"Yes Mother."

"Then, this is very disappointing. I'll discuss just how attentive you were when I see Mr Greaves tomorrow. But the untidiness is another matter. That is something I can deal with now. Fetch the hairbrush from the hall table."

"Please, Mother. No."

However habitually a boy is punished, he never becomes inured to spankings and never ceases to dread them. He swiftly learns how sensitive his bottom is when bared for a mother's discipline. Some boys will readily submit to discipline. But others will resist and defiantly fight the rod. And William was such a boy. The physical struggling over his mother's knee was but an outward sign of a desperate inner struggle as he strove to outlast her. But it was an unequal contest. Slowly and remorselessly, she would apply the rod until, helplessly broken and sobbing, he capitulated.

But for such a boy although a battle may be lost, the campaign is far from over. The surrender of his will is not a permanent surrender. Once he has regained his composure, he is determined to emerge victorious from the next encounter. And, indeed, may take the battle to his mother, wilfully defying her and challenging her authority. Impudently declaring by his behaviour that her earlier chastisement has not succeeded; has not broken his will; has not rendered him submissive. And in courting further punishment, he affirms his will against hers, and becomes brave in his own eyes, whatever the eventual outcome.

She watched as her son turned and went to fetch the hairbrush. There was anger on his face and his whole body was stiff with resentment. She smiled. She knew how to deal with that.

She took the hairbrush and smacked it across her palm.

"Take off your shoes and socks and place them under the chair. And now off with your jacket and hang it over the back. And now the shirt."

She had no compunction about making him slowly strip before his older brother and sister, until he stood naked and shivering before them. The additional humiliation was good for the boy and an excellent demonstration of her commitment to thorough and effective discipline, discipline whose end would be his will surrendered to hers.

She sat and silently beckoned him toward her. Reluctantly he stepped forward. She grasped him and turned him over her knee, small, pale, and defiant.

The brush descended with a stinging smack across his bottom. He stiffened making no sound other than a gasp. Mrs Lavington smiled. She was not disconcerted by his defiance. Indeed, she took an especial pleasure in rendering a boy submissive. And as she had no compunction about slowly stripping him before the gaze of his brother and sister, nor had she any reservation about applying the rod until his will was purged of all defiance. Until he was sobbing and desperately pleading for forgiveness.

It was not until the fourth stroke that he began to whimper; by the tenth, he was howling and writhing; and by the fifteenth, desperately screaming. When after two dozen strokes, the hairbrush was put aside, tears of hot defiance had been replaced by a sobbing, choking gratitude that the torture had ended.

She let him rest across her lap, placing her hand gently over his bottom, feeling the heat radiating from the surface. She rested her palm on the red and smarting flesh. He clenched his bottom and gave a gasp. She smacked him sharply.

"Get up, William."

He wriggled off her lap. And she made him stand before her, with his hands against the back of his neck.

"Stop crying."

She waited patiently until he regained a little composure.

"Well, William, I hope you've learned that schoolwork, however good, is unacceptable unless presented neatly and tidily."

She raised her eyebrows questioningly. His eyes were swollen and his face tear-stained.

"Well, have you learned that lesson?"

"Yes, Mother. I . . . I'm sorry."

She smiled.

"I think the best thing would be for you to go and wash your face and prepare for bed. Pick up your clothes. And I'll see you in your pyjamas for prayers in a moment. Until then you may read in your room. Off you go."

He went, one hand holding his clothes and the other clutching his smarting bottom.

She turned to Samuel.

"And now Samuel, let me see your parsing. Was the help I gave you of some use?"

"I . . . I think so, Mother."

"You don't sound too confident."

She sat at the table beside him and put an arm around him, while she read through his exercise.

"Well, I am pleased that it's neatly presented, Samuel. That's very good. Often your work is untidy and disorganized."

She sighed.

"But you don't seem to have grasped the difference between an adverb and an adjective. I thought I'd explained that an adverb tells you something more about a verb and an adjective tells you more about a noun. Look at this sentence."

She read slowly.

The boy ate his supper greedily

She tapped her pencil on the table.

"You have greedily as an adjective qualifying the word supper. How can that be. It doesn't tell us more about the supper, does it? You can't have a greedily supper. The adjective would be greedy. But supper's are not greedy. The boy might be greedy. Most boys are greedy. But the word in the exercise isn't greedy, is it? It's greedily."

She squeezed the slack of his under thigh.

"Well?"

"Yes, Mother. I'm sorry."

"Greedily tell us more about the verb ate. It tells us how he ate his supper. He ate it greedily. If a word ends with an LY, it's almost certainly an adverb."

Again, she squeezed his thigh.

"But I am not here to correct your work and punish you for your mistakes. That is Mr Crawley's job."

She paused. He waited, fearful of what was to come.

"But, Samuel, as you know, I've asked Mr Crawley to provide a daily note on your behaviour. And that's because I don't believe he is providing the discipline that is needed. He gave you three strokes of the cane this afternoon for talking in a period of silent working. Well, I am pleased he used the cane. But you tell me he caned you across the seat of your trousers. I cannot begin to think why he should be caning your trousers."

She gave a wan smile.

"Unless your trousers were talking? Were they?"

He bit his lip.

"No, Mother."

"So, who was talking?"

His voice was low and husky.

"I was, Mother."

"So why was Mr Crawley punishing your trousers instead of the small, disobedient boy whose bottom they were covering?"

"I . . . I don't know, Mother."

"Well, nor do I. And then there is your lack of effort that results in such poor marks. There is no need for such low marks, Samuel. You are simply lazy and disobedient. There is just no excuse."

She paused.

"Go and fetch the cane from the hall."

He went and handed it to her, his face flushed and apprehensive.

"So, off with your shoes and socks."

She watched while he crouched down and removed them. She could see that Elizabeth was also watching.

"And now down with those trousers and pants."

He lowered them until they were in a heap around his ankles.

"Step out of them and place them neatly on the chair."

Chapter 14

Mrs Lavington had noticed how her daughter always exhibited a keen interest in her brothers’ punishments. And she remembered how, as a girl, she had followed with similar rapt attention the punishment of her own brothers. When she had moved to England just before her eighth birthday, Charles, had been six and Marcel two. Although she continued to be subject to the rod until well past her thirteenth birthday, her mother’s discipline had increasingly weighed more heavily on her sons.

Watching her brothers wriggling and writhing under the rod has been physically arousing, just as the mere sight of a hot curry thickens the saliva and makes the taste buds tingle. Both boys were regularly whipped, and as the years passed, she watched their discipline with an ever-increasing relish. Later, as an older sister, she would whip Marcel herself.

As a small girl, being spanked was an agony scarcely to be borne. She had feared the hairbrush, as later she did the stinging cuts of the martinet. And yet, afterwards, a strange ravishing warmth would course through her. Once or twice, she had courted her mother’s displeasure just for that strange enjoyment. And for Cordelia there had been no sharp distinction between her own suffering and that of her brothers. She had harboured a real appreciation of her mother’s authority, and respected her for the discipline she imposed, whether on herself or on Charles and Marcel.

And now there was her own daughter. Although Elizabeth was younger than Samuel by a couple of years, she was aware of the girl’s interest in his punishments and in those of his brother.

“Stand facing the end of the chaise longue, Samuel.”

She grasped him by the waist and hoisted him over. She stepped across to the drawer and retrieved the strap. When she had rucked up his vest and shirt clear of his bottom, she ran the strap under the curved end of the chaise longue and then up and over the boy’s waist fastening the buckle in the small of his back. She stood to his left and tapped the cane across his bottom.

“And this is where boys are best taught the consequences of their disobedience, Samuel. Isn’t that right, Elizabeth?”

The girl’s eyes were bright and her lips glistening,

“Ye . . yes, Mother.”

Again, she tapped his bottom.

“How many strokes did Mr Crawley give you, Samuel?”

“Th . . . three . . . Mother.”

“And what were those given for?”

“F . . . for talking.”

“Talking when you were supposed to be silent. Well, let us see how silent you can be, when you are caned as Mr Crawley should have caned you. Three strokes across a completely bare bottom. The slightest murmur and the stroke will be given again. Do you understand?”

“Y . . . yes, Mother.”

She tapped his bottom once more. His buttocks clenched in anticipation of the first cut.”

“No clenching, Samuel. Any clenching and that stroke will be given again, too.”

She waited until his bottom was once more round and relaxed. She glanced at Elizabeth. She was flushed, with a look of breathless concentration on her nine-year old face.

Mrs Lavington raised the cane and swished it across the boy’s firm, compact buttocks.

“Was that a sound I heard, Samuel?”

“N . . . no, Mother. Please, no.”

“Are you sure?

She turned to her daughter.

“Did you hear it, Elizabeth?”

“I . . . I think so, Mother.”

“I’m sure you did. And what did I say, Samuel?”

“No, Mother. Please, no.”

“It’s no good pleading with me, Samuel. You either made a sound or you didn’t. And both Elizabeth and I heard it. Nothing can be done about it now. The stroke will be given again.”

She tapped his bottom. And I suggest you remain completely silent from now on.”

Mrs Lavington raised the cane. She brought it down with much less force. Samuel who was pretending his lips had been glued together made no sound.

It was not kindness that made his mother moderate the stroke. She wanted him to feel he could succeed, that by a tremendous effort of will he could escape the further punishment she had threatened. But she knew she could break his resolve at any time. That having given hope, she could dash it upon the rocks of despair and wring from him a scream of tortured agony.

The next stroke was whippy and stung dreadfully, but he had closed his eyes and pressed his lips together and again mastered the pain. He held his breath.

Elizabeth’s eyes were large and unblinking as she stared at her brother over the end of the chaise longue. She was too young fully to understand her feelings. Part of her was willing him to remain silent and avoid further punishment; but another part wanted to see him caned and broken on the wheel of her mother’s displeasure.

Mrs Lavington was in no hurry to administer the next stroke. She tapped his bottom and waited, letting his anxiety build until it was almost at breaking point. Elizabeth could hardly swallow, so thick was her saliva and tight her throat. She thought there was a slight smile on her mother’s face as she brought the cane down with a fearful whoosh across the boy’s tender thighs. He gave a piercing scream and reared up in agony.

For the next minute, her mother watched the small half-naked boy, writhing and sobbing in his distress. He had struggled to remain silent and avoid the additional strokes. But he had failed.

Still she waited, saying nothing. Forcing him to speak.

“P . . . pl . . . please, Mother. . . I . . . I’m sorry.”

She spoke quietly to him.

“I am sure you are, Samuel. But the lesson in remaining silent has clearly not yet been learned.”

She waited for another minute, allowing his sobbing to subside.

“I’m going to continue caning you, until you have received three strokes in succession without screaming, wriggling or in any way resisting the punishment. Do you understand?”

“Ye . . . yes, Mother.”

“And Elizabeth, please go and kneel on the chaise longue, in front of Samuel, and hold his hands. I don’t want him reaching back. He is in enough trouble as it is.”

Elizabeth knelt and grasped his hands. They were cold and she squeezed them encouragingly. She had a real liking for her brother. Once, after a particularly severe flogging, she had crept into his bedroom to comfort and console him. But the thought that he might be spared the rod or punished in some other way, never entered her head. Her brothers’ whippings, like her own, were the inevitable consequence of disobedience, and fully justified. They were not something she questioned or had the least qualms about. Any more than she questioned the pleasure of a glass of cold water on a hot day or the sight of a flaming log fire on a winter’s evening. As her mother raised the cane, she felt a strange movement in her stomach as if a small animal had stretched itself.

The stroke fell with a whoosh across his buttocks and Elizabeth felt his grip tighten as he struggled to control himself. Again, the cane was raised. His mouth was opened in silent agony; his face wet with his tears; his hair damp and dishevelled. His mother smiled as she brought the limber rattan swishing down across the tenderness of his thigh flesh just beneath the fold of his buttocks. It was if she were aiming not at the surface but at a point several inches deeper. He screamed in his agony, rearing up and tearing his hands free from his sister’s grasp. He kicked his legs and clenched his feet. But the strap around his slim waist held him fast.

“Well, Samuel. I said that the caning wouldn’t stop until three strokes had been given without your uttering a sound. Have you anything to say?”

“Please, Mother . . . Please . . . ”

He shuddered with helpless sobbing. She waited patiently.

“I asked whether you had anything to say, Samuel.”

“N . . no . . . Mother. Please stop, please.”

Hold his hands again, Elizabeth. And grip them tightly this time.”

As Elizabeth held him, he pushed up his hands, still gripped in hers, and rubbed his eyes with her knuckles. She could feel the hot dampness of his tears on her skin. As her mother raised the cane, she felt faint. Another mother might have weakened in her resolve, gone back on her word, and brought the punishment to a premature end. But she knew her mother would never do that. And Samuel knew it, too. He tensed himself for the stroke, gnawing his lower lip, telling himself he would bite through it rather than make a sound. He jerked and squirmed, releasing his agony not in sound, but in exigent, desperate writhing and kicking. Another stroke. And still he contained himself. But the next, swished once more into the tender fold of his buttocks, was too much for him. Roaring, he tore his hands from his sister’s grasp; and then lay limp and despairing.

His mother smiled. She knew how shame and despair ate away a boy’s defiance. How all heart went out of him.

“I think he has learned his lesson, Elizabeth. But he has still to receive three more cuts without making a sound. I have to be obedient to my word.”

She stepped around and ruffled his hair.

“So, three more strokes, Samuel, and not a murmur of a sound. They will be little boy cuts quite unsuitable for a boy of your age. But as you’ve behaved, like a five-year old receiving his first caning, they are not entirely inappropriate. Hold his hands, Elizabeth, hopefully for the last time.”

The three strokes were given and he was then allowed down.

“I trust you have learned your lesson. You and Elizabeth may now play until half past six.”

Elizabeth got out a jigsaw and Samuel his toy soldiers. At half past the clock chimed the half hour.

“Samuel, I want a little talk with you before prayers. So, stay down here. Elizabeth, let us say prayers before you go up to bed.

She smiled at her daughter who knelt for prayers. Her mother placed her hand on her head, feeling the softness of the hair between her fingers.

Dear Father God, we thank you for your goodness towards us. For the food we eat, and for the warmth and safety of family life. We thank you too for the rod of correction which you have given for the right discipline of children. May Samuel learn to obey those set over him and to walk in your truth. Thank you for Elizabeth and for the help she is in the family. And for William whose stubborn will needs to be subdued. May we all, like the Lord Jesus, learn obedience through the things that we suffer. And bring us all to your everlasting kingdom. Amen.

She smiled.

“And now upstairs and get ready for bed. Then, you may rad for half an hour. And perhaps you would be kind enough to hang up the cane on its hook in the hall”

Chapter 15

She turned to Samuel who was clearly nervous about the “little talk” his mother had said she wanted. Usually when she used the expression "a little talk" she meant a sound spanking or worse. But he'd only just been caned. He shivered.

"Samuel, do you know the boy, Lacy?"

"Yes, Mother."

"I had to punish him today. Punish him most severely."

She paused.

"And do you know why I had to do that?"

"N . . . no, Mother."

"It was because I found evidence that he had been playing with himself in bed.”

She waited but there was no reaction.

"Drop your trousers, Samuel. And pull down your pants And place your hands on your head."

He did so and his shirt and vest lifted up exposing him to her gaze. She stepped forward and placed her finger under his penis.

“Do you ever play with this, Samuel? In your bedroom? Perhaps in bed?”

"No, Mother. No"

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She nodded.

"Well, I’m pleased to hear it. It's a great temptation for a boy. It can become a habit that can dominate the whole of his life."

She smiled.

"And we don't want that, do we Samuel?"

“But Mother . . ., I don’t think it’s any one’s business what a boy does in his bedroom.”

His mother raised her eyes eyebrows.

“And do you think it’s any of my business?”

He hesitated.

“No, I don’t think it should be.”

“So, in this house, there is a room where my authority does not run? Where your bedroom is a little kingdom where you alone rule. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I . . . I suppose so.”

“Well, that’s what it sounds like to me.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“And what is hanging in your room, Samuel? Behind the bedroom door?”

He reddened.

“Th . . . the tawse, Mother.”

“Yes. A sign of my authority over you. An authority that extends to anything you may or may not do in your bedroom or indeed in your bed I’m surprised you don’t understand that.“

She paused.

“But that tawse is more than just a sign, isn’t it? It has a very practical use.”

He hung his head. She spoke with an edge to her voice.

“Go upstairs, change into your pyjamas and bring it to me. Now.”

He bit his lip, hesitating.

“No, I don’t want to..”

She felt a cold excited flush course through her. She stepped forward, and gave him a stinging slap across the face.

“I’ve never heard such rudeness and defiance from a child. You will go upstairs, undress for bed, do all that you need to do in the bathroom including cleaning your teeth. You will then take the tawse from its hook on the back of your door and bring it to me. And I suggest you do it quickly, if you want additional strokes for tardiness.”

He walked unhurriedly to the door, but from there she heard him scampering up the stairs. He was less than ten minutes returning. She held out her hand for the tawse. She sat on the upright chair.

“Stand in front of me, Samuel.”

She felt a throbbing eagerness to set to work. To stretch him out naked and to assert her authority over him.

“And we’ll have those pyjamas off. please, Samuel. And stand with your arms crossed in front of me.”

He shivered. He sensed her commitment to his discipline from her tone of voice and the expression on her face. If there was one thing that Mrs Lavington abhorred in children, it was disrespect to an adult and particularly to an adult set-in authority over them. And Samuel’s defiance was not a casual expression of disrespect such as being tardy in coming to the table or a slackness in obedience. It was a considered act of insubordination, an insolence that was shocking in its sheer effrontery. Such impudence merited the harshest of punishments and that was what she would be providing. She felt a shiver of anticipation pass through her.

“Turn around.”

He knew she was looking at his bottom. At the firm rounded flesh of his buttocks and the soft slackness of his thighs. Buttocks already marked with the recent cuts of the cane. She let hm stand in shame for several minutes. Then she stepped across to the chaise longue and placed the tawse in readiness on the seat. And then went to retrieve the restraining strap from its drawer. He whimpered for he knew what was coming.

“Over the end of the chaise longue, And put your hands forward,”

She ran the strap under the curvature, buckling it over his body. She stepped back and studied the smooth back, the firm bottom cheeks, and the backs of his thighs. She knew that many mothers would consider stripping a boy and securing him for punishment as cruel and unloving. But Mrs Lavington's commitment to her children's discipline was absolute. When her children had kicked in the womb, she had felt a frisson of delight. A new life was stirring within her. But it was a life bound physically to her own life. But once born, it was no longer confined within the safety of her womb, and had to be secured within the safety of her will. A child had to be taught not to wander. Taught to confine his will within her will. To be obedient and submissive. And when a set boundary was crossed, the rod had to be applied. This was not to reduce the child to a slavish subservience, but to train him, so that eventually he could indeed live beyond her will in safety.

When Samuel was very young, she wondered if he would soon learn to live obediently, rendering punishment superfluous. But as month succeeded month, and the range of his activity increased, so did the opportunity for transgression. As he grew, so did the use of the rod.

And securing a child for chastisement was not cruel, but as an act of caring so that the flogging could be administered with the least risk to his well-being. If the flogging was severe, it was unrealistic to expect a child to lie still. And to whip a flailing boy was unsafe and militated against good discipline. Not that all struggling was prevented by his bonds. But it would be a helpless, fruitless struggling that brought home to him the need to submit and live within her will. And there was no escape from that will. Just as for the boys within the orphanage there was no escape. Even for those who foolishly absconded.

Only a month ago, an eight-year-old boy had gone missing. It was two days before he was recaptured, cold and shivering, and brought back in the late afternoon. Mrs Lavington had examined him in the infirmary, and had concluded that food and a good night's sleep were all he needed before facing his punishment the following morning.

The Principal's policy on runaways was unvarying. It was essential that an example be made to deter others. At ten o'clock the boys and staff were assembled in the hall. On a raised platform at the front had been placed a low leather vaulting buck from the gymnasium.

She brought the boy from the infirmary where he had spent a restless night. On the Principal's instructions he was wearing nothing but a shirt. On either side of the hall, seated cross-legged on the floor, were the assembled boys. The staff were standing to the sides and at the back. On the platform, beside the buck, stood the Principal. A little further back was a deep pail in which were immersed three birch rods.

She remembered almost exactly the Principal's words.

This morning I have the distasteful task of dealing with a boy who chose to abscond from this orphanage. In doing so, he thoughtlessly put himself at risk and greatly inconvenienced those who had to search for him. You are here to witness his punishment, both to add to his shame and as a warning to each of you that absconders will always be caught, brought back, and punished. And punished with the utmost severity.

He had then turned to the pale faced boy in the shirt.

"Have you anything to say, Burgess, before you go over the buck?"

Wisely the boy had declined, realising no words of his would prevent or ameliorate the flogging.

"Then stand facing the buck."

The buck had been placed end on to the assembly. On a nod from the Principal, Mrs Lavington and the boy's form master had stepped forward and lifted the boy up so that he was straddling the end, facing away from the assembly, with his legs hanging either side. His shirt was then rucked up and he was pressed forward. A thick leather strap was then passed under the buck and fastened over his body.

"Perhaps you would stand at the far end, Matron, and hold the boy's wrists to prevent his slipping."

She had grasped the small wrists firmly, giving him a gentle pull to stretch him out. She was looking down the length of his body and could see the crown of each buttock. The Principal had then walked across to the pail and selected a rod. It was a long rod. Six substantial lengths of birch, each a little short of three feet in length, bound together. At the business end, it splayed out into a tough tracery of whippy, leathery twigs designed to wreak havoc on a boy's buttocks. The Principal shook off the surplus water. Then, slowly, methodically and skilfully, the boy was birched.

The Principal recognised the importance of allowing time for a boy to writhe and smart. The first dozen strokes were given over about two minutes. Then, when he must have felt that a swarm of angry insects was eating him alive, the delivery was slowed and succeeding strokes were given at a rate of four a minute.

The public flogging was intended to deter absconding and the sight of the boy, roaring and twisting in torment after each cut was a sight to instil terror in the most hardened boy. All eyes were on the absconder's small buttocks as they reddened and were slowly cut and scored by the birch. Mrs Lavington looked out over the assembly, at the pale rapt faces of the boys, as they watched the dreadful retribution exacted. A boy would have to be desperate indeed to risk such punishment.

Not a sound was heard apart from the boy's shrill screams of agony. Mrs Lavington could see Edward Crawley standing to one side. There was a frown on his face. She had no doubt he disapproved of such rigorous discipline. But what alternative was there? A boy who was insubordinate to a member of staff could expect the soundest of canings. And if he didn't mend his ways, a visit to the Principal's office to be flogged. But a boy who was guilty of the ultimate insubordination, who turned his back on those who were helping him and chose to return to the wild? What other remedy was there?

Mrs Lavington believed implicitly that punishment was the measure by which a child grasped the seriousness of his sin. This principle was threaded through the whole of moral creation. From the mild spanking of a small child for some wilful peccadillo, through to the ultimate penalty of the hempen noose. To punish grave offences as though they were of little consequence was a sure way to confuse a child's moral education and to encourage sin. A dereliction of duty that for some had indeed led to the gallows.

So, as she grasped the boy by the wrists and watched the progress of his flogging, she had no doubt that it was justified. At the back of the hall, she could see Mrs Fairclough watching intently. It was no secret that the Principal's wife had fully supported her husband in the more rigorous regime he had reinstated. As for Mrs Lavington, flogging was for her the punishment of first resort. Better to root out the small growths of sin before they took root and multiplied. Easier to uproot a small sapling than have a whole tree to fell and a huge stump to dig out.

After twenty-four cuts, the boy was roaring profusely. His bottom looked as though it had been stung by a swarm of midges, and in places, where the skin had broken, little seams of blood had appeared. The Principal tossed the birch under the buck. But if the boy thought the torture was over, he soon discovered otherwise. The Principal believed that after two dozen strokes a birch had lost its bite and, with twigs bent and broken, needed to be replaced. Striding across to the pail he selected a fresh rod, and swished it through the air. It was full of sap, and enormously springy.

Mrs Lavington held the boy's wrists in a firm grasp. She watched as another two dozen strokes were administered. By the thirtieth, the boy drained and exhausted had ceased his roaring. Apart from the swish of the birch and the plashing of the twigs against soft bottom flesh the only sound was a succession of shrill, rasping, wriggling squeals of agony.

When the flogging concluded, four dozen strokes had been swished across the boy's small buttocks. From where Mrs Lavington stood, she could see the thick ridges that had been raised, and the bleeding seams of agony where the rod had broken the skin. Never had she seen a boy so utterly broken. There was blood, too, on his chin, where in his torment he'd bitten his lower lip. His eyes were red and swollen. His face wet with his tears. His hair dishevelled. She had helped lift him off the buck and had escorted him straight to the infirmary. How he had squealed and wriggled, as the iodine had been applied. He was in the infirmary for three days.

Chapter 16

And now before her was another boy, her own son, for whom her love and concern were deep and consuming. Many mothers, out of affection for a child, would seek to excuse his conduct or ameliorate the discipline that was his due. But not Mrs Lavington. Her love for Samuel made her determined to spare him nothing. And for such insolence and defiance, if such were possible, less than nothing.

Upstairs, Elizabeth had heard her brother scampering up the stairs. She waited for a moment and then peeped out and saw him in his pyjamas returning downstairs with the tawse. She listened intently and heard him whimper as he was fastened over the chaise longue. She held her breath. There was a pause and then she heard the smack of the tawse on the boy's flesh, followed almost instantly by a shrill scream. She tiptoed halfway down the stairs and crouched, bending her head. The door was half open so that she could see into the room. The tawse was again swung heavily through the air. Elizabeth watched unblinking, savouring the boy’s helplessness. His screams came in desperate surges of agony as her mother embossed her discipline upon the cheeks of his bottom; and then on the soft roundness of his thighs, working slowly down each, from the under flesh of the bottom to the hollow of the knee.

Her mother waited until his sobbing abated.

“I am punishing you, Samuel, with exceptional severity. You are a small wilful boy, and the laws of God and the acceptance of His and my authority have yet to be fully learned. You have shown that without my rule you are on a downward path that can only lead to hell. But the remedy is clear. The Lord God has said to parents in the Book of Proverbs

Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.

And that is what is necessary for a boy like you Samuel. Hard, painful and frequent reformatory discipline applied unstintingly. Not with some soft little carpet slipper but with a tawse like this that leaves throbbing smarting weals on your flesh that forces you to turn from the path that leads to destruction and commence the long, hard and difficult assent to heaven.”

There was a moment of silence before Elizabeth saw her mother raise the tawse and slowly remorselessly administer a further dozen strokes, mainly to the sensitive backs of his thighs. Before the end, Elizabeth retreated up the stairs. She felt what she'd done was wrong and that if her mother knew, she'd be in serious trouble. Soon she heard the sobbing boy being ushered upstairs to his bedroom. She stood by the door and continued to listen. She could hear every word.

"Hang the tawse back on its hook, Samuel. And stop crying. I expect tears after a severe punishment but that is enough."

There was a pause.

"Sit on the chair. And look at me."

She could imagine her brother tentatively seating himself, flinching as his wealed flesh touched the hard, cold seat. And then looking up with a wet face and glistening eyes. Eyes that were nervously scanning his mother's face for a sign that his punishment was truly over.

"So, Samuel, why was it necessary to strap you so severely?"

Elizabeth heard a strangled sobbing noise.

"I said no more crying, Samuel. Do you wish to be punished for disobedience?"

"No, Mother. I . . . I'm sorry."

"So, let us return to my question. Why was it necessary to strap you so severely?"

She strained to hear her brother's response.

"Please, Mother . . . because . . . I . . . "

His voice dropped to a whisper. Elizabeth edged the door a little further ajar.

“. . . because I was rude and . . . and said I could do anything I liked in my own room.”

“And do you still believe that, that you can be allowed to do anything you like in your own room? Or for that matter anywhere else?”

“No, Mother.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I . . . I have . . . I have to do what you tell me.”

“Yes. Because as your mother God has given me that authority. The right to make laws for all my children and the authority to enforce them. And how do I do that, Samuel?”

“B . . . by punishing us.”

“And how do I punish you?”

“You . . . you spank us.”

“Yes. Or, as I have just done, strap you. And always, always on bare flesh.”

She paused.

"Well, I trust you have learned your lesson. And that there will no more rudeness and defiance. Now let us say prayers.".

Elizabeth quietly eased her door to and closed it. She wriggled back between the sheets and shut her eyes. It was not long before she heard the door open.

"Are you asleep, Elizabeth?"

"Nearly, Mother. I put my book down when you said."

"Good girl. Now off to sleep properly."

She went out and closed the door. Then, made her way downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. When the kettle was boiling fiercely, she poured a little into the teapot to warm it and then emptied it into the sink. Two heaped spoonfuls of tea from the caddy were then added to the heated pot before the boiling water was added. She liked her tea strong. Taking it to her little study, she placed it on a small table adjacent to the armchair, and sat down. After a hard day she welcomed this moment of relaxation when the children had been settled down. She sipped the tea appreciatively.

Tomorrow she would speak to Howard Greaves about William. Perhaps she should institute a similar arrangement to that put in place for Samuel. The sooner a boy learnt the necessity of concentration and hard work the better.

And then there was Elizabeth. She was clearly enthralled by her brothers' punishments. Not that there was anything wrong with that. To her it was perfectly natural that a girl should enjoy witnessing a boy's suffering under the rod. She had enjoyed watching her own brothers punished. And it was a good foundation for motherhood. There were many mothers who were theoretically convinced of the benefits of a well-deserved whipping, but who in practice were reluctant to provide it. But a duty that gave pleasure was seldom shirked. And from the beginning she had disciplined her children with enthusiasm. No doubt Elizabeth would do the same.

But as Elizabeth was so like her, she recognised there was a risk of indulging her, of sparing her the discipline that she, like all children, needed. That must certainly be guarded against. The girl had a wilful streak and a contrary spirit. She was also prone to lie and had been punished several times when caught in an untruth. An untruthful child was an abomination to the Lord. The girl might enjoy the sight of her brothers' being punished, but at the age of nine her own bottom would require baring for the rod many times yet.

She wondered whether Elizabeth masturbated. She felt far less strongly about a girl's indulging herself in that way, but it was certainly not something to encourage. Looking back, although it was difficult to be sure, she seemed to think that at Elizabeth's age she'd already discovered the delights of masturbation. Of running her moist finger up and down her little slit and finding that special spot that made her wriggle with a strange excitement. Several times her mother had caught her and spanked her soundly. But she was no way as severe on her as she was on her brothers when they were caught masturbating. For a boy, it could become a vicious, controlling, destructive habit and any punishment was justified to keep him out of its clutches. She frowned as she thought of Charles and Marcel, and of some of the measures her mother had resorted to.

Upstairs, Elizabeth lay in her bed. In her imagination she was again crouching on the stairs breathlessly watching Samuel being flogged. She remembered how her mother had given him the tawse for his birthday, and his bitter disappointment when he stripped away the wrapping, made more acute when he realised what it was. She savoured once more his shame and humiliation. She tantalised herself by thinking of the marks raised on his flesh, and the red inflamed pores from the torturing leather. And her hand crept down and lifted her nightdress. Her eyes were tightly shut.

In the room opposite, Samuel lay face down on his bed. As he moved, he could feel the sheets rubbing against his welted bottom and thighs. He sobbed in his frustration, and tears of rage, and self-pity dampened his pillow. He twisted on to his side and his hand slipped inside his pyjama bottoms.

When he had been little, he had rubbed his penis with a single finger, stroking it, slowly at first, and then more vigorously. But now he gently pinched the flaccid skin on its front, rubbing it between finger and thumb. A wave of calm swept over him. He had slipped the noose of his mother's control; entered once more the paradise from which he had been evicted. He felt a surge of self-confidence. But afterwards, he lay limp and guilty, wondering whether he would be discovered. He tried to convince himself that what he had suffered was a pre-payment for his present transgression. And then he remembered his mother's words of how fleeting the pleasure was.

William in his room stirred in his sleep. When he had clambered into bed, he had slipped his pyjama trousers down and pressed his hot spanked bottom against the cool of the sheets. He had wriggled appreciatively at the contrast. But now in his dreams he was riding an elephant. Not riding it like a child in the zoo, but controlling it like a mahout. He was seated in a small basket almost on its head and was reaching forward with a long-hooked stick. The elephant was gorgeously attired. Somehow, he knew it was his mother. And then the trunk came curling back and seized him around his waist and began squeezing him. Tighter and tighter. But somehow, he slipped free and a great crowd was cheering and he was on a low platform accepting their adulation. And then at the back of the crowd he saw his mother. She came forward and the crowd parted for her. In her hand was a rattan cane. He murmured and twisted in his sleep.

Downstairs their mother sipped her tea. Despite Samuel’s protestations that he had not been masturbating, she didn’t believe him. But as long as a boy released no seminal fluid, it was very difficult to catch him. And yet the earlier a boy was arrested in the habit the better. She must be extra vigilant. Perhaps, she should introduce a session once a week when the children would be required to confess their sins. Doubtless there would be prevarication and a failure of absolute honesty. But then if uncovered, the punishment would need to be the more severe, and a double lesson taught. Well, she would think about that.

And tomorrow, there were still Michael Clough and Oliver Preuss to deal with. And when she ran her morning check on the beds, possibly other boys who would need to be punished. She remembered how she had used the martinet on Lacy's offending member. How he had screamed as the lanières de cuir has cut and bitten into the soft sensitivity between his legs. Again, she remembered how her mother had dealt with Charles and Marcel all those years ago. She frowned.

And she must speak to Michael Greaves about William. And whether a note system ought to be instituted for him as for Samuel. She sighed. A busy day ahead. She had better get ready for bed. But first she must read her Bible and pray.

As Cordelia lay in bed, she suddenly realised that when chastising Samuel, she had heard a creaking sound. At the time she'd hardly been aware of it. But now in recollection she was certain. She knew that mid-way down the stairs there was a tread that had a creak, and however carefully you stepped, it was impossible to avoid that tell-tale noise. She frowned. Had Elizabeth crept down to watch her brother's punishment? But when she had seen her after settling Samuel down, the girl had gone out of her way to say that she'd been reading and had put her book down at the time instructed. But now it seemed she may not have been reading at all. That she had told a bare-faced lie. Well, she would question her about it tomorrow - before school. Any punishment that was necessary could be given at the end of the day. And that would provide time for her to anticipate the retribution due for such a serious offence. Elizabeth had been whipped for lying before, several times. Cordelia took a deep breath and shut her eyes. Soon she was asleep.

Chapter 17

She woke at six o'clock. She went to the kitchen and made her early morning cup of tea; and then prayed and read her Bible. In her prayers she asked for wisdom to discern God's will for the day and the determination to carry it out. She then went to her daughter's room. Elizabeth was already awake, sitting on her bed in her nightdress, reading a book.

"Elizabeth, will you come into my room, please."

There was something in her mother's tone that made her nervous. She bit her lip and followed.

"Tell me about your reading last night, Elizabeth."

" . . what do you want to know . . . Mother?"

"Well, let us start with how long you were reading."

"Until I put my book down and went to sleep, Mother."

"And after praying with you in the drawing room, you went straight to your bedroom?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And after undressing for bed, you read until you put your light out?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And what were you reading?"

There was a hesitation.

"My Blue Fairy Book."

"The one by Andrew Lang?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And what story were you reading?"

Again, there was a hesitation.

"The . . . the Goose Girl."

"I see."

Mrs Lavington waited, allowing the girl's anxiety to grow."

"And you read the story right through to the end?"

"Yes, Mother."

"So, what is the story about, Elizabeth?"

There was another hesitation as the girl tried desperately to remember. It was a long time since she had read it.

"It's . . it's about a princess who . . . who's sent away to a foreign land to meet the man she's going to marry."

"Yes, and what happens on the journey?"

"She . . . she . . ."

Her voice trailed away. She looked down.

"I . . . I can't remember, Mother."

"Look at me Elizabeth."

The girl raised her head. There was an anxious look on her face.

"But how is that? You only read the story last night. Less than ten hours ago."

"I was tired and didn't finish it."

"But Elizabeth, you told me a moment ago you read it right to the end.

She hung her head.

"I'm sorry, Mother."

Her mother put her arm round her.

"And I'm sorry, too, Elizabeth. Very sorry."

She paused.

"It's a very appropriate story in the circumstances. On the journey the princess loses the magic protection her mother has given her. And when she arrives her maid tells everyone that it is she who is the princess, and that her mistress is the maid. But eventually the king of the land having mistakenly married the maid discovers the truth. And he tells the maid a story of how a maid betrays her mistress and he asks her how that wicked maid should be punished. And she tells him that she would strip such a girl naked and put her into a barrel lined with nails and have it dragged through the streets until she died from her dreadful injuries. And the king then reveals to her that he knows the truth. And he sentences her to that very punishment."

Mrs Lavington paused.

"Do you remember the story now?"

The girl looked very uncomfortable.

"Yes, Mother. Yes, I do."

"So, you lied like the girl in the story, Elizabeth? You didn't read the story to the end?"

Mrs Lavington waited.

"No, Mother."

"And why was that?"

Elizabeth stared at the carpet.

"It would be better Elizabeth if you were to tell me the truth."

There was still no response.

"Then, let me tell you a story, Elizabeth and at the end I will ask you a question as the king did."

Elizabeth shuffled uneasily.

"Once there was a nine-year old girl who had an older brother. His mother sent her to her room telling her to get ready for bed.”

Her mother squeezed her hand.

"Do you recognise the girl in this story, Elizabeth."

The girl nodded mutely.

"Well, when the girl is in her room, she hears her brother running up the stairs. She opens the door ajar, and sees him going to the bathroom in his pyjamas. He returns to his room and then she sees him going back downstairs with the tawse She creeps down the stairs, and crouches behind the banisters. The drawing room door is open and she can see into the room. Breathlessly, she watches as her mother whips her brother's bare bottom and thighs. Just before the end, she creeps back to her room and when her mother looks in a little later, she pretends to be half asleep. She tells her mother that she put her book down within the time she had been allowed."

Again, her mother paused.

"And that was a story about a little girl who disobeyed her mother, who left her room after she had been sent to bed, who spied on her mother, who eavesdropped on someone else's conversation, who watched her brother being punished, and then lied about what she had done."

The girl bit her lip, but said nothing.

"So, Elizabeth, the question is how would you deal with such a girl. What punishment does she deserve?

She waited.

"You do recognise the girl in the story, don't you, Elizabeth?"

She hung her head.

"Yes, Mother."

"So, what would be an appropriate punishment?"

Elizabeth felt her whole body tingling. There was a pounding in her ears. She was being forced into a barrel, screaming and struggling. Already the nails were tearing at her flesh as the lid was forced down and hammered into place. She was fighting for breath.

"Well, Elizabeth, I am waiting. What would be an appropriate punishment for a girl who eavesdrops on her mother, who spies on her, disobeys her and lies to her?"

She began to cry.

There was a long pause.

"Elizabeth when I ask a question, I expect an answer. What punishment would be appropriate for a girl who had done such things?"

The girl was sobbing now. Desperately wanting to escape, but knowing she had to answer.

"P . . . P . . . Please, Mother."

"Yes, Elizabeth?"

"I . . . I . . . think . . . "

"Yes. I am waiting."

"I . . . I think she should be punished like her brother."

"You mean punished as the girl saw him punished?"

There was a faint hesitation.

"Y . . . yes."

"Placed over the arm of the chaise longue and tawsed on her bottom and the backs of her thighs?"

She nodded. Her mother looked at her small tear-stained face.

"I am very proud of you Elizabeth. That shows you understand how seriously the girl had misbehaved."

She put her arm around the still sobbing child.

"Then, that is how you will be punished on your return from school tomorrow. And until then, we'll say no more about it"

When a punishment was hanging over a child, Mrs Lavington saw no need to refer to it again. She remained calm and loving, as if nothing were amiss. And indeed, she believed nothing was amiss. For punishment was a natural and caring aspect of raising a child. And if her calm acceptance made the child aware of the utter inevitability of the punishment, as inevitable as the next meal or being tucked up in bed, then so much the better. And as the hours passed and the grim impending reality moved ever closer, so did the child's nervous anticipation and anxiety grow. And in Mrs Lavington's eyes that only added a valuable dimension to the discipline.

She recalled how, shortly after her eighth birthday, she had been playing with a friend and had ventured into the woods that sloped steeply to a stream, where many of the trees were rotten and unsafe. For that reason, it had been placed out of bounds. And yet together she and her friend had scrambled and slid into that forbidden place. They had appeared later in the morning, muddy, with clothes torn and, shoes scratched and sodden. Her friend, Jane, had been sent home with a note explaining what had happened, and she had been dispatched to her room to change. She had been made to sponge her shoes and scrape off the mud and then stuff them with old newspaper to dry.

Her mother kept a school slate that sat on a book rest on the top of a chest of drawers in the kitchen. Beside it in a narrow dish was a stylus. The slate was used exclusively to record punishments due to the children, and she watched anxiously as her mother scribed her name on it and beside her name the number of strokes earned by her escapade. She was already regretting bitterly the venture into the forbidden woods. Her mother turned the slate towards her. Thirty-six strokes. She felt suddenly breathless and as though her whole body had stopped working.

"Please, Mother. Please, I'm sorry."

She had blurted out her muted protestation. But she knew that once etched onto the slate there would be no reprieve. Distressingly, her mother was often in no hurry to carry out a sentence and there it would remain a searing indictment of her guilt and a threat of pain to come. The slate was only rubbed clean with a soft cloth once the penalty had been exacted.

"I'm sorry you disobeyed me, Cordelia. But worse, you led another child into trouble. You tore your clothes and ruined your shoes. But what is done is done. Sit at the table and let us shell some peas for lunch."

And there they had sat, mother and daughter, shelling peas as though nothing untoward had happened. And her mother let her eat the small immature peas at the end of the pods. And all the time she was wondering whether she would be whipped after lunch. She remembered how the day had slipped anxiously away. And then she was sent upstairs to bed. She undressed and slipped on her nightdress and then sat on the bed, waiting, anticipating that moment when her mother would enter with the martinet. She shivered and clasped her arms about her. And then her mother had entered and hung the martinet on a hook where she could see it from her bed.

"Kneel for prayers, Cordelia."

And she had knelt on the hard, wooden floor. There was nothing harsh about her mother's voice. It had a rich sweetness about it.

Nous vous rendons grâce, Seigneur, pour tous vos bienfaits . . . et surtout pour le martinet pour le châtiment des enfants désobéissants.

And as she lay in bed, she could see in the moonlight the yellow handle and the lanières de cuir that would lash and cut her small round buttocks and thighs.

Chapter 18

At breakfast, Samuel sat with an almost infinite care, lowering himself gently onto the hard, wooden seat. He grimaced as his bottom took the weight of his body and he wriggled uncomfortably.

"I'm sure your bottom's hurting, Samuel, but I'll not have wriggling at the breakfast table. Did you look at your bottom and legs in the mirror this morning?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And what did you see."

He cast his eyes down and flushed.

"They were red and there were marks. And . . . and in places it's still very sore and a bit sticky."

"Yes, I am sure it is. I'll give you a note for Mr Crawley. And you had better come to the infirmary at lunch break and I'll see whether more iodine is needed."

Mrs Lavington glanced at her daughter. Elizabeth was quiet and subdued. She frowned.

"I'm sure you consider there are good reasons for being a bit sulky this morning, Elizabeth, but my advice is to pull yourself out of it. Otherwise, you won't be able to concentrate on your lessons. And you know how Mrs Fairclough is likely to deal with that. Now all of you, eat up your breakfast."

She rose from the table and went to her study. Sitting down she took out a sheet of notepaper.

Dear Mr Crawley,

Thank you so much for your report of yesterday about Samuel. I am most grateful. But a mark of ten out of twenty for spelling is simply not good enough. I am sure he has difficulty remembering words but that means that greater effort is required. As I said, Samuel is not a boy who will spontaneously increase his effort. I truly believe the best way is to set a demanding target and then apply the rod whenever he falls short. I know you are reluctant to do this, but I am not. Last night he was soundly spanked for his poor marks in both spelling and arithmetic

And thank you for alerting me to his propensity not only to chatter in class but to do so defiantly when talking has been expressly forbidden. He certainly deserved three strokes of the cane. However, to reinforce the lesson I have given him a further caning. This time across a completely bare bottom.

And he as he displayed a rude, arrogant and defiant attitude, he was severely tawsed. I mention this because he will probably wriggle at his desk during the morning and find it difficult to concentrate. My advice is not to indulge him but to insist he sits up straight and attends.

Once more, thank you, Edward, for your co-operation. It is greatly appreciated. I look forward to the next report at the end of today.

Cordelia Lavington

She slipped the note into an envelope and licking it, stuck it down.

"Here, Samuel. Please hand that to Mr Crawley at the first opportunity."

On arriving in the infirmary, Mrs Lavington sent immediately for Mrs Simmonds.

"And what have you discovered this morning, Susannah?"

"Well, Matron, I've checked Dormitory D and there are no damp or stained pyjamas, but one boy seems to have used a handkerchief. I found it under his pillow. It has the unmistakable smell of semen on it."

"And who was that?"

"David Gordon, Matron."

"And what did you do with the handkerchief?"

"I have it here, Matron."

She produced a rather dirty handkerchief."

"It has his name tag sewn on it. He can hardly claim it isn't his."

It was one of the rules of the orphanage that every article of clothing, and every belonging, of which there were few apart from clothing, was marked with the boy's name. An inventory was kept and a check made periodically that all items were still in the boy's possession.

"Thank you, Susannah. Place it on the ledge by the window. I think I will start the day by having a little chat with Master Gordon. That will leave Preuss and Clough to deal with from yesterday. Perhaps you would slip along and ask Gordon's form master to send him along to me."

Before long there was a faint nervous tap at the door.

"Come in. Gordon, I am conducting a spot check of handkerchiefs. You should have six in your possession. And I hope you have one in your pocket. It is a rule that a boy should carry a handkerchief at all times."

She smiled.

"And use it when necessary."

The boy felt in his pocket.

"Well?"

"I . . . I'm afraid I've forgotten it, Matron."

"Then you will be needing a lesson in remembering, won't you Gordon? So where is the handkerchief?"

He flushed.

"It . . . it's probably still under my pillow, Matron."

"Then you had better fetch it, together with the other clean handkerchiefs in your possession. I need to check none is lost. And I hope for your sake none is."

The boy went. He could feel his heart throbbing in his chest. Should be pretend the handkerchief was lost or take it damp and smelling to be checked. He hurried down the corridor, not running for that was forbidden, but wasting no time. Like all the boys he had a deep respect for Matron's authority and a real fear of the consequences of wrongdoing. He reached under his pillow and then moved his hand rapidly back and forth. Nothing. He searched in his bed and then scrambled on to the floor and looked under the bed. Still nothing. His heart was beating now and his breathing quickened. He stood biting his lip, frowning. Well, he would have to confess that the handkerchief had been lost. At least he didn't have to worry about the tell-tale stains. He went to the small trunk at the end of the bed and extracted the five remaining clean handkerchiefs. He then scurried back to the infirmary.

Matron was standing waiting.

"And what kept you, Gordon?"

"I . . . I've been as quick as I could, please, Matron. But . . . but I . . . couldn't find them all."

"Then how many have you managed to find, Gordon?"

"Five, please, Matron. I'm sorry," he added hopelessly."

"So where is the sixth?"

"I . . . I don't know . . . Matron."

"Well, when did you last see it?"

"I . . . I'm not sure, Matron. Perhaps yesterday. I think I had it yesterday."

"And you don't remember blowing your nose since then. Or having it in bed under your pillow?"

"No, Matron? I'm sure not. I . . . I'm sorry. I . . . I must have dropped it somewhere. Perhaps someone will find it."

Mrs Lavington paused, studying the boy. Like many boys in the orphanage, he was small for his age. He had short fair hair and a beguilingly innocent expression, but there was something about his demeanour that invited the rod. He was twisting his hands nervously. As well he might, she thought.

"So, you think the handkerchief may yet be found?"

"I hope so, Matron."

"Well, fortune is smiling on you, Gordon. I can tell you that the handkerchief has indeed been found."

She looked at him intently. And noticed a slight hesitancy before he replied.

"Ha . . . has it, Matron."

"Yes, Gordon. It has."

She stepped across to the ledge by the window and retrieved it. She held it by one corner as one might hold a dead mouse by the tail.

"Take it, please."

He stretched out his hand and took it, his face pale and his eyes bright.

"Well, Gordon? Aren't you going to thank me for recovering your handkerchief?"

"Th . . . thank you . . . Matron."

"But aren't you going to ask me where it was found?"

He looked down.

"Perhaps there might be a clue if you examine it."

He looked down at it, a small desperate boy who can feel the net closing about him.

She smiled and her voice was soft and alluring.

"Well?"

"I . . . I . . . "

"Give me the handkerchief."

She stretched out her hand, and reluctantly he parted with it. She smelt it.

"A strange salty smell, Gordon."

She held it out to him.

"What do you think that is?"

He made to smell it.

"I . . . I'm not sure . . . Matron."

"Are you not? And look."

She held the handkerchief by the corners and let it drop. "It seems to have had something sticky on it. It’s stained and is still a little damp. Now what can that be?"

She looked at the boy, who was reddening now and biting his lip.

"Well, Gordon?"

I . . . I . . . I'm not sure . . . Matron."

"Well, shall I tell you where it was found? Perhaps that may provide a clue."

He wriggled uncomfortably.

"This dirty, damp, stained and smelly handkerchief was found beneath your pillow, Gordon."

She waited, but he made no reply.

"Nothing to say? No explanation as to why it is so dirty, damp, stained and smelly?"

He gave a wriggle, almost a shrug, his eyes cast down.

"Then, shall I tell you what I think, Gordon?"

Still no word. His full red lips were compressed and there was a spot of high colour on each of his cheeks. His whole appearance was an open provocation. This was a boy crying out to be flogged.

"What I think, Gordon, is that you masturbated into this handkerchief. Probably in bed. Then you screwed up the evidence and placed it under your pillow. Where it was found by Mrs Simmonds this morning."

He was breathing rather quickly now. He made no reply.

Well, Gordon, am I right?"

"You might be, Miss."

She ignored the incorrect form of address.

"And what does 'might be' mean"

"It means I don't know whether Mrs Simmonds found it or not."

"Well, Gordon, I can assure you that she did. But that is hardly the issue. The issue is did you or did you not masturbate into your handkerchief in bed. I have been Matron of this orphanage long enough to recognise the evidence of masturbation when I see it. This handkerchief smells of a boy's semen. It is badly stained. And it is still damp. And your name is on the name tag."

"Perhaps it was some other boy . . . Matron. Who stole my handkerchief."

Mrs Lavington smiled.

"Well, I suppose that might be a possibility.

Chapter 19

She studied the boy before her.

"But if your handkerchief was stolen, why was it under your pillow, Gordon?"

He bit his lip.

"I'm . . . I'm not sure, Matron."

She nodded.

"Take it over to the basin. The first thing is surely to wash it."

He walked across and stood waiting.

"Go on, boy. Fill the basin with hot water. And soak the handkerchief and rub it with the tablet of soap. A good vigorous rubbing to get out all those smelly stains. And now rinse it in cold water. And hang it over the side."

He stood, wriggling nervously. His fingers twitching.

"You know, Gordon, I don't think anyone stole your handkerchief. I think it just wandered off on its own. Jumped out of your pocket, perhaps. And then someone else found it. And it never mentioned it belonged to another boy who'd be in trouble if it went missing. A most thoughtless handkerchief."

She paused, smiling.

"What do you think, Gordon?"

He was perplexed. And hesitated.

"I . . . I'm not sure, Matron."

"Well, from what you say, I'm sure that's what must have happened. So, what do you think needs to be done?"

He looked blank.

"Well, if you'd been disobedient and wandered off when you should have been in class, what would you expect to happen?"

"I . . . I'd be punished."

"And how would you expect to be punished?"

He reddened.

"I . . . I suppose, I'd be caned . . . Matron."

"Yes, I'm sure you'd be caned."

She looked at the boy.

"But that is not all your handkerchief did, is it Gordon? It did more than just run off, didn't it?"

He looked at her perplexed.

"D . . . did it, Matron?"

"Well, of course. Not only did it run off but it allowed some other boy to masturbate on it. And then it crept back to your bed and tucked itself under your pillow. Letting you take the blame.

"And what do you think would happen to a boy here who did that. Who deceitfully refused to own up and was happy to see another punished as a consequence?"

"I . . . I'm not sure . . . Matron."

"Well let me tell you, Gordon, that this orphanage sets great store by honesty and fairness. And any boy who offended against such basic moral standards would be soundly flogged."

She placed her fingers under his chin and tilted his head back.

"So, I should say your handkerchief is in serious trouble, Gordon. What would you say?"

"Y . . . yes, Matron."

"Yes, very serious trouble. And do you know what I am going to do, Gordon?"

His eyes were bright and his hands twitching.

"I am going to punish that handkerchief of yours and punish it very severely. And after I've finished with it, I should be very surprised if it ran off again and allowed an unknown boy to masturbate onto it and then crept back to your bed with horrid, damp, sticky, incriminating stains all over it."

She watched as he struggled to absorb what she was saying.

"Do you know what it means to horse a boy, Gordon?"

She knew that some three months ago he had been summoned to the Principal's study and birched. And Mr Fairclough either birched a boy over a buck or sometimes had him horsed on the back of one of the groundsman’s young assistants.

"So, what does it mean, Gordon?"

"It . . . it means you're hung over someone's back with . . . with your trousers pulled down . . . and . . . and . . . birched."

"Yes, Gordon."

"So, I think your handkerchief had earned itself, perhaps not a birching, but certainly a sound caning. And I propose you should have the satisfaction of horsing the offending handkerchief yourself. It's you, after all, who've been accused because of its thoughtless behaviour."

"But . . . Matron . . . "

He looked puzzled and worried.

"Yes. Gordon?"

"But, how . . . Matron?"

"How what, Gordon?"

"How . . . how will you cane a . . . a handkerchief?"

"As I've explained Gordon. You will horse the handkerchief, just as a naughty boy is horsed. Well almost. Because the handkerchief because of its size will not be across your back but spread wet and dripping over your bare bottom. That is a much more suitable place for a handkerchief. And there it'll be soundly caned. That should teach it to mend its way, don't you think?"

The boy said nothing. There was a look of horror on his face.

"But, Matron . . . "

"No more buts, Gordon. Off with your shoes, socks, trousers and underpants. And better take off the shirt, too. Let's have you in just your vest. And quickly now. Don't let's keep the handkerchief waiting."

The firmness of her voice told him there was no escape. Not that any boy would think he could argue his way out of a punishment from Matron.

"And fold those clothes neatly and place them over the chair, Gordon."

He stood utterly bare from the waist down. He shivered, feeling the chill from the window on his skin. As he had been undressing, Mrs Lavington had placed the long oval stool in the middle of the room and covered it with a towel. Then, from a cupboard she had taken a small, firm, bolster about fifteen inches across and placed it across the middle of the stool. She patted it and beckoned to the boy.

"Lie along the stool, Gordon with your genitals pressed into the front of the bolster."

She moved it down a little and then carefully positioned him so that his bottom was forced up. He was now breathing with short, shallow, nervous breaths. She went and fetched a length of bandaging from the same roll she had used to secure Lacy to the same stool. And ran it over the boy’s waist, under the stool, and then up and over again, securing it tightly around him. She stepped back.

"And now for that mischievous handkerchief, Gordon. By the time we've finished with him, he'll not go wandering again and getting you into trouble, that I'll wager."

She ran the thin cotton handkerchief under the cold tap and laid it carefully over the boy's raised buttocks. It was a good size and almost completely covered his bottom. He gave a wriggle as the cold wet cloth clung to his skin. He twisted his head round.

"Please, Matron. I'm sorry . . . I . . . "

"Why are you sorry, Gordon. There's nothing to be sorry about. It's the handkerchief that should be sorry. And believe me, Gordon, it soon be will, very sorry, indeed."

She walked across to the cupboard and selected a limber length of rattan that was hanging behind the door by its crooked handle. It was the width of a pencil and nearly three feet in length. She swished it through the air.

"Yes, Gordon. A very sorry handkerchief indeed."

She ruffled his head.

"You must be pleased to be assisting in its punishment. To have the pleasure of feeling each cut of the cane whipping into such a thoughtless little piece of cloth."

She stood in front of him so he could see her flexing the cane. She noticed how his toes were curling and uncurling. How both hands were clenched into tight little nervous fists. She waited, letting him anticipate the first stroke. Slowly she raised the cane and then with a flick of her wrist brought it down smartly across the wet clinging handkerchief. There was a satisfying smack. The boy gave a gasping scream.

"Did that hurt, Gordon? Did it sting and smart?"

"P . . . please, Matron . . . "

"You surely don't want me to stop? If you had done what the handkerchief has done, how many strokes would you expect?"

She waited.

"Well, Gordon?"

"Please, Matron . . . "

He was sobbing now in his desperation.

"W . . . would it be . . . s . . . s . . . six, Matron?"

"No, Gordon. No boy learns to mend his ways from six strokes of the cane. Even with a swishy length of rattan like this. At least twelve strokes, and in most cases two dozen, are required to start a boy even thinking about improving his behaviour.”

She smiled.

"And I'm sure it's the same for handkerchiefs."

"B . . . but, Matron. It's hurting me as well as the handkerchief."

"Yes, Gordon. I'm sure it is. But discipline is a painful business for everyone. Do you think I enjoy disciplining naughty little boys? It's tiring and disagreeable. But it's necessary. And if you want a better-behaved handkerchief then you must accept the pain of assisting in its well-deserved punishment."

He turned his head toward her.

"But . . . but Matron, you . . . you don't think my handkerchief did all those things . . . D . . . do you?”

"Well, from what you've told me, Gordon, I can't think of any other explanation. Can you?"

He felt the hot tears pricking at his eyes. If he confessed to what had truly happened, he was sure he would be even worse off. His voice was barely audible.

"N . . . no, Matron."

In that case, Gordon, we had better continue, hadn't we?"

And the cane was again raised and brought down with a whoosh across the wet piece of thin cotton stretched over his buttocks.

"Aaaaagh . . please, Matron . . . aaaaaagh."

After a further four strokes she peeled off the handkerchief, noting with satisfaction the raised marks beneath it, and walked across to the basin. She turned on the cold tap, and held it under the icy flow. The thin wet cotton was replaced and the sight of it clinging to the firm roundness of the boy’s buttocks was deeply arousing. She could feel a wetness between her legs as she flogged him with a new urgency. The boy screamed in bursts of agony as the cane cut into his firm soft flesh rendered exquisitely sensitive by its cold wet covering. After every six strokes Mrs Lavington would pause to hold the handkerchief under the tap to soak it afresh. It was not until three dozen cuts had been caned across his bottom that the rod was laid aside.

The boy who had roared during the flogging was now gasping, racked with heaving sobs. Mrs Lavington waited. After several minutes he was gently writhing, emitting soft little comforting noises to himself. She peeled off the handkerchief. After two dozen strokes, it had been specked with blood. Now at the conclusion of the flogging, there were thicker blood stains where the cane had burst the boy's skin. She held the handkerchief in front of him. His eyes were brimming with tears and he had difficulty focussing. Bending down she untied the bandaging holding him to the bench.

"Get up, Gordon, and stand over there."

She left him shivering in his distress and stepped across to the basin, rinsing the handkerchief for the last time. She dropped it into the washing basket. Then, she put her head around the door and asked Mrs Simmonds to prepare a hot saline solution. While this was being done, she sat at her desk and checked her diary. She had written a reminder to herself that she still had to deal with the other two masturbators who had been caught in yesterday's trawl. Oliver Preuss, and Michael Clough. After a few minutes, the door opened.

"Here you are Matron. I've made it nice and strong and there is a sponge to apply it."

"Thank you, Mrs Simmonds. Please place it on the small table by the chair. She went across to the towel cupboard and selected a large towel. Sitting on the chair she draped it over herself and then beckoned the boy toward her."

She pulled him over her lap as though for a spanking, and let him rest there for a minute, nervously waiting, wondering whether his ordeal was truly over. She studied his bottom. She'd never had any difficulty in believing that a divine providence had provided a child's buttocks for the purpose of correction. The previously smooth, pale flesh was now marked with long throbbing ridges with that distinctive tramline appearance. In places, where the cuts had overlaid each other, the skin was broken. Bloody and oozing. She smiled. The boy's torture was not yet over. He gasped and wriggled as she sponged his bottom with the hot salt water, and then towelled him dry.

"Off my lap, Gordon. I'm sending a note to your form master telling him you will standing in disgrace outside the infirmary for the rest of the morning. You can catch up with your lessons later."

He stood before her, mortified and shivering.

"Put on your shirt, Gordon. And button it up"

She watched as he struggled into it, hurrying lest he incur further punishment.

"Come here."

She rucked up both shirt and vest and hoisted them over his shoulders. Then, placing her hand on the nape of his neck, she propelled him forward out through the infirmary.

"You can choose whether to face the wall exposing your bottom to the world or face forward, showing off what little boys have between their legs. The choice is yours."

And with a face wet, and cheeks red with shame, he turned his face to the wall.

Chapter 20

Mrs Lavington ran her eye down her list. There was Preuss and the other boy to deal with; a chat with William's form master; and Samuel who was to report to her in his lunch break. But first she would do a quick round of the infirmary.

"Well, Mrs Simmonds, how are the patients today?"

"Making good progress, Matron. Simpson can be discharged this morning, but Prewitt's fever is taking some time to abate and his throat is still very inflamed."

Mrs Lavington placed her hand on the boy's brow. It was hot and sticky. He looked up at her. His eyes were blue and his face flushed.

"Yes, you are still quite hot, Prewitt. A cool hand on your brow must be very welcome."

"Yes, Matron. Thank you, Matron."

She smiled. There was something very touching about small boys confined to the infirmary. Prewitt, she knew, could be a difficult child and was often in trouble.

"And although it's unpleasant to have a fever, Prewitt, you are at least being kept out of mischief. At least, as long as you obey infirmary rules."

She turned to the other boy.

"And how is your sprained ankle, today, Simpson?"

"It . . . it seems much better . . . Matron."

"Good. You'll soon be ready to hobble off back to your lessons, then?"

"Yes, Matron."

"Would you remind me, Mrs Simmonds, how Simpson sprained his ankle?"

"Certainly, Matron. He tripped while running in a corridor."

"Is that right, Simpson?"

"Yes . . . Matron."

"But I thought it was forbidden to run in the corridors?"

She waited, but the boy refused to catch her eye.

"Well, is it forbidden, or not?"

"Yes, Matron."

"Yes, what, Simpson?"

"Yes, it is forbidden, Matron."

"So, you are in this infirmary because you broke a rule. If you had obeyed the rule, you would not be here. Is that right?"

"I . . . I suppose so, Matron."

The boy was flushed now. As hot and flushed as the fevered boy in the bed next to him.

"Well, Simpson, we are here to treat small boys who fall ill through no fault of their own. But your sprained ankle was wholly avoidable. You are here because of your disobedience."

She paused, looking at the small, anxious boy before her.

"So, I am afraid you will need to pay for your treatment."

He looked dumbfounded.

"And what charge do you think we should levy, Simpson. In the cottage hospital you would pay a lot of money for this sort of care."

"But . . . but I haven't any money . . . Matron."

"I know, Simpson. But there's no need for money. The cost is quite within your means. And good value given the excellent treatment you've received from Mrs Simmonds. The charge is six strokes of the hairbrush for every night spent in the infirmary."

She turned to Mrs Simmonds.

"And how many nights has Simpson been here?"

"Two nights, Matron."

"And will he need a third night?"

"No, Matron. I am sure he will be able to cope if he returns to his lessons, this morning."

"So, Simpson, a small payment of twelve strokes of the hairbrush. See it is collected, Mrs Simmonds, before he departs."

Susan Simmonds smiled.

"Certainly, Matron."

Mrs Lavington left the infirmary and strode along the corridor to Edward Crawley's classroom. She knocked on the door and without waiting for a response opened it.

"Good morning, Mr Crawley. My apologies for interrupting. But would it be possible for Oliver Preuss to come to the infirmary, please?"

Mr Crawley frowned.

"Now, Mrs Lavington?"

"Yes, Mr Crawley. Now, please."

He nodded at the boy.

"Then off you go, Preuss. And straight back to the classroom when Matron had finished with you."

The boy was full of foreboding. He trotted along at Mrs Lavington's side, struggling to keep up as she strode along.

At the entrance to the infirmary, he couldn't avoid the sight of David Gordon, facing the wall with his wealed bottom bare and on display. As Mrs Lavington placed her hand around his shoulder, ushering him through the door, she felt his trembling. Once in the inner sanctum of her large office, she pulled out a chair.

"Sit down, Oliver."

He sat, perplexed at being addressed by his Christian name.

"Oliver, did you see a boy outside the infirmary?"

"Ye . . . yes, Matron."

"And what did you notice about him?"

"He . . . he's been caned, Matron."

"Yes, Oliver. And do you know why he's been caned?"

The boy hesitated.

"N . . . no, Matron."

"Well, I'll tell you, Oliver. He lost his handkerchief."

The boy looked perplexed. He could understand a boy's being caned for losing his handkerchief, but not why Matron had brought him to the infirmary to tell him that. He looked at her blankly.

"But the handkerchief is no longer lost. We found it, Oliver. It was under his pillow. And it was damp and stained."

She studied the boy and noted his apprehension.

"So why do you think it was damp and stained, Oliver?"

"I . . . I don't know . . . Matron."

"No idea at all?"

"Perhaps he'd been blowing his nose, Matron."

"Now that is a very sensible suggestion, Oliver. But no. The handkerchief had a very strange salty smell to it. I don't think his nose was responsible."

She smiled.

"Come along Oliver. I am sure most boys would have some idea what was on the handkerchief."

Preuss felt his face reddening and a tight band across his chest.

"Oliver, you look very hot and uncomfortable. Would you like to remove your jacket?"

"No, Matron. Please I'm all right, Matron."

"Well, I think you should. Take of your jacket and hang it on the back of the chair."

Reluctantly he stood up and did as she bid.

"Sit down, Oliver."

She smiled.

"You see there's a possible clue in the fact that the owner of the handkerchief is standing outside the infirmary with a soundly caned bottom."

She waited.

"I don't think boys get caned like that for blowing their noses, do they?"

"No, Matron."

"Oliver, you do look very hot. It might be best if you were to have a cold shower."

"No, Matron. Please, I'm all right. Truly."

"Well, I think otherwise.

"No, Matron . . . please. I don't need a shower."

"Oliver, I will be the judge of that. If I say you need a cold shower, then that is what you need. So off with your clothes. Hang them over the chair."

He began to open his mouth but she gently placed a finger over his lips.

"No more argument, Oliver. Do as I say."

Slowly, he undressed until he stood naked before her.

"Sit down. I'm sure you feel cooler and more comfortable without your clothes. You may have the shower in a moment. Now, where were we? Oh yes, I was asking if you had any idea what the salty stain might be on Gordon's handkerchief. And why he was caned."

"No, Matron. I . . . I haven't."

She reached forward and took his hand and pressed it gently in hers.

"But I am sure you have, Oliver. You see it's the same sort of staining that boys sometimes get on their pyjamas."

He sat very still. She squeezed his hand.

"Have your pyjamas ever been stained like that, Oliver?"

"I . . . I'm not sure what you mean . . . Matron."

"Don't you, Oliver. It's the sort of staining that happens when small boys rub that little thing hanging between their legs."

She reached forward and held his small penis between her finger and thumb.

"Rub it, until it spurts blobs of stickiness."

She smiled and squeezed his hand again.

"Do you do that, Oliver? Rub this until it spurts and stains your pyjamas?"

His face was flaming. Indeed, his whole body seemed to be blushing at the searching, shameful questioning. He hung his head.

"Oliver, you have the look of a guilty boy."

Again, she squeezed his hand encouragingly. He felt the tears pricking at his eyes. To a boy without home and family, the warmth and concern in her voice and the physical closeness of her presence was deeply affecting.

"Are you going to deny what you have done, Oliver? Or would you like to confess it and be forgiven?"

He was crying now, a small naked boy, his hand in hers, clinging to her.

"I . . . I'm sorry Matron . . . Please, I'm . . . I’m sorry."

"I'm sure you are, Oliver. And I'm here to help you. You wouldn't be the first small boy who's needed such help. There's no need to cry."

Again, she squeezed his hand. He was shivering now.

"Let's have that shower and then we can have a little talk."

He walked self-consciously over to the shower and stepped into it.

"Raise your arms, Oliver. Back toward me, please."

She picked up the hose. He gasped as the cold water gushed over his shoulders and down his back.

"Bend forward and hold your ankles.

A jet of freezing water was directed between his buttocks.

"And now turn around."

She hosed down his chest and then played the fierce stream of water over his small penis and scrotum. His hand went down defensively to cover them.

"Hands away, please, Oliver. And keep them above your head."

When she had finished, she fetched a straight-backed upright chair and placed it by the shower. Then, picking up a large white towel, sat in the chair with the towel over her lap. She beckoned to him.

He stood beside her, dripping and anxious.

(End of File)