Cordelia Lavington 41 to 50

By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

Copyright 2023 by Governess, all rights reserved

Chapter 41



She had been a sensuous child from an early age, and had delighted in witnessing her brothers’ punishment, particularly of Charles who was two years her junior. Her mother was an accomplished disciplinarian who took the boy’s dressage seriously. Each occasion of discipline was prefaced by a slow refined process in which his buoyant self-assertiveness was steadily eroded by skilful interrogation. Like a Greek tragedy that unfolds to its inevitable conclusion, so did her mother’s disciplining of Charles. And it was the whole enactment that she enjoyed. Often, she knew of his naughtiness or disobedience before her mother and then sometimes she would inform on him, not blatantly, but by letting a word or indication slip, seemingly without intention. She was a moral child and knew he deserved punishment and saw nothing wrong in being the agent of his downfall. And given the rightness of his correction, she could see nothing wrong in savouring its unfolding. And just as a favourite story gain by its end being anticipated, so it was for Cordelia as she watched each step of her brother’s discipline.

She recalled a time when Charles, displaying an unwelcome greed at breakfast, had been forbidden anything other than bread and water for the remainder of the day. Her mother had slipped next door for ten minutes to speak to Mrs Atkinson in the adjacent cottage, and Charles had taken a jar of strawberry jam from the cupboard and dipped his finger in it several times, savouring the forbidden sweetness. She had felt a quiver of excitement run through her at his disobedience. She watched as he hurriedly returned the jar to the cupboard fearing his mother’s return; but a small blob of jam had already fallen to the floor. Cordelia felt her heart racing as her mother entered the kitchen. She waited to see whether her mother would notice the evidence of wrongdoing. After five minutes she could barely contain herself.

‘Please Maman, why is there a spot of jam on the floor?’

Her mother looked to where she was pointing, and frowned. Then Charles had been summoned to the kitchen.

‘Can you explain, Charles, why there is jam on the floor?’

‘No, Mother.’

‘Well, have you been eating jam? Perhaps while I was with Mrs Atkinson?’

‘No, Mother. You said I could only have bread and water.’

‘True. But a boy who is forbidden anything other than bread and water is going to find jam very tempting. Is that not so?’

‘I . . . I suppose so, Mother.’

She had looked at him with a frown on her brow. And then she had walked to the cupboard and opened it. Cordelia had held her breath, her pulse racing. Her mother had given a grim smile.

‘Show me the jam, Charles.’

He pointed to it.

‘And is that where the jam is usually to be found, beside the coffee?’

‘I . . . I think so . . . Mother.’

Well, you are mistaken, mon petit. It lives to the right of the cake tin.’

She paused.

‘So why is it in the wrong place beside the coffee?’

Cordelia felt a tightness in her chest as the cord of discipline tightened around the boy.

‘I . . . I’m not sure . . . Mother.’

‘Well, I am, Charles. Hold out your hands.’

Reluctantly he did so. She held his right hand by the wrist and examined it.

‘And this finger is sticky, Charles. The finger you must have dipped in the jam before sucking it.’

She paused.

‘So, tell me what happens to small disobedient boys who tell untruths?’

Charles had hung his head, and her mother had turned to her.

‘Well, Cordelia, perhaps you can enlighten him?”

Cordelia could hear a pounding in her ears.

‘They are . . . spanked . . . Mother.’

And her mother had reached out and, placing her hand under her son’s chin, had tilted his head back. He shivered as he looked into her eyes.

‘Yes, Charles, spanked. Spanked on bare flesh with my hairbrush until they are squirming and howling.’

She paused.

‘But you were not only disobedient and untruthful, were you, Charles. You were a thief who stole forbidden fruit.’

She paused, looking at her seven-year-old son.

‘And for that you will be birched.’

She remembered how pale her brother had looked, biting his lip, his eyes dark and unblinking. Her mother had fetched the hairbrush from the dresser and passed it to her to hold while she stripped the boy of his breeches and bared him for punishment. Then he had gone over her lap and received une bonne fessée déculottée. The spanking was given without a word. Without explanation. For her mother believed none was needed. That just as the Word of God had become flesh and shared our grief and sorrow for our salvation, so now her word became a painful and saving reality in the flesh of her son as he lay writhing over her knee. All that was necessary was obedience. Slowly, and with measured intent, two dozen strokes were imprinted on his small, compact bottom. Even at four, he had been schooled not to scream and howl in defiance, but as the agony increased and overwhelmed him, he roared in his torment.

He had then been made to stand in the corner, a small, sodden boy, his bottom red and inflamed, awaiting his further punishment. He had been left in shame and disgrace for over an hour and during that time a birch rod had been bound up. Then, Cordelia had then been sent to ask Mrs Atkinson whether she could assist in the punishment of a naughty little boy.

Mrs Atkinson had sat on an upright chair with the boy stretched diagonally across her lap, his head secured firmly under her arm. And her mother had slowly swished three dozen vigorous strokes across the boy’s thighs and his already sore, inflamed buttocks. Cordelia had watched with a flushed face and a pain in her chest.

And now as a mother she had the privilege of administering such discipline herself. She flexed the cane appreciatively. Twenty-four strokes to which had been added a further twelve for rudeness and arguing. She swished the cane through the air. William tensed and there was a sharp intake of breath as he awaited the first agonising cut. She tapped the cane across his bottom.

“Three dozen strokes is a severe punishment for a boy of your age, William, but you have brought it on yourself. My advice is to learn from it so that no repetition is necessary.”

She raised the cane and brought it swishing down. There was that unmistakeable whooshing noise followed by a plump smack as it impacted on the boy’s firm flesh. Cordelia glanced at her daughter. Elizabeth was watching wide eyed with her mouth slightly open. Again, the cane was raised and another stroke administered. William struggled to control his screams, for uninhibited screaming was regarded as wilful dissent and subject to additional punishment. But by the twelfth stroke he was howling and writhing in agony. His mother stepped back. She had not spared him. Already the cuts of the rattan were clearly visible on his flesh. That his hands were still tucked down the side of the chair gave her almost as much pleasure as the marks of her discipline. It showed how well she had schooled him to accept bodily correction.

She remembered the first time she had read Wuthering Heights. How the book demanded to be read and how difficult it was to put down. And yet the insistent craving to read on was balanced by the desire to make the pleasure of the tale last forever. And so, she had shut the book, having marked the place, and refused to open it until the next day. And the pleasure of waiting, the pleasure of containing her desire, was itself deeply pleasurable. She looked at her seven-year-old son, writhing over the arm of the chair. He had been promised three dozen cuts of the cane and expected them to be given as a single continuous correction. And part of her wanted to continue the flogging, to place further cuts on his red and quivering flesh until he was truly broken and sobbing. But then again, the pleasure of keeping him under sentence, fearfully awaiting the resumption of his punishment, warmly commended itself. It would add to his torment while at the same time adding to her pleasure.

She tapped the cane against his bottom.

“You may get up, William. You have been punished enough. For the moment. Sit at the table and start your homework. You will receive a further dozen cuts before bed and the balance of the punishment will be given tomorrow before school.”

He sat gingerly on the hard, upright chair. The edge rubbed painfully against the backs of his welted thighs, and the seat itself gave no relief from the throbbing cuts of the cane.

“And what has Mr Greaves set for this evening?”

The boy was still gulping back tears and was in considerable pain. He found it difficult to concentrate.

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Mother.”

“Pull yourself together, William. I have postponed the better part of your caning. Get out your homework, see what has been set, and start it immediately. You are in enough trouble as it is.”

Slowly, he opened his satchel and took out his exercise book. Fighting his tears, he stared at the page.

“Well, what has Mr Greaves set you?”

“Some sums, please Mother.”

“Then you’d better get started on them. And I am expecting every one to be right.”

The boy stared hopelessly at the book. He had had to copy out ten problems from the blackboard and now had to solve them. He read the first one and his heart sank. He sucked the end of his pencil and frowned.

“You don’t seem to be making much progress, William. What is the matter?”

“Please, Mother, I don’t understand what I have to do.”

Mrs Lavington sighed.

“Is that because you were inattentive in class, William? I have warned you what the consequences of inattention are.”

She paused.

“A boy who is inattentive fails to learn. That is the first consequence and a very serious one. The second is more immediate and painful: he is punished to encourage him to listen attentively so that he learns in future.”

She reached out and took the book from him and studied it for a moment.

“What Mr Greaves has done is to describe certain groups of things and then asks you how many things are in each group. Do you understand?”

He hesitated.

“I . . . I think so, Mother.”

“Well, I will explain and you will listen and you will give me your whole attention. Then you will answer the questions Mr Greaves has set and if there are any mistakes, any mistakes at all, I will have to conclude you were not listening to me and not making a real effort to understand. All of this is well within your ability, William.”

She smoothed her skirt as she sat down.

“Take the first question: a lady bought six apples, three pears, four oranges and three potatoes. (a) How many things did she buy? (b) how many fruits did she buy? (c) how many vegetables did she buy? And (d) how many round shaped fruits did she buy?”

She looked at the boy.

“All you have to do is read the question carefully and then answer the questions.”

She tapped the book with a pencil.

“So, what about the first question: how many things did she buy? Well?

“Didn’t she buy . . . everything, Mother?”

“Yes, the apples the pears, the oranges and the potatoes. Add up those and you have the answer. So, write the quantities down as a sum, under each other, and then add them up.”

He did so and eventually wrote sixteen.

“Good, William. That is correct. But now within that total of everything there are smaller groups that make up the total. And what Mr Greaves is asking is how many things are in some of those smaller groups. For example, the second question asks how many fruits were bought. So, which are the fruits?”

He sucked the end of his pencil.

“Please don’t suck your pencil, William. You’re not a baby. Look at the list. Which are the fruits?”

“The apples . . . and the pears and the oranges.”

“Good. So how many of each are there. Write them out as a sum and then add them up.”

Again, he got the answer right and was commended.

“So now you can continue on your own. I’m not here to do your homework for you? Read carefully, think about the sort of things there are in each group, and then answer carefully.”

She smiled.

“And after that explanation and advice, I certainly expect you to get every question right.”

She watched as he settled down to his evening assignment. He was an attractive child, with his soft brown hair and firm robust body. That he was still able to be spanked across her knee was a delight that she knew she must enjoy while it lasted. Not that there was not also a distinctive pleasure in caning him when additional severity was required. Those long swishy strokes that cut and scored his flesh were often the only sure way to bring a stubborn child to heel: to that surrender of will that was the desired outcome of discipline.

And as an army commander might regret the necessity of war but still feel a sense of elation at the abject defeat of the enemy, so did Mrs Lavington when a child sobbing and contrite accepted her rule and bowed his head in submission. But unlike a general in battle, a mother was opposing not merely flesh and blood. A child was conceived and borne in sin and from the earliest years fought to assert his will against his mother’s God-given authority. It was not only his angry refusal but his reluctance to learn from repeated correction that marked him out as a sinner. Some she knew questioned the efficacy of whipping saying that if whipping worked it would not need to be repeated, but such an opinion she held in derision. Sin was not so easily exorcised. And repeated punishment, combined with an increase in severity, was necessary if a child’s recalcitrance was to be broken.

For severity was at the heart of a child’s discipline. A punishment had to leave a child with a red and smarting bottom and a face flushed and wet with tears. Anything less was an affront to the God who had commanded such chastisement. But discipline was more than just beating a child, but in the imposition of the mother’s will expressed in a wholesome and efficacious correction. A will that grasped the child in its embrace, and left him in no doubt as to his mother’s commitment to his discipline. The visible weals raised by unthinking brutality might have a similar appearance but spiritually they were as different as murder from lawful execution.

In God, severity and love found their most perfect expression, and a parent had to strive similarly to reflect that. Severity was not the antithesis of love but a love refined for a purpose. Love was never vague and sentimental, but a hard focussed act that reached out to the child for his benefit, whatever the cost. And a mother’s readiness to take up the rod of correction was an expression of her love: a willingness to break a stubborn will and to render a child open not only to her love but to his Father in Heaven.

She looked at the clock.

“Time to finish homework, children. Samuel, let me see how you have done.”

She ran her eye over his work.

“That is very good, Samuel. Well done. I am very pleased with you. And I am sure Mr Crawley will be, too.”

She then turned to her younger son.

“And let me see your work, William.”

She looked through it, and frowned.

“This is very untidy and not at all well done. And that’s particularly disappointing after the help I gave you. I can only assume you were not listening and giving me your full attention.”

She sighed.

“As you’re already to receive another caning before bed, we’ll say no more about it. But I can assure you that there will be one small boy sleeping on his stomach tonight, that’s for sure.”

She ruffled his head.

“So put away your homework, William, and straight up to your room. And no need for pyjama trousers. When I come up, I want to see you in just your pyjama top and standing face to the wall. Do you understand? Off you go.”

She turned to her daughter.

“And your homework, Elizabeth? How was that?”

“It was fine, Mother. I had no problems with any of it.”

“Good. You may read for half an hour before bed. And so may you Samuel.”

She picked up the cane and went into her small study, leaving the two children to play until they had to go upstairs for prayers and bed. Her study was a sanctuary where no child was allowed. It was where she prayed and read her Bible, and where, at the end of the day when all the children were settled down, she would sit and relax in the comfortable armchair. There was a double shelf running along one wall on which were kept some of her favourite books. Among them was The Management of Girls by Eugenia Strang and its companion volume The Management and Discipline of Boys. It was this latter volume that she took from the shelf. She greatly admired Eugenia Strang’s style. It was direct and unfussy, yet elegant and often arresting. She had acquired it when Samuel was still a toddler, realising that the foundation of discipline needed to be laid early on, just as it had been for her and her two brothers. The book opened at the chapter entitled The Sins of Boys. She smoothed the pages and began to read.



Chapter 42



The Sins of Boys

Any parent or governess who has had the pleasure of raising both boys and girls will know that the sins of boys have a character distinct from that of girls. Without doubt all children can be rude, disobedient and untruthful, and deserving of the rod, but underlying these failings are differences of substance that must not be ignored otherwise effective discipline will be impaired.

I have written elsewhere of how a girl may seem to be possessed of a more obedient spirit than a boy, but how that often arises from her eschewing open rebellion out of fear of losing the esteem of her mother or governess while she harbours dissent and a disobedient spirit in her heart. With a boy it is different. He has little concern for maintaining the good opinion of adults and is driven by a wilful and greedy self-interest that he has little compunction about displaying.

In the Biblical account of the Fall these deep-seated differences are already apparent and we may learn from them. The Woman is eager to please the Serpent and to accede to his suggestion that she should eat from the Tree. She is flattered by his attention. She then seeks to win the favour of the Man by offering the fruit to him. And He? He too eats. Unquestioningly and greedily, taking what is offered. And each receives an appropriate punishment. Just as she has opened herself to the Serpent, so in future opening herself to a man will lead to the pain and agony of childbirth. And from thenceforth she will be ruled by the Man. And the Man for his greed in thoughtlessly taking the fruit that was offered will in future take no fruit from the ground without sweat and hard labour. And the lives of both of them are to be constrained by death.

Sin from the outset was harshly punished. And so it must be with our children. Never must they escape deserved punishment. And these primal sins of the Woman and the Man reveal to us the root of sin in each.

For a girl, her absorption in her appearance and her attractiveness, her eagerness to win the favour of others and to be praised and accepted, here is the root of her sinning; and punishment must never be withheld or remitted, despite the sometimes superficial charm of her behaviour. But our concern here is not with girls, but with boys and their sins. So how do we apply the lessons to be learnt from Adam’s sin and his punishment?

The question has to be asked why the Serpent did not tempt Adam first rather than Eve. And the answer is not difficult to discern. Adam had a self-sufficiency that Eve lacked. He would have taken the fruit for himself and with the knowledge it conferred have built a kingdom. He would not have offered the fruit to Eve as she had to him. The Serpent knew that if both were to fall, he had to beguile Eve first and use her to achieve the downfall of Adam and the ruination of our world.

And in the smallest boy we see the same sinful self-sufficiency from which all his sins arise. He has a disregard for others. He is deeply selfish in a way that a girl is not. He is greedy and acquisitive. He has little regard for truth if a lie is to his advantage. He is restive under restraint and has no respect for any rules set to govern his behaviour. In short, he is imbued with a spirit of wilful disobedience. And increasingly, pleasure rather than duty rules him, and unless restrained by severe punishment, the sin of self-abuse will exhaust and prostrate him both physically and morally.

And a mother’s response to this should be as the response of God to the primal sin of our forefather Adam. He decreed that Adam’s life would be painful and hard, that nothing would be achieved without sweat and hard labour. As we read in the Book of Genesis:

“In the sweat of your face shall you eat bread, till you return unto the ground; for out of it were you taken: for dust you are, and unto dust shall you return.”

And similarly for a small boy: no respite should be allowed from hard work and application; no relaxation in the demands of strict obedience; unrelenting discipline should be applied that limits his life and the opportunity to sin; and there should be the imposition of severe physical chastisement that provides a taste of the agony of Hell awaiting those who die unrepentant.

As the aim of my writings is to provide practical rather than theoretical guidance, I will now set out some examples of how, as a governess, I have myself responded to these demands.

Between his first and second years, a boy should be taught the meaning of the word ‘no’, and when it is spoken quietly and authoritatively, he should cease whatever activity he is engaged in. Should he ignore your command or be slow to comply, several sharp smacks on a bare thigh should be given and the word repeated. That process should continue until there is compliance.

Soon after the age of two, a boy should be expected to come when called, to sit quietly when told to do so, and, certainly by the age of three, to stand in silence as a discipline with his hands behind his back. As soon a boy is trained to the chamber pot, true spankings should commence, and these should be applied with vigour and unstintingly. As soon as he begins to talk, he should be made to repeat back to his mother the few simple rules he has been given until they are well and truly learned. This process may result in tears and resentment but on no account should these be tolerated. A spanking, followed by standing face to the wall for five minutes, should normally be sufficient to re-establish concentration. If not, further spankings should be given until there is compliance. The learning process should then recommence and continue until the boy is word-perfect.

As the boy grows older more should be demanded of him and rules should be written out and displayed prominently in both the schoolroom and in his bedroom. And they should be learned by heart. An example of such rules for a five-year old might be:

1. Wash, dress, and be down for breakfast by 7 o’clock.

2. Be polite, and be respectful of adults at all times.

3. Always tell the truth and answer truthfully whenever questioned.

4 Obey immediately when instructed by an adult.

5. Be always hard-working and diligent.

For an older boy, of say ten, additional rules might relate to particular duties and responsibilities he has been set; and particular sins that are to be scrupulously avoided. For example,

6. Make your bed in the morning and tidy your bedroom before evening prayers

7. Write legibly and neatly at all times

8. Do not abuse yourself

Every time I add a rule, I insist that both it and all the rules to which it is an addition are written out twenty times. Thereafter, the new set of rules are re-numbered and written out neatly for display.

From time to time, a boy should be asked, without prior notice, to repeat a rule at random: “John repeat for me Rule 3 of the Rules you have been given”. If there is any hesitation or error, the boy should be soundly spanked and made to sit and write out all the rules again twenty times, and be advised that he will be re-tested on the morrow.

The temptation to leniency while rules are still fresh and recently given should be studiously resisted. Indeed, it is at this point that firmness and severity are particularly required. The sooner the rules are firmly committed to memory, the sooner the boy has the opportunity to obey. And if for every disobedience he is soundly spanked, the sooner he will acquire an acceptable standard of behaviour.

It should be recognised that what the rules confer on a boy, from the outset, is a knowledge of sin. As the Apostle Paul says, “I had not known sin, but by the law: for I had not known lust, except the law had said, thou shalt not covet.” And so with a boy. If he has been told to wash, dress, and have his bed made and be down for breakfast by seven o’clock, then, if he fails to wash or forgets to make his bed or is down for breakfast at one minute past 7 o’clock, he has disobeyed and has fallen into sin and is without excuse.

And this appreciation informs the whole routine of discipline that should govern a boy’s life. Once a law has been given to a child, however young, it must be rigorously enforced. As the Apostle Paul says, the law is righteous. It embodies the will of God expressed through his mother’s nurturing concern. A child’s disobedience is an affront to God not just because wrong has been done but because of the disrespect shown to his mother’s word. I recall my sister scribbling on a page of the Family Bible. It was only a small mark but she was soundly spanked for the disrespect she had shown to the Holy Scriptures that are the source of our life in Christ. And for a small boy, his mother’s word is the source of his life within the family, and disrespect for her role of law-giver is a grave sin that strikes at the very heart of God’s providential love.

I would say, without a moment’s hesitation, that unless a child’s nursery law is accompanied by discipline expressed through bodily chastisement, it is worthless. No mother should underestimate the value and the profoundly beneficial consequences of whipping a boy who has chosen disobedience over obedience.

First, a whipping marks out for the child that his conduct is reprehensible. At one level, it simply reinforces the law as given and says to the child “This is wrong”. Let no mother think that once she has taught a child a moral rule that that rule, even if remembered, has anything other than a weak and negligible hold on a child’s conduct. His will is fatally weakened by sin and although lip service may be paid to “mother’s rules”, the claims of his own will and desires are inevitably going to prevail over yours. A boy will regard your wishes for him as of little consequence unless they are reinforced and made real for him by punishment.

Second, the pain of the punishment that follows disobedience must far outweigh the pleasure gained. A boy who knows that stealing a bonbon will only incur an ineffectual scolding is unlikely to be deterred from sinning. But if he is confident that such theft will result in a sound spanking that leaves a smarting bottom and a tear-stained face, he will think twice before indulging himself.

But thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, the severity of the punishment is a measure of the seriousness of the offence. All sin is an affront to God and all disobedience to a mother’s rules should be punished, but not all sin is equal in its seriousness or in the harm it may do. A lie to avoid punishment is more serious than an untruth told in a game, but such a distinction only becomes real for a child when it is reflected in punishment. A boy who lies out of self-interest should have his nether garments removed and be spanked with the back of a hairbrush until he is sobbing and writhing in agony. Only then will he truly know how unacceptable such lying is. Just as God took human flesh and revealed his justice in the suffering of his Son, so also does a mother’s law become real and effectual in the bared and quivering flesh of her own son when he is whipped for his sinful transgressions.

It cannot be emphasised enough that such loving and transforming suffering should be at the heart of a mother’s nurturing care for a boy from his earliest years. And this for many reasons.

First, the rod breaks down a boy’s arrogance and self-satisfaction. It should be a visible presence in the household and a boy should view it with the utmost trepidation knowing full well, that should he break his mother’s law, it will be taken down and applied vigorously to his bare flesh. Shakespeare in his play Measure for Measure rightly warns against fond parents who

Having bound up the threat'ning twigs of birch,
Only to stick it in their children's sight
For terror, not to use, in time the rod
Becomes more mock'd than fear'd.

The rod is not merely for display but for use. I would rarely birch a boy before his seventh year, preferring for younger boys a sound spanking with the hairbrush. But I have noticed that when the transition is made from nursery to schoolroom discipline, there is a tendency to apply the rod with a hesitancy that would have been unthinkable with a hairbrush. As a consequence, a birching becomes little more than tickling up a boy as an encouragement to good behaviour. But no boy whatever his age is going to respond positively to mere encouragement. His will needs to be confronted and broken if a change in his behaviour, and more importantly in attitude, is to be achieved. Around the age of seven, the sin living in a boy’s heart takes on a new strength and determination and the whole purpose of the birch is to confront this and deal with it. But this it will only succeed if administered with resolve and the firm intention to punish and punish severely.

The birch should consist of six of eight switches, freshly cut and bound up to two thirds of their length. At the bound end, each should be about half an inch in diameter, while the end that is of greater interest to the boy should splay out into a whippy tracery that is tough and flexible. It should be used with a confident wristy action to cut and score bare flesh until the boy is screaming, and writhing like a cut worm. I am sometimes told that such punishment will inevitably break the skin and draw blood, as though that were something to be avoided. But such reluctance is foolish sentimentality. A boy often sustains injury when pleasing himself in his games and play. How much more acceptable is it that he should shed a little blood in a punishment that cleanses and reforms.

And the work of disciplining a boy should be undertaken willing and with diligence. That a mother is confronting sin in her child should be an encouragement to apply the rod with vigour. And if she finds a real visceral pleasure in administering the rod to firm, bare bottom flesh, this should occasion no surprise. It is God’s way of ensuring that a mother does not shirk her duty but embraces it with relish, applying frequent and severe discipline for the containment and forgiveness of sin.

Sometimes I am asked what constitutes an adequate chastisement. First, the severity should be commensurate with the offence. Secondly, no chastisement should be something a boy can laugh off: even for a small offence it should leave him red and smarting, deeply contrite and dreading a repetition. Thirdly, where greater severity is required, this should be provided in such a way as to maximise the pain suffered and the humiliation undergone. Additional strokes on flesh already numbed by a sound whipping should be avoided. Instead, stand the boy on a low stool with his whipped posteriors exposed to view, both to shame him and to allow inflamed flesh to regain its sensitivity. After an hour resume the whipping until he is howling and pleading for remission: and heed the scripture “Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying”.

I now wish to say something about the heinous sin of self-abuse to which all boys without exception are tempted. And let there be no doubt that it is a sin and a grievous one. If what I say offends by its directness, I offer no apology. The matter is too important for circumlocution or euphemistic expression.

A boy is by disposition greedy and, like his forefather Adam, ruled by self rather than duty. From an early age, he will seek to satisfy his animal instincts and give himself to idle play. And it is the parents’ responsibility to curb such behaviour. As the 17^thcentury divine, Richard Baxter, wrote in his little treatise on The Duties of Parents to their Children:

“If therefore you love either the souls or bodies of your children, habituate them to temperance from their infancy, and let not their appetites or cravings rule them.”

Although it is relatively easy to control a child’s eating habits and to punish self-indulgence, the same is not true of masturbation. A child who steals chocolates from the box is soon found out, but a boy who yields to the temptation to masturbate is not so easily discovered. I have known boys as young as seven engage in the practice of masturbation; and at that age, with no seminal emission, it is difficult to detect. Certainly, by the age of ten all boys will be sorely tempted to masturbate and most will succumb. However, around that age or soon thereafter, seminal emissions commence and detection becomes easier, and punishment more assured.

Masturbation expresses in an acute way the deep sinfulness of a boy’s nature. All self-indulgence is sinful but a boy who masturbates becomes more and more obsessed with his own body and his own pleasure. It soon becomes an all-consuming passion and the more he masturbates the more exhausted he becomes. He cannot concentrate; his schoolwork suffers; and he becomes tired and bad-tempered. He is utterly focussed on his own pleasure to the exclusion of all else. In short, masturbation is the very antithesis of love which reaches out to others and seeks to bless them. It is instead a devilish path that leads only to destruction. And this is a path all boys are tempted to take and on which most embark unless deterred by loving and consistent discipline. And let no one believe that a boy is easily deterred other than by the most severe and unremitting punishment.

It may be helpful if I iterate some of the steps I have myself taken to crush and expunge this habit. I recall a ten-year old boy called Nicholas whom I had been appointed to govern because of a lack of application in his studies. I suspected that the problem was an enslavement to masturbation and listening outside his room after settling him down for the night, this was soon confirmed: the movement of his bed, his quickened breathing, and finally the shuddering gasp as he wasted his seed. Straightway, I entered. The schoolroom cane was already in my hand as I confronted him. His eyes dilated in horror, and he pulled up the sheets to cover his face. With a swift movement I stripped back the bedclothes and pulled up his nightshirt. The sticky emission was clearly visible just below his navel.

Almost immediately there was a stuttering apology.

“And how often do you do this, Nicholas?”

He was reluctant to answer and I placed the tip of the cane underneath his scrotum and lifted it.

“When I ask a boy a question, Nicholas, I expect an answer. Let me repeat the question: how often do you do this?

“P . . . please Miss Strang, not very often.”

“And what is ‘not very often’? Do you mean once a week?”

“Please, Miss Strang, not even once a week. Please.”

He gasped as I dug the cane into his scrotal sac.

“I don’t believe you, Nicholas. A boy who has discovered the delights of masturbation rarely limits himself to so infrequent an indulgence.”

I stepped back and ran the slender length of crook-handled rattan through my hand. He was unable to hold my gaze and cast his eyes down. I spoke softly with no anger in my voice.

“You do it before you rise in the morning, don’t you, Nicholas? And again, when you clamber into bed at night. And if you have the opportunity, you do it during the day, too. Isn’t that right?”

He bit his lip and tears pricked at his eyes. His reply was a small, choking whisper.

“Yes, Miss Strang.”

“Yes, Nicholas. And I am here to help you break this disgusting and debilitating habit.”

I ran the cane through my hand, and then flexed it in front of him. His breathing became short and anxious.

“So, tell me, Nicholas, why do I call it a “disgusting” habit? Well?”

He looked down.

“I . . . I’m not sure, Miss Strang.”

“You see nothing “disgusting” about it? Playing with yourself until you spurt thick sticky mess all over the bed sheets and over your nightshirt? Reducing yourself to a small, grunting animal? Aware of nothing but the satisfaction of your own sensual greed, like a piglet wallowing in the trough. Utterly without shame.”

He looked at me, his eyes heavy with tears.

“P . . . please, I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . Miss Strang.”

“And do you realise how debilitating and weakening such behaviour is? How it saps your energy. Your resolve to apply yourself to work. How it damages your health. How you might even go blind through such indulgence. Do you want to go blind, Nicholas?”

“No . . . No, Miss Strang.”

“Then you must be helped. This noxious habit must be broken. Get out of bed and remove your nightshirt. Use it to wipe that disgusting stickiness from your stomach.”

I placed his bolster half way down the bed and instructed him to lie across it, raising his small compact buttocks for the rod. And I caned him, administering twenty slow swishy strokes that raised weals on his soft little bottom and thighs and reduced him to a sobbing squirming baby. When I returned him to bed, without his nightshirt, I tethered his hands to the bedhead and continued to do so nightly until I had some confidence that the habit had been broken.

Another technique I commend is to make a boy who indulges in such bestial behaviour sleep on the floor like a dog lying on a thin blanket. I used this with good effect for a boy called Robert who was completely enslaved to the habit of masturbation. Within his sight, on the back of the door, I hung a thick, flexible leather dog whip, and warned him it would be used to punish him if, in the morning, there was any sign of mess on the blanket or indeed anywhere else.

“If you behave like an animal, Robert, then you will be treated like one.”

Cordelia put down the book, and felt guilty that she was not addressing the issue of Samuel’s masturbation with greater resolution. She thought of how her mother had punished her brothers for masturbating. How her mother had shared Miss Strang’s disgust and concern at such debilitating indulgence. And how that had been reflected in the methods used to discipline them. In smearing a chilli preparation on Clough’s and Graham’s penis and scrotum she had employed one of her mother’s techniques. But there were others. She recalled how Charles had been stripped of all his clothes and birched in the on the steps to the cottage,, and had then been made to stand with a notice hung around his neck declaring that he had been flogged for self-abuse.

She glanced at the clock. It was time to send William to his room for that further caning before settling him down for the night.

Chapter 43


Mrs Lavington picked up the cane and made her way to William’s room. She had been in her study reading and pondering on Eugenia Strang’s book for almost twenty minutes. As she mounted the stairs, she wondered whether the boy had heeded her command to undress and to stand face to the wall in his pyjama top. It wouldn’t have surprised her to find him seated on the floor playing with some toy and in need of yet further correction. And she was relieved to find him obediently standing as he’d been instructed, his pyjama top barely covering half his bottom.

“And how long have you been standing there, William?”

“F . . . from when I came up . . . Mother.”

“Is that true?

“Please, yes, Mother.”

“I hope you’re not lying. You know what happens to liars, don’t you, William?”

“No, Mother, no. It’s the truth. On my honour.”

“Turn around and face me”

He did so, pale and anxious.

“It gives me no satisfaction to have to cane you again before bed and to have to do so again in the morning before school. But it is necessary. You do understand that, don’t you, William?”

She paused.

“And why is it necessary?

He looked down.

“So why do I have to cane you again when you have already been caned. And caned severely? Well?”

He bit his lip.

“I’m waiting for an answer, William.”

“Be . . . because, I lied.”

He lowered his voice.

“And . . . and was rude.”

He cast his eyes down.

“Yes, William, you were spanked for neglecting your Bible reading. You’ve been caned for lying about that, pretending you’d read it when you hadn’t. And now you are to be caned for your second lie, for saying you hadn’t lied when you had. For each lie you need to be punished.”

He was almost on the point of tears. His mother sat on a chair and pulled him towards her and then wrapped an arm tenderly around his small pyjama clad body.

“Let me explain, William. It is one of God’s laws that, when we are naughty, we have to prove how sorry we are by accepting a punishment for what we’ve done wrong. Only then is God able to forgive us. And what he forgives is each individual act of naughtiness. So, we have to be punished for each one so that each may be forgiven. And it’s a mother’s duty under God to do that. To punish you in that way. So you can be forgiven. Do you understand?”

“Bu . . . but what happens if you . . . you don’t punish me.”

His voice dropped away.

“It . . . it hurts so much, Mama.”

She wrapped her arm more tightly around him.

“But I must punish you, William. If I don’t punish you, you can’t be forgiven and your sin remains. And if a sin isn’t forgiven, then instead of being judged and punished by me, you will be judged and punished by God and that means when you die, you’ll go to Hell and that is a terrible place where you will be punished forever.”

“But . . . but, Maman, Jesus has forgiven everyone . . . hasn’t he?”

“No, William. Jesus has not forgiven everyone. He died for everyone and he broke the power of the Devil and defeated him. But each of us must want to be forgiven and come to him. And when you are older, and have grown in understanding, it is my greatest prayer that you’ll do that. That you’ll come to know Jesus as your Lord and Saviour. But even then, if we sin, there is always punishment. The punishment that grown-ups receive is often very harsh. If they choose bad things then bad things happen to them to make them aware of the wrong they have done. But you are a child, and are rightly sheltered from the punishments that life can bring on a grown-up when he’s greedy and selfish and disobeys God. As a child, God has set me, as your mother, to rule over you, to give you a law that you must keep, and to punish you for every sin you commit. In that way, you can be forgiven and made acceptable to Our Heavenly Father.”

She paused, still holding him to her.

“It may be difficult for you to believe, William, but when I punish you, it is done in love. In whipping you I am loving you. I am teaching you right from wrong. I am breaking your will so that you may submit to mine and open your heart to forgiveness. And forgiveness will never be withheld.”

The seriousness with which she spoke frightened him and he buried his head in her lap. Then, he looked up at her, his eyes wet and his brow furrowed.

“B . . . but does it have to hurt so . . . so much?”

She drew him closer and he could feel her softness beneath his head.

“I’m afraid punishment has to hurt, William. It’s no good just tickling a boy’s tail. He’ll inwardly smile and be grateful that he’s avoided a proper punishment. No! Punishment has to be painful. It has to break his will and take him to the very limit of his endurance. Then, when his mother sets the rod aside, he is so grateful that the torment has ceased that he is ready to submit and to promise obedience and to declare himself ready to be forgiven.”

“And . . . and if he doesn’t”

She smiled.

“Then there is still work for the rod to do.”

She kissed him again, and stood up. In the corner of his bedroom was a low round stool. She picked it up and placed it more centrally into the room.

“Kneel before the stool, William, and bend across it. And place your hands flat against the floor.”

He whimpered as he did so, his small flat stomach pressed against the seat as he knelt on his hands and knees. His mother flexed the cane, appreciating once more its limber strength. She bent down and rucked his pyjama top up his back. As the first stroke cut into his already tortured flesh, there could be no doubting her commitment to his discipline. The boy roared as the tormenting pain radiated throughout his body and then slowly dissipated like the ripples on a pond. He waited, his breathing rough and anxious; and yet in the waiting there was the promise of the end that was not yet in sight. The next stroke was a burning wire searing into his bottom.

In her room Elizabeth lay in bed, her head raised from the pillow, listening to the muted howls of her brother. The tip of her tongue moistened her lips, while her hand was pressed against her pubic bone as she caressed herself. That her brothers’ punishments aroused her was simply accepted as a fact, and she felt no guilt about it. That William had been soundly caned already and was receiving further strokes on an already wealed and tender bottom stirred no compassion in her. Rather, there was a desperate urge to creep out and peer into his room, for her mother always left the door ajar on such occasions. But she knew better than to risk being discovered out of bed. William’s screams of agony reached a new pitch and then there was silence. She imagined him clutching at his bottom, quietly sobbing from the pain and the humiliation he had suffered. And then she remembered that her mother had promised him a further caning before school tomorrow. That thought, as she stroked and caressed herself, brought on that delicious shivery feeling that she loved so much. She rested her head back on the pillow and snuggled into it and soon fell asleep.

Mrs Lavington after settling William down, retired to her little study. She had left him sobbing inconsolably. She had kissed him goodnight and reminded him that there was a further caning to be given in the morning. He had pleaded with her to be spared further punishment but she had shaken her head.

“No, William. Remember what I said. Only when you have been fully punished for each sin can you be forgiven. You do want to be forgiven, don’t you?”

“Ye . . . yes, Mother.”

But as she sat in her study, she wondered whether she should spare him the severity of a further caning. Perhaps she should apply the strokes with less vigour. But that would make a mockery of the punishment and would, by the same token, be mocking the God who had commanded parents to apply the rod not just to signal disapproval but to cleanse from evil. And as the Book of Proverbs clearly said it was the blueness of a wound that did that. She picked up her Bible and began to read.

Upstairs in bed, William lay on his stomach. His cheek pressed against the dampness of his pillow, wet from his tears. He reached round with his hand and ran his fingers over his bottom. It was sore to his touch and he could feel the swelling and ridges raised by the cane. He knew he’d been naughty and deserved to be punished, and he felt a certain relief that for the moment it was over. He relaxed and soon fell asleep. And he was unaware of his mother gently lifting back the bedclothes as she examined his wealed bottom and thighs.

. . . .

The following morning Cordelia awoke early. The sun was shining through a crack in the curtains and she got up and drew them. Then, she dressed and went downstairs. She made a pot of tea and two slices of toast and looked at the clock. Already she was anticipating the thrashing that William would be given before school. Although she had considered whether to deal with him less severely, she was now firmly resolved to make no concessions to his already welted flesh. She would lay on the cane as it was meant to be laid on: hard, swishy strokes that reduced a boy to shuddering, tearful submission. For it was only such flogging that truly humbled a boy, that tore out the core of his self-will and rendered him compliant. And yet, she recognised, that like some evil boil the core was never completely removed and the remedy of the rod needed to be applied again and again. She decided that she would cane the boy as she had the night before, kneeling over the stool.

Entering his room, she found the boy already awake.

“Out of bed, William. And take off your pyjama trousers.”

Reluctantly he undid the cord and they slithered down to his ankles, leaving him bare and exposed, flushed and biting his lip.

“Step out of them, William and hang them over the end of the bed. And down to the living room, please.”

She picked up the stool.

“You’ve another trip over this, William. In case you’d forgotten.”

But he hadn’t forgotten. Indeed, he had woken from a disturbed sleep in the early hours of the morning, sobbing, his face and pillow wet with his tears. In his dream, he had been sent by Mrs Fairclough to his mother for not reading his Bible story. And this time it was the story of Noah and the flood. His mother had sent him back to Mrs Fairclough with a note asking her to punish him. He thought he was going to be birched but instead she had placed a tin bath before the whole school and made him lie in it completely naked. His head was resting on the bottom of the bath and he was fastened by the legs to the handles that were on each side. Looking up, he could see the rafters of the school hall far above him. Then Mrs Fairclough had said in a clear voice

This boy has disobeyed his mother and not read about the flood that God sent to punish wickedness. He must be drowned himself.

And then one by one all the boys in the school formed a long queue, and each emptied a full bladder into the bath in which he was secured. He retched at the bitter sickly smell, and slowly the level rose and there was a roaring sound in his ears. It had reached his mouth and nostrils, and he was choking and drowning. He screamed for his mother. And she came, lifting him out of the bath, hugging him and kissing him.

But you must be punished, William. There has to be punishment

And there was a terrible yowling and two grey cats were circling around him.

These cats are from the Ark of Noah, William. They have come to punish you and save you.

And he was tied over the stool, wet and naked, and the cats leapt at him. One was on his back scratching and clawing at his exposed bottom, reaching down and tearing at his anus, while the other was sinking its claws into his thighs and ripping the skin off in long strips. The blood was running down his urine-soaked legs and he was in a frenzy of agony.

No, Mother, no . . . . please no! I promise to be good. I’ll never be bad again. Please, no . . .

And as he turned to look at his mother, he saw she had the face of a cat.

He had woken crying and fearful, but as he recognised the furniture in his bedroom, there was an indescribable sense of relief that the nightmare was over. Yet terrible as the nightmares of sleep may be, they are insubstantial and ghostly, and leave the flesh unmarked; but the flogging he was to receive that morning would raise further weals that would be visible for many days.

His mother followed him downstairs with the stool. Elizabeth and Samuel were already in the breakfast room reading their Bibles. She opened the door more widely and did the same for the living room door, so that both children could hear their brother being punished.

She picked up the cane that she had left across the armchair ready for the morning’s work. Looking at her son, she flexed it demonstrating its punishing power.

“And why are you receiving a dozen cuts of the cane before breakfast, William? I hope you can remember.”

She waited, as he choked back his tears.

“Then, let me help you. You’ve been soundly spanked for neglecting to read your Bible story, and caned twice for lying. So, what is this caning for? What is it teaching you? Well?”

“N . . . not to be rude . . . Mother.”

“Yes, not to be rude. And how were you rude?”

“I . . . I argued with you and answered back.”

“Yes. And why is that wrong? Why does a boy need to be caned for being rude to his mother and answering her back?”

And she recalled what she had read earlier that morning by Miss Strang:

For a small boy, his mother’s word is the source of his life within the family, and disrespect for her role of law-giver is a grave sin that strikes at the very heart of God’s providential love.

“Well, William? Why is it wrong?”

“Is it . . . I suppose because . . . because you’re my mother.”

His voice trailed off and he hoped desperately that he had given something like the right answer.

“Yes, William. Because I’m your mother. Just as God rules the world, so I rule you. Just as God has given us a law, so I give you a law to govern your behaviour. And just as God punishes sinners, so I punish you.”

She paused.

“And just as we honour God for his love and care for us, so must a child honour his mother. And if he is rude or disrespectful and dishonours her, then he must be punished to teach him respect, respect for her and for the God who placed her in authority over him.”

She pointed to the stool.

“On all fours and kneel over the seat, please, William.”

He backed away, whimpering. His mother’s eyes narrowed and her face darkened.

“I said over the stool, William.”

Still he hesitated, and taking him by the scruff of the neck she forced him down. He kicked and screamed.

“No, no. I won’t. I won’t.”

She lifted him up and gave him two resounding slaps across his left cheek.

“How dare you defy me. Take off your pyjama top.”

He undid the buttons and slipped it off. She took it from him and placed it over the arm of the chair. And with hot resentful tears he allowed her to guide him back over the stool.

“You are an ill-disciplined boy, William who must learn to submit to authority. And I know how to teach that lesson, believe me.”

She rested the tip of the cane between his bottom cheeks. It was cold and he trembled with fear, dreading what she might do. Then, he felt it tapping against his tight little scrotum, and he drew in his breath sharply. He heard the whoosh of the cane and almost simultaneously felt the stroke cut into his bottom. He screamed and pulled his body up, kneeling and clutching at his bottom. His mother stepped across to the open door.

“Elizabeth! Come in here please.”

She came in looking anxious, wondering whether her mother had discovered some reason to cane her, too.

“Elizabeth, William is finding it difficult to remain in position. I want you to straddle him and hold him down.”

Elizabeth was suddenly breathless.

She tapped the stool with the point of the cane.

“Bend over, William.”

She turned to her daughter.

“And you can choose how to straddle him, either facing forward of back. And make sure he doesn’t reach back with his hands.”

Elizabeth flushed as she straddled him, choosing to position herself so that she could see each stroke as it was laid on. She could feel the warmth of his back against the tops of her thighs.

“Reach down and hold his arms, Elizabeth.”

The girl felt a tremor pulse through her as her mother swept back the cane and brought it down with a terrifying whoosh across her brother’s bottom. The stool was low and she was straddling him in a crouching position.

She looked up at her mother as the cane was raised again, and their eyes met. Although not quite ten, Elizabeth was old enough to appreciate that for her mother flogging William was not an unwelcome chore. It was a task embraced with an enthusiasm that saw virtue in the infliction of salutary pain. Her mouth was dry and she was finding it difficult to swallow as she watched her brother being beaten. Never had she been so close to a boy’s bottom when he was being disciplined. She felt an excited sick feeling in her stomach as stroke followed stroke, and the boy writhed and bucked beneath her, rubbing against her and giving her a feeling even more wonderful than when she stroked herself in bed.

By the end, several of the cuts had opened up previous weals and Mrs Lavington made the sobbing boy lie across the arm of the chair to have Zam-Buk ointment applied to the broken skin. He was then ordered upstairs to dress and told to put on an extra pair of underpants.

“And I want to speak to you before breakfast as soon as you come down. So, wash and dress quickly.”

She turned to her daughter.

“Thank you for helping me, Elizabeth.”

She smiled.

“Perhaps you’d like to go upstairs and tidy yourself before finishing your breakfast.”

When William reappeared, Cordelia could see that he’d made an effort to present himself in a neat and tidy fashion. Apart from his eyes being a little red and swollen, no one would have guessed the boy had been punished so severely.

“Good boy for not dawdling and for looking so smart.”

She lifted her head slightly.

“I am sure you know what I want to speak to you about.”

He hung his head.

“Yes, Mother.”

“So, what is it?”

“It’s . . . it’s the way I was before . . . before you caned me.”

“Yes, William. It showed disrespect and a lack of self-control that is inexcusable. And only a few moments after I had told you how important it is for a boy to respect his mother at all times. It simply cannot be overlooked. And you will need to be punished. At a time of my choosing.”

He was close to tears.

“Pl . . . please, Maman, will I be spanked?”

“I’ve not decided yet how to punish you. For now, you’d better read your Bible story book and have your breakfast. We must leave for school in half-an-hour.



Chapter 44



As soon as breakfast was finished, Cordelia left the children to clear up and went to her study. She thought it prudent to write a short note to Howard Greaves explaining that William had been punished severely and might find it difficult to settle to his lessons. She picked up her pen.

Dear Howard,

Thank you for your note about William. It was much appreciated. I am pleased you have accepted the boy needs firm discipline. You may be amused to learn that he tried to argue when he arrived home that his caning in class was a reason to be spared further punishment by me. However, it was clear from his bottom that you had treated him with a leniency that I doubt he deserved. Anyway, he was soundly spanked last evening and also caned. I am sure he will find sitting on a hard school bench uncomfortable and it would not be surprising if his attention is focussed more on his bottom than on his school work. In view of this very severe punishment, perhaps the cane should be spared for today. If there is any misbehaviour that warrants a caning, please let me know and I will deal with it. I trust this is acceptable to you.

Many thanks,

Cordelia

She tucked the letter into an envelope and with a generous lick sealed it up. She had decided not to mention denying the boy access to the lavatory, for she was now wondering whether Mr Greaves would be entirely happy with the use of a chamber pot in his classroom. In any event it was probably right to wait until she had decided how to deal with his further petulant outburst in the face of punishment. In the meantime, she would say nothing to William, and leave him anxiously hoping she might have forgotten.

When they set out for the main orphanage building, she let Samuel and Elizabeth walk on ahead while she followed more slowly, with William holding her hand. He was particularly loving and affectionate that morning as children often are following a severe punishment.

Before he went to his class, she gave him the note for Mr Greaves. He looked concerned.

“It’s nothing to worry about, William. What you do have to worry about is paying attention in class and getting a good report to bring home to me at the end of the day. Now off you go.”

She made her way to the infirmary, and checked with Mrs Simmonds whether her dormitory inspection had revealed any evidence of masturbation. But nothing had been found.

Cordelia went into her office and sat at her desk. She had to update the record of boys using the infirmary over the past month, but her thoughts turned back to William. Around the age of seven a boy begins to assert himself in a new way, challenging the authority set over him. Whereas before a sound spanking might have brought him into line, now harsher and more sustained discipline was required. And William had reached that age. She reached across and took out a sheet of notepaper and wrote a short note to Diana Fairclough.

Dear Diana,

Would it be possible to take coffee with you this morning? I would welcome your advice on a couple of matters that are troubling me. Cordelia

She handed the note to Susannah and asked her to walk it along and wait for a reply. It was not long before she returned with the message that Diana would be in all morning and Cordelia would be very welcome whenever it was convenient for her to call. So, after half-an-hour Cordelia made her way to the Principal’s apartment. As soon as she arrived, Diana rang for Mary and requested coffee and biscuits.

“So, what are these matters that are troubling you, Cordelia?”

“Well, Diana, the first is William. Up to now he’s been a really biddable child and accepting of punishment. But he’s now starting to become truculent and less cooperative. Yesterday morning I discovered he’d been neglecting his Bible reading. As he had been both deceitful and disobedient, I spanked him. But that was only after he’s thrown a real tantrum. I told him that if he behaved like a two-year-old he’d be treated like one. And so, for the next week, he will be forbidden the lavatory and have to use a chamber pot, both at home and at school. But it wasn’t just neglecting his Bible reading, Diana, but lying about it – twice. And for that he received a double caning of two dozen strokes and a further twelve strokes for rudeness and answering back. The final dozen strokes were given before school this morning and, shockingly, he gain refused to cooperate. And when he eventually went over the stool, he was reluctant to keep position and I had to ask Elizabeth to assist me. Afterwards I had to sponge his bottom and apply some Zam-Buk where the skin had broken.”

“Well, you certainly punished him thoroughly Cordelia. And as for breaking the skin, I don’t think that’s anything to worry about. The body heals naturally, and if there’s no permanent injury, what harm is done? The idea that you can give an effective spanking without marking a child is preposterous; and to make a fuss because a whipping breaks the skin and leaves the boy with blood on his bottom is simply foolish. As you know, my eldest was a rebel from the word go and he was being birched at a younger age than William is now. It was a nursery weight birch but it still left him with a sore bottom and thin seams of blood where the skin had broken. But I see no reason to be concerned about a little blood when the intention is to reform a boy and teach him to mend his ways. We’re quite happy to accept accidental cuts and grazes from play and those have no value at all.”

“And I agree with all that Diana. I really caned him hard and spared him nothing. I thought about easing up for the last dozen cuts but decided that would make a mockery of the punishment. And as the Book of Proverbs says it is the blueness of a wound that cleanses from evil. But his little seven-year-old bottom is covered in welts and so are his thighs.”

And quite right, too, Cordelia. A seven-year-old is quite old enough to know what he is doing when he opposes his mother’s will, and quite old enough to suffer the consequences. For the next few days, he’ll be reminded of the need for obedience every time he sits down; and if you do what I used to do and make him look at his welted bottom and thighs in the mirror before he dresses in the morning, and again in the evening before he puts on his pyjamas, that will usefully reinforce the lesson.”

She paused.

“So, what then is the problem? I’m not sure I understand. “

Cordelia frowned, and hesitated.

“Well, I suppose that although I have no reservations in theory about the welting I gave him, I do still wonder whether I was perhaps over severe, given his age. But I am also concerned that the steps I am taking to bring him into line, don’t seem to be working very well.”

“Cordelia, a seven-year-old can never be treated with too much severity when he is refusing to submit to a parent’s authority and displaying a consistently recalcitrant spirit. And you know, as well as I do, that a boy’s buttocks, and his thighs, are soft, firm and fleshy and can absorb an enormous amount of punishment. And that punishment should not be withheld. A recalcitrant spirit simply has to be broken and the boy rendered compliant.”

Cordelia nodded.

“Yes, Diana. Of course, I do know that. And thank you for reminding me. I am sorry to be stupid about it.

“Don’t be too apologetic, Cordelia. We all have these lapses from time to time. But as for worrying that your discipline is not working, well I often felt the same about Edward when he was around the same age as William. And I am sure, you know the answer to that.”

“Which is?”

“To continue providing, discipline that imposes a real cost for each act of wrongdoing or disobedience. From a very young age, children have a responsibility to do God’s will, as we have to restrain evil and encourage righteousness. If they know the consequences of disobedience then it is up to them to choose, just as it is ours to punish them if they choose evil over good. But above all, Cordelia, we must trust that the rod is the God-given means to a child’s salvation. Boys particularly have short memories. They may forget how unpleasant a spanking or caning can be. Or they may hope their sin will go undiscovered. But the answer is never to despair, but to continue in hope to provide the discipline and punishment that is deserved. And that is an on-going work.”

She took breath.

“I’m sorry to preach, Cordelia. But I feel really strongly about this. And I know you do, too.

“Don’t apologise, Diana. All you have said is true. I needed to be reproved for my foolish lack of faith. Thank you.”

“That’s kind of you, Cordelia. But tell me what are your reservations about the chamber pot? It seems to be entirely appropriate.”

“The problem is that the regime needs to be total and applied both at home and in school; and I suppose I was unsure how Howard Greaves would react to having a chamber pot in his classroom, and whether he’d regard it as an unwelcome imposition.”

“He probably would. But there is a way round that. Transfer William to my class for a week or two I’d be very happy to provide what is necessary; and having to sit on the pot before a group of girls would, I am sure, prove a salutary discipline. Is that a good idea?”

“A really excellent idea, Diana. After that second bout of rebellion, he needs to be really kept under the thumb and confined within a tough regime until he learns not to kick against the pricks. And I know I can trust you to provide that, with the additional strictness that is needed.”

Diana smiled.

“I think you just might be able to trust me to do that, Cordelia. The girls usually get the tawse across the hand but for William it would certainly be across a bare bottom. And in front of the girls that would be a further valuable lesson and make him realise that rebellious, ill-disciplined behaviour, is never without consequences. And if that doesn’t work, he might be made to wear a little frilly dress. Between us, we’ll soon establish a habit of compliance.

“But do we need James’s approval?”

“Just leave that to me. There will be no worries on that score.”

“I am so pleased. I’ll inform William before bed that from tomorrow he will be changing classes for a while and explain the reason for it. And that will be accompanied by a sound spanking before he wriggles down between the sheets.

There was a knock at the door, and Mary came in with a tray.

“Put it there, Mary. And again, you’ve taken your time. We really don’t expect to wait until lunchtime for morning coffee.

She turned to Cordelia as Mary placed the tray on the table.

“After David Cranston was discharged from the infirmary, I sent for him and explained that it had been decided that he should live with James and me for a while.”

“And what was his response, Diana?”

Mrs Fairclough looked at Mary who was pouring the coffee.

“What do you think, Mary? Was he pleased?”

“I’m not sure, Ma’am. I think he was a little frightened.”

“And so he should be. The fear of discipline is the beginning of wisdom. Cranston has a wilful spirit that needs to be subdued. We made a start yesterday but much remains to be done. Thank you, Mary. You may now get on with the ironing.”

When Mary had departed, Cordelia stretched back in her chair and felt a wonderful relaxation come over her. Diana was such a good friend and a real comfort and support. And she was sure having the boy Cranston in her care would be a blessing to them both. She reached out for a shortbread biscuit.

“Tell me more about Cranston, Diana.”

Well, I took him out of school yesterday and settled him in. I explained that we were going to provide the warmth and security of a real home for him with all the love and discipline that a small boy needs. We had a little conversation.

When I say discipline, David, you do know what I mean don’t you?

I . . . I think so, Ma’am.

So, what is discipline, David?

Is it . . . is it teaching a boy not to be . . . be naughty?

Yes, David it is. Teaching a boy not to be naughty but to be obedient and to do as he’s told. So how do you think that is best done?

He hesitated.

By . . . by telling him what to do . . . Ma’am?

Yes, David. A boy certainly needs to be told what to do. He needs clear rules to govern his behaviour. But small boys don’t always do as they’re told, do they? In my experience, they’re not very good at keeping rules. So, what do you think needs to be done if a boy doesn’t keep a rule and is disobedient?

He hung his head and reddened.

I . . . I suppose he needs to be . . . punished.

Yes. A disobedient boy, who breaks a rule needs to be punished. And how do you think that is best done?

He frowned.

He might be stood in the corner?

Well, I’ve certainly stood many a boy in the corner, David, but only after something else has happened. And what do you think that is?

Again, he hung his head, and his hands twisted nervously at his sides.

Come along, David. It’s not difficult.

There was a long pause.

I’m not sure, Ma’am.

He looked down, and I went to the sideboard drawer and took out the hairbrush. I held it out.

Do you remember this, David? Remember it’s hard ebony back. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten already. But perhaps you need to be reminded. Slip off your braces and drop your trousers. And step out of them and hand them to me.

Slowly stripped off his clothes until he was standing in his short orphanage vest with his bottom completely bare. I sat down and pointed to the floor in front of me.

Stand here. And now tell me, why you have had to remove all your clothes apart from your vest. Well?

He looked down.

Then I’ll tell you. It’s because boys like you, David, need to be spanked. And I see no sense in spanking a boy on anything but his bare bottom. I turn him over my knee with his naked little rump uppermost so he can receive smack after stinging smack from the hard back of my hairbrush. Not even the thinnest pair of pyjama trousers ever comes between a boy’s bottom and my brush. I want to hear his screams and see him helplessly squirming with a red and smarting bottom. A bottom that feels as though it’s been stung by a swarm of angry bees. Then and only then is he stood in the corner.

I tilted back his head.

And why is he put in the corner, David? I’ll tell you why. He’s put in the corner to display his well-spanked bottom so all who see it will know he’s received the punishment that is his due.

I reached out for his hand and drew him towards me and hauled him across my knee. He resisted as I rucked up his vest. And his bottom clenched as I rested the cold smooth back of the hairbrush against the crown of his left buttock.

But you should already know what this brush can do to a boy’s bottom, David. I’m surprised you have forgotten.

I rested the hard cold ebony back on his right buttock.

So, let me remind you.

I waited letting him anticipate what was to come. And then I raised the brush. And did I spank him, Cordelia! I took my time, relishing each stroke and savouring his distress. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed disciplining him. There’s something about spanking a small boy that is utterly delicious. The firm round little bottom; the shameful exposure over the knee; the smacking sound of the brush on soft resilient flesh; and after each smack the wriggling screams of protest. And, Cordelia, I confess that before I’d finished, I was looking forward to the next time.”

“And did you stand him in the corner?”

“Of course. His tear-stained face and small heaving body were turned nose to the wall. And to compound his shame I rang for Mary.

Mary, I’d like you to clean the silver this afternoon. Young David can help you. As you can see, I’ve had to spank him rather severely. So, he’ll find sitting on a bench in the scullery rather uncomfortable. Just see he doesn’t wriggle around too much and keep him hard at work.

I stepped over to where he was standing nose to the wall.

And if you give Mary any trouble, David, any trouble at all, then I promise you’ll find sitting becomes even more uncomfortable.”

“And did he give further trouble, Diana?”

“No. But I’ve no doubt he’s a boy who’s going to need regular chastisement.”

“And he was in the corner for how long, Diana?”

“An hour. I made him press a penny against the wall with his nose and told him if he dropped it, he’d get a hard smack on the thighs.

And then you’ll be holding a three-penny bit to the wall and if that drops, it will be three smacks.”

And did the penny drop?”

She smiled.

“Of course, Cordelia. Holding a coin against the wall with your nose for an extended period isn’t that easy. By the end of the hour, we’d progressed from a penny to a three-penny bit and then to a sixpence and finally a shilling.”

“And did the shilling drop?”

“Just before the hour was up.”

“And that was twelve smacks?”

“Yes. Hard smacks to the backs of his thighs. After the ten he’s earned for the penny, three-penny bit and sixpence.”

“I must say, Diana, that’s an excellent way of helping a boy to concentrate in the corner. I think I’ll be adopting that for my two, and probably Elizabeth, too.”

“Yes, it works well. It’s unusual to have to go beyond a shilling but there’ve been times when I’ve had a child with a florin between his nose and the wall desperate to avoid the twenty-four smacks should it roll on the floor.”

She took a sip of coffee and reached out for a biscuit.

“But Cordelia, I’m seriously thinking of teaching David here, rather than in school. I’m sure Mary could help me.”

“Yes, I’m sure she could. And I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s be happy to discipline him over her knee if you allowed it. But tell me Diana did you give Cranston those rules you were speaking of.”

“I certainly did. I made him write them out neatly, twice. One for the kitchen and one for his bedroom.”

She slipped out of the room for a moment and returned with a sheet of paper in her hand.

“They are short and to the point. I hope you approve.



RULES FOR DAVID CRANSTON

(1) Obey instantly when given an instruction

(2) Be polite at all times

(3) Do not pout or make disrespectful faces

(4) Do not speak rudely or disrespectfully

(5) Tell the truth at all times

Breaking any of these rules will result in punishment



Cordelia read them through, nodding.

“Yes, those are excellent. Wonderfully comprehensive. It’s difficult to think of much naughtiness that will not be caught by those. And punished.”

She glanced at the clock.

“Goodness how time flies. I really must be going. And thank you once more for all your help and support, Diana. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your friendship.”

And I yours, Cordelia.”

Chapter 45


Mrs Lavington arrived back at the infirmary to find Mrs Simmonds treating two boys, one had a cut to his face and the other a badly bruised knee.

“Two boys, Matron, fighting in the corridor between classes. Sent by Miss Harris with a note.”

Miss Harris had only recently joined the staff, and taught the girls for several periods a week to allow Mrs Fairclough time for other duties. Mrs Lavington read the short note and looked up.

“Patch them up, Mrs Simmonds, and send them in to me.”

She went into her office and sat at her desk. After ten minutes, Mrs Simmonds knocked at the door.

“I’ve dressed the boys’ wounds, Matron. Do you want to speak to them now?”

“Yes, please, Mrs Simmonds. Send them in.”

They came in nervously, fully aware of the Matron’s reputation as a disciplinarian. She looked up and smiled.

“It’s McCourt and Hammond, isn’t it?”

“Yes Matron.”

She nodded.

“Stand in front of the desk and place your hands behind your backs. And no talking.”

She continued to work for another five minutes letting the boys’ anxiety rise. Eventually she put down her pen and picking up Audrey Harris’s note, studied it, as though reading it for the first time.

“This note from Miss Harris says you were fighting in the corridor between classes. So, what was that all about?”

She spoke in a friendly enquiring way, which encouraged the boys’ confidence.

“He pushed in front of me.”

“I never did, and he swore at me. And he called me a pig.”

“Did you, McCourt? Did you call Hammond a pig?”

“No, Matron. I never did.”

She smiled.

“Well, that seems all rather silly to me. I think you had both better apologise to each other and shake hands.”

She raised her eyebrows encouragingly. They turned to each other and each muttered an apology and hands were shaken.

“Well, that is settled then. You are friends again?”

Like all boys who came into the Matron’s orbit, they knew better than to disagree.

“Yes, Matron.”

She could see a palpable relief on their faces for each had expected to be punished.

“Good. So, all is well then?”

She paused, letting their hope increase until they were almost bubbling with elation and relief that they had escaped punishment. Then, she smiled.

“Except the Principal has strictly forbidden boys to fight in the corridors, and has asked that any boys caught doing so should be sent to him.”

She paused.

“But first, as you have wasted my time and Mrs Simmonds’ time, I will be punishing you myself. How old are you McCourt?”

He was breathing heavily now. His lightness of being had been replaced by the heaviness of despair.

“I . . . I’m eight, Matron.”

“And you Hammond? How old are you?”

“I . . . I’m eight, too, please, Matron.”

“And how do you think two eight-year-old boys who disregard orphanage rules should be punished? Hammond?”

“I . . . I’m not sure, Matron.”

“What about you, McCourt?”

“I don’t know . . . Matron.”

“Then let me describe what I propose, and see if you can give it a name. First, I will ask you to take off your shoes and socks, remove your jackets and slip off your braces. Then, your trousers and pants will be taken down, your shirts removed, and you will be standing in nothing but a short vest. Then, I will sit on a chair, turn you over my knee, and with the back of this hairbrush raise smarting weals on your bottoms until you are howling and begging for mercy.”

As she was speaking, she had picked up the brush and looked inquiringly at the faces of the two boys.

“So, what is that called? McCourt?”

He looked down.

“Come along McCourt, it is not that difficult. What have I just described?”

His voice was low and he seemed to have difficulty speaking.

“A . . . a spanking, Matron.”

“Yes, a spanking.”

. . . . . . .

As a small girl, in Sainte Foy, it had always been une bonne fessée. But when they had come to live in England, her mother had employed a nanny to help with the children’s English. The nanny, Miss Warriston, spoke good French but Mme Réglat insisted she speak only English to the children, except when teaching vocabulary or making a grammatical point. And the children were strictly forbidden to reply in French on else suffer punishment.

At first, Miss Warriston’s threat of ‘a sound spanking’ lacked the stomach-churning power of its French equivalent. But a hairbrush is a hairbrush irrespective of the language used. And provided it has the same hard, smooth, wooden back and is applied with the same firm intention of inflicting salutary pain, the words announcing the punishment, even if in an unfamiliar language, will soon arouse a similar fearful apprehension.

Miss Warriston’s threat of a spanking was always accompanied by the promise that it would be given ‘on the bare bottom’. And it was clear from the way she savoured the words that her delight in baring a child for discipline was more than equal to the child’s dread. Looking back, it was clear to Cordelia that Miss Warriston had been appointed not just for her fluency in French but because she shared her mother’s commitment to strict and unremitting discipline.

And that commitment was shared, too, by Mrs Atkinson who lived in the adjacent cottage. She was a frequent visitor to the Réglat’s household, and had become a firm friend of Miss Warriston. She would often describe the punishments inflicted on her two sons, Edward who was six and Anthony who was eight. And Cordelia would watch as they blushed and squirmed at such intimate and shaming disclosure.

Yesterday, I had ‘a little talk’ with Edward before bed, Miss Warriston. And we both know what that means, don’t we, Edward?

He flushed. And she continued to describe his punishment.

I had him down in his pyjama top, just before bedtime. Then, it was over my knee and the hairbrush doing the talking. All addressed to his bare little bottom, and that hairbrush only knows one word, doesn’t it Edward. And it repeats it again and again. There’s no stopping it. Smack, smack, smack. Smack, smack, smack. My mother used to say, there are few things prettier than a boy’s bottom after it’s been well spanked. So, afterwards, it’s into the corner, face to the wall, to display it, so everyone can enjoy it.

By this time the boy was crimson and almost weeping with embarrassment.

I agree with you Mrs Atkinson. When something is as pretty as that it would be a crime to hide it away. But just look at the boy. I can see at one glance that the boy lives in dread of that hairbrush. And that’s as it should be. Five minutes over the knee, spanking his bottom raw, will teach a boy a lesson that words alone will never teach. We don’t expect a boy to become good at his sums after just a couple of lessons. It takes time and commitment from his teacher. And so does teaching obedience. A lot of effort needs to go into it.

She turned to Cordelia’s mother.

Do you not agree, Mme Réglat?

Bien sûr, Miss Warriston. A boy sits at a desk to learn his sums but goes over his mother’s knee to learn obedience. And the lesson is best taught sur ses petites fesses molles et nues.

Miss Warriston looked at Charles.

And how do we translate that into English, Charles, ‘sur ses petites fesses molles et nues’?

He blushed.

It means on his soft little bottom, Miss Warriston.

Yes, Charles. On his soft bare little bottom.

. . . . . .

Cordelia gathered her thoughts together and smacked the brush against her palm. She smiled at the boy before her.

“And when were you last spanked like that McCourt? Spanked in the way I have just described.”

He reddened as any boy would at such a shaming and probing question.

“P . . . please, Matron. M . . . my mother spanked me with a slipper.”

“And what was this slipper like, McCourt? Was it stiff and hard or soft and floppy?”

“I . . . I think it was soft and floppy, please, Matron.”

“In other words, quite useless for disciplining a boy, even if applied to a bare bottom.”

She paused, relishing his discomfiture.

“And was it applied to your bare bottom, McCourt?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“You mean you were spanked over the seat of your trousers?”

“N . . . no, Matron. I . . . I was hit on the legs.”

“And did it hurt, this smacking on the legs with your mother’s soft floppy slipper?”

He looked down.

“Well? Was it something you feared? This smacking on your legs?”

His reply was barely audible.

“N . . . no, Matron?”

“No, I am sure not.”

Again, she smacked the hairbrush meaningfully against the flat of her hand.

“What a boy fears, McCourt, is pain. And because most boys want their own way, the pain of punishment has to be greater than any pleasure gained from disobedience. Do you understand that, McCourt? And do you, Hammond?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron.”

“And that is why a soft floppy slipper will never persuade a boy to choose obedience over disobedience. He is quite happy to sin and enjoy the fruits of his sinning and then to smirk inwardly when he is smacked with such an implement. And why? Because it causes no pain.”

“But this . . .

And she smacked the back of the brush once more across her palm.

“ . . . this is not a soft floppy slipper. Is it McCourt?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“No. It is a hairbrush with a hard, smooth back. Can you imagine how painful it is, smacked across a boy’s bottom?”

She smiled.

“But fortunately, there is no need for you to imagine. A boy may look at a jar of toffees and wonder how soft and sweet they are, but when the sweetshop owner opens the jar and gives him a toffee he no longer needs to imagine. He has tasted the real thing.”

She smiled.

“However, the sweetshop owner gave the boy only one toffee to taste. But I am more generous. And you will be getting far more than just one smack of this brush. And it will be far from sweet!”

She paused savouring their fear and relishing her power over them. Power to correct and to shape them to her will.

“The Principal will punish you for breaking his rules and fighting in the corridor, but I am spanking you for wasting Miss Harris’s time, my time and Mrs Simmonds’ time. And our time does not come cheaply. The time Miss Harris has spent in apprehending you and recording your bad behaviour is worth at least eight strokes.”

Again, she smacked the brush across her palm.

“And Mrs Simmonds’ time is certainly worth a further ten strokes; and my own time, well, let us say a dozen strokes.”

She paused.

“And on my calculation, that makes as total of thirty strokes across each of your soft firm little bottoms.”

She paused,

“Thirty toffees would be soft, sweet and delicious. But unlike toffees, this brush is very hard and has a very bitter taste.”

The boy Hammond suddenly bit his lip and gave a suppressed gasp. A damp patch had appeared on the front of his trousers and there was urine trickling down his left leg. His eyes filled with tears.

Mrs Lavington rarely had any sympathy for boys who wet themselves. Controlling the bladder was a matter of will-power and self-discipline. She walked around her desk and stood in front of him.

“Put your arms across your chest, Hammond, and tuck your hands under your armpits and keep them there. She raised her right hand and gave a stinging slap to his left cheek, followed after a pause by two more. Then, with her left hand she gave three equally stinging gifles to his right cheek.

“How dare you urinate on my floor, Hammond. Have you no self-control? And stop that grizzling. I want every stich of clothing off. And place the soiled trousers and pants in that basket over there.”

He stood naked and ashamed, crying softly. The imprint of her fingers visible on both cheeks.

“And now down on your knees and lick up that pool of urine you have dribbled on my nice clean floor.

He looked at her, stunned at her command

“L . . . lick it up . . . Matron?”

“Am I speaking in some strange tongue, Hammond? You know the word ‘lick’. It is what cats do. Kneel down, bend forward, and lick it up. Now.”

He knelt and slowly his head went down, and he ran his small pink tongue over the wet pool on the tiled floor. He screwed up his face and lifted his head

“Please, Matron.”

She walked over to the cupboard and unhooked a limber rattan cane. She rapped it on the floor in front of him.

“Lick it up, Hammond.”

Still he held back. She raised the cane and brought it swishing down across his buttocks. He shrieked.

“I said lick it up.”

And his head went down and he began licking

“Not like that, Hammond. Use your lips and suck it into your mouth. And swallow it down.”

She could see after a minute or two that there was little more to lick up, but she kept him at the task for several more minutes. By the time she let him rise, there was an ache at the back of his throat and his neck felt sore and twisted. He looked at her through tear-filled eyes.

“P . . . please, Matron. Please.”

She put her arm around him. He was shivering, yet his body was warm to her touch.

“I will be considering whether you need some further training in self-control, Hammond. For the moment, stand with your back to the wall and watch while I punish McCourt. And when I have finished with him, it will be your turn.”

Chapter 46



She beckoned to McCourt.

“Come here McCourt. And stop snivelling, and put your hands behind your back.”

She put her fingers under his chin and raised his head.

“Tell me, McCourt, do you think I was unduly harsh with Hammond. That I was over severe?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“You may have felt I should have been more understanding? Less ready to punish him for his lack of self-control?”

“N . . . no, Matron. No.”

She let her hand drop, and her voice became softer and less threatening.

“And have you ever wet yourself like that, McCourt? Soiling your trousers and urinating on the floor?”

He shook his head vigorously.

“No, Matron.”

She nodded.

“Good. But self-control is more than not wetting yourself. It is being able to live your life in obedience to rules. In the Bible, God tells us he made the world in accordance with rules, so that everything worked properly. And if everything in our lives is to work properly, we need to follow the rules we have been given.”

She paused.

“Have you seen a cat wash itself, McCourt?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron.”

“And does it wait to be told to wash itself, like a naughty boy who has to be driven to the sink. Well?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“No. A cat washes itself without being told because the rule is inside the cat not outside. It washes itself instinctively. You know what ‘instinctively’ means McCourt?”

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Matron.”

“It means that a cat does the right thing without having to be told. Unlike a boy. A boy’s natural instinct has been warped and twisted by sin. Not only does he have to be given rules to govern him, but he has no wish to obey the rules when they are given. Until they are well beaten in. A cat never has to be punished for disobedience, but a boy does. Only by punishment will a boy learn to do the right thing.”

She put her head on one side and raised her eyebrows.

“So, what rule have you and Hammond broken, McCourt? Well?”

He was like a pony caught in the drift, moving ever closer to the corral where the branding iron awaits.

“I . . . I . . . we were fighting in the corridor, Matron.”

“Yes. And for that the Principal will punish you. So why did I say I was punishing you?”

“F . . . for wasting your time, Matron.”

“Yes. For wasting my time, and Miss Harris’s time, and Mrs Simmonds’ time. So, let us waste no more of it. As Hammond is totally without any clothes, I suggest you join him in his state of undress.”

She watched as he slowly removed each item of clothing until he stood naked and shivering before her. She sat on the chair and, with a smile, beckoned him to her. And he came without protest. She had noticed, over the years, how completely stripping a boy was the surest way to render him compliant. A boy, while dressed, might argue and protest his innocence. Even bare from the waist down with his bottom exposed for the rod, he might still, desperately plead for remission. But strip him completely bare, with not a stich of clothing to protect him from the gaze of the world, and the heart was cut out of him. She had noticed that with her own brothers. And it had been the same with her. Usually, her mother had been content to raise her dress and take down her knickers for a whipping, but on occasions she, too, had been stripped completely naked. And she remembered that feeling of utter vulnerability. Not just to bodily chastisement, but as though, without clothes, she had lost all worth, all identity, and was utterly helpless in a hostile world.

And she remembered how Adam and Eve once they had sinned found their nakedness insupportable, bare and exposed before a God who was their judge. And a mother in stripping a disobedient child declares that there is no escape from her judgment and no limit to the punishment she may inflict. She trains and schools him by the unstinting application of the rod. He suffers the shame of being broken like a young colt; and it is that shame he fears, as much as the smarting stripes of chastisement.

And just as there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, so on earth there is a deep, pleasurable satisfaction in driving the unruliness of sin from a child and rendering him compliant.

She brought the hard smooth back of the brush down with a resounding smack across McCourt’s bottom. She waited until the smarting agony had fully run its course before again raising the brush. Her left arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, restraining his small naked body as he heaved and roared in his agony. After twenty strokes, she paused allowing him to believe that the torture was over, before continuing with the final ten strokes that left him sobbing and broken.

“Stand over there, McCourt. And face to the wall.”

She turned to Hammond.

“I think it might be prudent, Hammond, if you were to relieve yourself before going across my knee. If you have another accident and soil my clothing, I will be most displeased.”

She stepped over to the cupboard and took out an enamel chamber pot.

“And have you emptied your bowels today, Hammond?”

“N . . . no Matron.”

“And why not? You know the rule. Boys are to go to the lavatory before the start of the school day.”

“B . . . but Matron, I tried, truly I did, but . . . nothing came out.”

Mrs Lavington raised her eyebrows and her voice expressed concern.

“But when did you last go to the lavatory, Hammond? And I mean a bowel movement.”

“I . . . I’m not sure, Matron.”

“Come now, you must have some idea. Was it yesterday?”

“No, Matron.”

“So, when was it? Three or four days ago?”

He was blushing at such an intimate enquiry.”

“Come along now, Hammond. When was it?”

“Probably four days ago, Matron.”

“Or possibly more. Well, this is a serious matter and needs to be dealt with. But first I want you to urinate into the pot.”

And sitting down, she held it in front of him.

“The boy was now scarlet with shame and could hardly speak.

“B . . . b . . . but, Matron, I . . . I don’t think there is any . . . any more to come, please, Matron.”

“Nonsense, Hammond. If you have not gone in the next two minutes, you will be caned.”

The boy bit his lip, kneeling with his small member resting over the cold enamel edge. He screwed up his face and tried to go but nothing came, not even the smallest dribble. He looked up desperately.

“B . . . but, Matron. I can’t. It . . . it all went on the floor.”

She glanced at the clock.

“You have another minute to produce something before I fetch the cane.”

The seconds ticked by and still the pot was as dry as when it had been taken from the cupboard. She placed it on the floor.

“Kneel on all fours, over the pot.”

He went down and she positioned it so it was immediately beneath his small limp member. Walking across to the cupboard she selected a cane and swished it through the air. Then, standing behind him a little to his left, she raised the rattan and brought it down with a deep whoosh across his bottom.

“Aaaaagh . . . aaaaagh.”

With his hands supporting him on the floor, he was unable to reach back, and he knew better than to try and rise.

“Please no, Matron. I’ll try and go. Truly I will. Please, Matron.”

Whoosh went the cane and a second livid stripe was cut across his bottom. He shrieked and pressed backwards onto his heels.

“Over the pot and kneel properly, unless you want me to double the dose.”

And he felt the tip on the cane twisting down between his bottom cheeks, impaling him and making him squeal.

“I said kneel properly. Do as you have been told.”

Unhurriedly, a further four strokes were given, each followed by a shrill piercing scream. He was sobbing now and the floor was damp with his tears. She stepped back.

“You will kneel there, until you obey.”

She turned to McCourt.

“Turn around, McCourt.”

She put her hand under his chin and raised his head.

“I trust you have learned your lesson. Not to fight in the corridors, and waste my time?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron. I have. Really, I have.”

“Good. But remember, you still have a visit to the Principal to look forward to. But for now, you may dress and return to your classroom. Who is teaching you?”

“Mr Fitzherbert, please, Matron.”

“Then you will explain your lateness by telling Mr Fitzherbert that Matron has been teaching you a lesson with the back of her hairbrush. Is Hammond in the same class?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“Then, you will tell Mr Fitzherbert that Hammond is still with Matron and will be for some time.”

When he had gone, she picked up the cane and, placing a chair immediately behind the kneeling boy, sat down. She said nothing, letting him sense her presence and the threat it implied. After a while she inserted the tip of the cane beneath the boy’s tight little scrotum, and gently stroked it.

“Come along, now, Hammond. I have no wish to cane you again. All I want is a little dribble into the pot to show your obedience.”

Then, moving the cane to his small puckered anus, she placed the tip against the opening and softly almost imperceptibly sent a vibration down its length. There was a sharp intake of breath.

“Just a little dribble, Hammond, that’s all I am asking. Come along now.”

She waited, and then after several minutes she applied a little pressure so that the cane tip penetrated into the anal opening. And there she rested it, sending further small vibrations down the cane’s length, making the boy gasp.

He heard the scrape of the chair on the tiled floor as she stood up. Then, the cane was resting across his bottom. Several little taps raised his apprehension almost to breaking point.

“No, please Matron.”

Then, swishing the cane right back over her shoulder, she brought it down with flesh rupturing force across his already marked and wealed flesh. His bottom was clenching and unclenching as he tried to escape from the searing pain. He was choking and sobbing, but then, as the agony began less acute, his bladder opened and a little dribble of urine tinkled into the pot. Mrs Lavington smiled.

“Good boy, Hammond.”

He relaxed. But she had not finished with him. He screamed, as she caned him, with the shrill piercing screams of a boy whose voice is not yet broken. It was a voice which if trained for the church choir would have been vibrant and thrilling. But for Mrs Lavington his screams were thrilling enough, and his bare flesh had more appeal than a starched surplice. After ten cuts, she placed the cane on her desk.

“Stand up, Hammond. I expect you are wondering why I continued to cane you after you had urinated into the pot. And stop sniffling.”

She stroked the back of his head and ran her hand down his back, resting it on his bottom and running it lightly over the soft, firm surface, appreciating the weals she had raised. He flinched. Her voice was now more gentle.

“Well, are you wondering?”

He gave a small choking sob.

“Ye . . . yes . . . Matron.”

“Then, I will tell you. It is because you wasted more of my time. A boy has to learn that obedience is not obedience unless it is immediate. That he does what is required as soon as he is told.”

She paused.

“Our Lord Jesus Christ when he was healing people, met a Roman centurion, a soldier who had command over a hundred other soldiers. And that centurion wanted him to heal his servant, probably a boy not much older than you, Hammond. And do you know what he said to Jesus? He said I know that you can heal him with just a command, because with my soldiers I say to this one, 'Go!' and he goeth, and to another, 'Come!' and he cometh, and to my slave, 'Do this!' and he doeth it."

She sat on the chair and pulled him toward her, wrapping her arm around the sobbing, heaving boy. She gave him a kiss on the forehead.

“And small boys need to be like those soldiers, Hammond. When they are told ‘Do this’ they do it. And they do it immediately and without question.”

She continued to stroke the back of his head, running her hand up through his hair. He shivered.

“And that boy who served the centurion was healed the moment Jesus gave the command. He ordered the sickness to go from his body, and it went. But boys are sick with something far worse than a disease of the body, Hammond. They are sick with sin. They are lazy, dishonest, stubborn and self-willed. And that is much more difficult to heal than a sickness of the body. And do you know why that is? It is because it requires an effort from the boy himself. He has to want to be good and obedient. But, unfortunately, a boy has no wish to turn from his sinful ways.”

She kissed him gently on the cheek. And he felt her hand resting on his bottom. He flinched.

“But Jesus is just as concerned to break the power of sin in a boy as he was to heal the centurion’s servant. And to do that, all children, girls as well as boys, are given rules. And if they break those rules, they are soundly whipped. In that way they learn to choose good over evil and obedience over disobedience.

She paused.

“I caned you, Hammond because you were slow to heed my instruction to open your bladder. And that was to help you not to disgrace yourself when I spanked you for your time wasting.”

She felt his warmth of his naked body.

“And that spanking has still to be given.”

She got up and walked across to the desk and picked up the hairbrush.

“Please, Matron. No. Please, no.”

She sat on the chair and hauled the boy, naked and wriggling, over her lap. And with measured strokes she spanked him on flesh already wealed and cut by the cane. When she had finished, he was sobbing and writhing in agony. Never had he experienced such torment.

“Get up, Hammond, and stand over there, back to the wall, with your hands by your side.”

“Have you had an enema before, Hammond?”

He could hardly speak.

“N . . . no. P . . . please, Matron. No, I haven’t.”

“Then I had better explain.”



Chapter 47



“The reason you cannot go to the lavatory, Hammond, is because there is an impaction in your bowel. Let us use language you understand. What do you call the stuff that comes out of your bottom hole when you go to the lavatory?”

He blushed.

“Wh . . . what do you mean . . . Matron?”

“Come along, Hammond. There is nothing difficult about it. What do you call the stuff that comes out of your bottom and goes down the lavatory?”

“Is . . . is it, poo, Matron?”

She smiled.

“That is the word you use is it, Hammond?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron.”

“Then that is what we shall call it. When you eat and swallow food it goes first into your stomach where all the goodness is taken from it to make you healthy and strong. What is left is of no use and it continues down a long tube until it comes out of your bottom when you go to the lavatory. That ‘poo’ is usually soft but sometimes it becomes hard and sticks in the tube and then more poo comes down and cannot get out and then that, too, hardens and you end up with a blockage. And that is what has happened to you. And it must be cleared out.”

She paused.

“So how do you think that is best done?”

“I . . . don’t know, Matron.”

“Well, when one of the orphanage drains gets blocked, Mr Hodges comes and pushes a long rod into it to clear it, and I suppose I could do the same for you and push a length of rattan up your bottom until it reached the hard poo and broke it up. But that would be very dangerous and risk making a hole in the tube that the poo comes down. And we don’t want that, do we?”

The boy looked pale and anxious.

“So can you think of a better method of clearing this blockage?”

He bit his lip and looked close to tears.

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“Then, I will tell you. What we need to do is to pump some nice soapy water up your bottom hole so that it softens the hard poo. Then, when the soapy water comes back down it will bring with it all the rest of the poo that has been trapped behind it.”

She smiled.

“It is very easy to do. Most boys find it a little uncomfortable. But in your case, Hammond, it will be more than uncomfortable. I will make sure it is extremely uncomfortable to remind you of the importance of going to the lavatory first thing in the morning. Do you understand?”

“B . . but, Matron, I tried to go. Truly I did. It just wouldn’t come out.”

“And how long were you trying? A minute? Two minutes?”

“Please, longer than that, Matron.”

“Then, how long?”

He hesitated.

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Matron.”

“Well nor am I. Except it was not long enough. And if you could not manage to empty your bowels, then you should have come and reported it to Mrs Simmonds or to me. As it is, your neglect means we are having to waste more of our time.”

She walked across to the infirmary door.

“Mrs Simmonds, I have a boy here who needs an enema. Perhaps you would bring me through two large towels. And also an apron and a jar of petroleum jelly. And, of course, an enema bag.”

“What sort of solution do you want, Matron?”

“The usual solution for a boy who needs to learn that he needs to acquire a regular bowel movement, as well as clearing out his current blockage.”

Mrs Simmonds smiled.

“Certainly, Matron. I know exactly what is needed.”

Hammond was pale and twitching nervously. He knew something unpleasant was in store for him and his fear was compounded by not knowing exactly what it was. It was but a moment before Mrs Simmonds returned. She spread out the towels on the long stool which Matron had placed under the hook in the beam above on which the bag was hung. She noticed that already there was an enamel chamber pot beside the bench.

“Thank you, Mrs Simmonds. If I need any further help, I’ll give you a call.

Mrs Lavington looked at the naked boy shivering before her. Usually, she left enemas to Mrs Simmonds but there was something about Hammond that made her want to deal with him herself. The last enema she had given had been to William and that had been some six months ago. She remembered how he had wriggled and resisted as she positioned him. And how before she could insert the nozzle, he had kicked out and caught the bowl upsetting the sudsy liquid all over the floor. The realisation of what he had done and the spanking that swiftly followed took all fight out of him. She had then put back on the rubber sheet and got Elizabeth to hold his legs back like a baby having a nappy change. And she had used a larger nozzle that normal to punish him for his resistance. As the bag emptied into him, he screamed like the demented child at the foot of the Mount of Transfiguration.

Some mothers believed constipation made a boy surly and ill-disciplined. But Mrs Lavington held to the view that it was a boy’s ill-temper and wilfulness that made him constipated. In dealing with his constipation, a mother was confronting the physical manifestation of sin. And so, an enema was not only a removal of the faecal material causing the blockage, but also a punishment for the sin that had caused it. It had therefore to be painful and humiliating and in most cases combined with a sound spanking.

She beckoned to the boy.

“Kneel on the bench, Hammond.”

He climbed up. It was about eighteen inches off the tiled floor.

“Now on to all four. And draw your legs up to your chest. And put your head down on the seat, like a little Mohammedan boy at prayer.”

His bottom was nicely elevated and the small puckered anus was ready for the insertion of the enema nozzle. He squirmed and groaned as she forced the hard tip into his rectum. When a boy is constipated and an exceptionally large and uneven stool is forced out it can stretch and tear the boy’s anus and cause pain and discomfort. And so, she thought, would the hard nozzle about to be forced into that tight little hole. A short time ago she had been reading from an anthology of the writings of George McDonald and had come across the following:

God’s nature is always to forgive, and just because he forgives, he punishes. Because for him it is a heart-pain and a trouble that one of his little ones should do the evil thing, there is no extreme of suffering to which for the sake of destroying the evil in them, he would not subject them.

Her hand was in the small of the boy’s back, and he winced as he felt the cold nose of the nozzle pressing against him. To enhance his suffering, she had wondered whether to insert the nozzle without smearing it with Vaseline, but decided that would be a step to far. But he still screamed as the blunt end was forced into him.

“No, Matron, no, please no. Aaaaaagh. No, no. Aaaaaaagh.

She twisted it back and forth and drove it further in. Deeper and deeper, until he was grunting and roaring in his agony. She waited, until he had quietened a little, for she knew the value of punishing a boy in an unhurried way. She wanted his senses tuned to the reception of pain and to be keenly aware of the humiliation she was inflicting upon him. Slowly, the solution was emptied into him until the bottle was empty. By this time, he was almost hysterical and wracked by desperate sobbing. Mrs Lavington waited for him to regain a little composure.

“Now listen, carefully, Hammond. You will reach between your legs and when I remove the nozzle you will scrunch your bottom cheeks together and place your thumb into your bottom hole to keep in the liquid. And I don’t expect any to come out. If it does then the flogging, I’ll give you will leave your bottom even more red and raw than it is at present. She pulled out the nozzle and he desperately and clumsily inserted his thumb, He knelt there rigid with fear, terrified that he might disgrace himself, and clenching his buttocks until they were hard and tight.

“You have twenty minutes, Hammond, until you are put on the pot. So, keep scrunching those cheeks together and remember what I have said.”

And the urge to punish him was almost overwhelming. To swish the cane across those tight little buttocks, testing his resolve to obey even in the face of adversity. She recalled the wise words of Eugenia Strang.

Spankings for a boy should be severe and take him to the limits of his endurance and beyond. They should be heartily dreaded. For not only are they a punishment for sin and a deterrent to future wrongdoing, but they also serve as a means by which the boy may develop character in the face of adversity and endurance in suffering.

And yet she restrained herself, biding her time. At the end of the twenty minutes, she ordered him off the stool.

“Keep your thumb in, Hammond, and stand up. Keep clenching until you are on the pot.”

Carefully, he did as he was bid. His fear of a premature release was all too apparent in the slow and tentative way in which he moved. When standing over the pot, she helped him to lower himself on to the cold enamel, and then at the last moment, told him to remove his thumb.. He felt his insides churning and burning and then with a humiliating explosion the foul fetid material gushed from him. There is something acutely humiliating in defecating in front of others and when the offering is a mass of putrid mass of foul liquid faeces, the shame is all the greater. Over the next ten minutes he went several times more, until at last he slumped over the pot, tearful, exhausted, and relieved that his ordeal was over. Except that it wasn’t.

“Right Hammond, off the pot and over to the shower. And bend forward with your hands on your knees.”

She directed the hose on to his back. He screamed and straightened up at the shock of the cold icy water. She stepped across to the table for the hairbrush and brought it smacking down across his wet bottom.

“I said bend over and place your hands on your knees. Do as you have been told. And you will stay in that position until given permission to rise.”

She continued to hose him down and then wetting a rough flannel, squeezed it between the crack of his buttocks, and twisted it into his bottom hole. This was repeated several times and each time he squirmed and roared as the flannel rubbed against his sore and stretched anus. She then roughly towelled him dry and as she rubbed between the cleft of his buttocks, he wriggled and squealed in pain.

“Go and stand against the wall and keep your hands by your side.”

She sat at her desk and left the boy begin to believe that his ordeal might be over and that he would soon be following McCourt back to his classroom. After ten minutes, she looked up.

“Well, I hope you are going to make a better effort to open your bowels each morning, Hammond. Is that right?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron.”

“Good. Then there is just one last thing.

He cringed back and flattened himself against the wall.

“No. Please, no.”

She advanced toward and reaching out grasped him by the ear, digging her nail into the fleshy lobe and dragging him toward the stool. He shrieked like a pig about to be butchered and sank to the floor. She pulled him up and raising her free arm brought the flat of her hand down with all her force cross his cheek.

“How dare you say ‘No’ to me.”

Four more stinging smacks reduced him to limp, sobbing compliance. She made him kneel with his hands on his head facing the wall, while she went into the infirmary.

“Mrs Simmonds, I about to give Hammond the enema to rinse him out. But he has behaved quite disgracefully. Please send across to cook and ask her for three lemons. And then squeeze the juice into a quart of cold water..”

She returned to her room and sat at her desk, looking at the kneeling, heaving boy. His buttocks were a deep crimson, and the weals raised by the cane stood out like stitching on a cushion.

She remembered how both her brothers were prone to constipation and if there had been no bowel movement first thing in the morning, a suppository would be taken from a jar on the kitchen dresser, smeared with Vaseline, and inserted into the boy’s rectum. This was done with him lying on his back usually on his mother’s lap, with his legs up and a restraining arm held across the hollow of his knees. She had watched fascinated as her mother first inserted a finger to open up his anus and then quickly pressed the suppository deep into the aperture. He was made to retain it, standing with his buttocks clenched, for twenty minutes before she allowed him to sit on the pot.

There were times, too, when Cordelia was judged to need a suppository, and she remembered how she had hated the whole shameful process. It must have been around the age of seven that she had pleaded with her mother to be allowed to insert the suppository herself. She remembered how her mother had smiled, and allowed it. Suppositories were usually given in the morning immediately after it was apparent that a bowel movement was not forthcoming. Her mother would watch as she would crouch quite naked and, reaching back, force the suppository deep into her rectum. She then had to stand clenching her buttocks until her mother gave her permission to release whatever the suppository had loosened.

Sometimes an enema was given, and Cordelia was aware this was not just to deal with constipation but as a discipline to break down a recalcitrant spirit.

The door opened and Mrs Simmonds entered.

“As you requested, Matron. Two quarts of very cold water with the juice of three lemons added.”

And the nozzle was again driven deep into his rectum and the cleansing liquid emptied into him. It was an assault beyond his imagining. It came from the very deepest circle of Hell where Satan himself dwelt in the thick ribbed ice. He attempted to rise but with her hand on his back he was easily restrained. He screamed in rage at the intrusion but there was no escaping the cramping agony. Again, she kept him in acute discomfort for twenty minutes before ordering back on the pot. Eventually, she was satisfied that his bowels were completely empty. Then, he went back into the shower. Afterwards, she sat and threw a large towel over her lap.

“We had better dry you, Hammond.”

As he lay across her lap, she enveloped his body in the towel, and patted him dry. She felt him relax, as he lay sobbing quietly. But she had not finished with him yet. She recalled the words of George McDonald:

God is bound by his love to punish sin in order to deliver his creature.

She reached for the hairbrush and, rucking up the towel, deaf to his anguished cries, she spanked his wet bottom and thighs until they were dry. Then after a further rough towelling, she lifted the sobbing boy and seated him on lap to comfort him.

“Hush, that is enough crying. You have been punished severely but your defiance and refusal to repent made it necessary. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Gently she rocked him back and forward, soothing him.

“Well, have you? Have you learned your lesson?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron. Please don’t spank me again. Don’t put that thing into me again.”

“Well, I certainly hope there will be no need for that, but it will depend on your behaviour. But for the moment you have been punished enough.”

He shivered as she kissed him softly on the cheek and cradled him to her.

“So, I want no more running in the corridors. And no more fighting. And if you fail to have a bowel movement in the morning, you are to come immediately to me or to Mrs Simmonds so we can give you some medicine. It will not taste pleasant but I am sure you will agree a dose of castor oil is much better than an enema.”

She had told both boys their fighting in the corridor would be reported to the Principal. There had been a spate of such behaviour and he was determined to stamp it out. And the whole orphanage had been warned that any boys caught fighting would be birched. Hammond’s small body was so warm and his flesh so soft. She felt a deep surge of love for him. She had dealt with him severely and also McCourt. Did they each require a flogging as well? But the thought of marching them to the Principal’s room and seeing them soundly birched swayed her.

God is bound by his love to punish sin in order to deliver his creature.

No, she would do as she had said.


Chapter 48



Having dismissed Hammond, Mrs Lavington sat at her desk and reflected on her conversation with Diana Fairclough. She had expressed to her reservations about the severe welting she had given William. But in truth she had no real misgivings about the severity of his punishment for she believed wholeheartedly in the benefits of firm and consistent discipline. It was not that she was seeking encouragement or reassurance, but rather that she wanted to hear the echo of her own deepest conviction from the lips of another.

Sometimes she could become almost breathless at the thought that in recent years children were increasingly being spared the rod of correction. That a demonic sentimentality was sweeping the world, and that the kingdom of darkness that needed to be confronted with strength and resolution was gaining ground.

And how cunning was the Devil in persuading parents that children were innocent and without sin, and that to punish them was an affront to God. How often had she heard it said that Jesus was against chastising children because of his saying that if anyone offended a child it were better that he should be thrown into the sea with a millstone around his neck. How the Devil could twist Scripture to his own ends, just as he had done in Jesus’s own temptation. The offence to a child was to spare him chastisement or to provide chastisement that was a weak and inadequate response to wrongdoing. And when Jesus set a child in the midst of his disciples and told them “of such is the Kingdom of Heaven” was he saying that children were sinless? Or rather that they needed to relate to their Heavenly Father as a child relates to those in earthly authority over him: with a fearful respect, striving to obey and willing to learn from discipline.

The welts she had raised on Hammond’s and McCourt’s flesh were a visible sign of the corrective love of God, administered by her in accordance with His living Word. And how wonderfully the spirit and the will were knit together with our fleshly bodies. The spirit and the will expressed themselves through the body. In song and laughter, through tears and touch. And on earth we were as Saint Teresa had said the hands and feet of Christ.

Christ has no body but yours

No hands, no feet on earth but yours.

Yours are the eyes with which he looks

With compassion on this world.

Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good.

Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.

Yours are the hands, yours are the feet.

Yours are the eyes, you are his body.

And it was with our physical body that we disciplined a child’s will through the infliction of bodily pain on his body. And we comforted his spirit afterwards by holding his body to ours. Both were expressions of compassion. The harsh discipline as much as the ensuing comfort.

She picked up a pencil and taking a sheet of paper made a list of the things she had yet to accomplish.



1. Resolve how best to punish William for his latest tantrum

She twisted the pencil in her fingers as she thought. Diana had considered it entirely appropriate to revert him to the chamber pot, and she was grateful of her offer to have William in her class and to provide the discipline he needed. But was more required.

2. Write to James Fairclough about McCourt and Hammond

She opened a drawer and took out a sheet of notepaper, and putting down the pencil, picked up a pen.

Dear Principal,

This morning Miss Harris sent to the infirmary two boys, McCourt and Hammond, whom she had caught fighting in the corridor outside my office. McCourt had a bruised knee with a superficial abrasion and Hammond a cut face. They were patched up and both were then soundly spanked for wasting the infirmary’s time and its resources. Hammond disgraced himself by urinating on the floor and was additionally caned. He has also been given a series of painful enemas both to assist with an impacted bowel and to provide further discipline. I was hesitant whether to refer them to you in view of the punishment they had received at my hands, but I do so in view of your clearly expressed wish in this matter of corridor discipline.

Cordelia Lavington

She folded the note and inserted it into an envelope and sealing it placed it edge up against the back of the desk. She then added a third task to her list.

3. Take steps to curb Samuel’s masturbatory habit

She frowned and pursed her lips. She knew that a practice that was so urgent and so overwhelming could only be curbed by severe punishment, punishment capable of inducing a holy fear in the boy. But Samuel had not yet reached an age when the climactic satisfaction of masturbation was accompanied by a seminal emission. That made discovery that much more difficult. However, even when a boy had seminal emissions, he soon took steps to hide the evidence. Most boys were initially both dirty and careless, masturbating on to their pyjamas or sheets, and leaving tell-tale wrinkled marks when the semen dried. Then, when they had paid the price of such carelessness, they would masturbate into a rag and then tuck it away unwashed at the back of a drawer. When that had been discovered and they had been severely whipped, only then would they start to masturbate over a hand basin or lavatory pan behind a locked door. So, for both an immature boy and for a devious older boy, similar measures were required: constant vigilance, reducing wherever possible the opportunities for sinning, and most importantly accompanied by frequent interrogation to awaken guilt and to force a confession. The latter was almost certainly the way forward with Samuel.

As a girl she had shared a room with her older brother and remembered the thrill of listening to him masturbate in his bed. She would then threaten to report him to their mother, but would often wait for several days before doing so. How she had relished his anxiety and her own nervous anticipation of the flogging to come. Sometimes she would decide not to betray him, knowing that in doing so she was encouraging a futile hope of reprieve on the next occasion. She smiled, and wondered whether Elizabeth, if she shared a bedroom with Samuel, would behave in a similar way.

She picked up the letter she had written to the Principal and went into the infirmary.

“Ann, do you think you could take this down to the Principal. It concerns Hammond and McCourt.”

James Fairclough was prompt in his reply which arrived before lunch.

Dear Matron,

Thank you for your note about Hammond and McCourt. I am pleased you referred the matter to me. There is too much fighting and misbehaviour in the corridors and, as you know, I am eager to stamp it out. However, in view of the very thorough punishment Hammond has received at your hands, I propose to delay his punishment for a few days. That will allow his currently wealed flesh to heal a little before he is punished again. However, I see no reason to delay McCourt’s punishment and I should be grateful if you would accompany him to my study at three o’clock this afternoon to witness his flogging.

It would also be most gratifying if you could remain afterwards and take afternoon tea with Diana and myself.

With every good wish,

James Fairclough

Principal

Cordelia felt a frisson of excitement at the prospect of witnessing McCourt’s flogging. She knew that Diana was sometimes present when a boy was birched, and that it was largely through her advocacy that the practice had been so swiftly reintroduced when her husband had been appointed principal. At half past two, she sent for McCourt.

“The Principal wants to see you McCourt. Stand with your back to the wall and your arms by your sides. And stand still.”

She continued to write at her desk for several minutes, and then looked up.

“Have you been birched before, McCourt?”

“P . . . please, Matron. No.”

“Well, the Principal will certainly birch you for fighting in the corridor. Do you know what a birching is, McCourt?”

All he knew was that it was something that happened to very naughty boys and was best avoided.

“I . . . I’m not sure, Matron”

“You were not here when that absconder, Burgess, was birched, were you?”

He looked down biting his lip and shaking his head.

“Then let me warn you that Mr Birch is no friend of small boys. He is made from six switches cut from a birch tree. The leaves are stripped off and the twigs bound together leaving a whippy end that is swished across a boy’s bare bottom until it is covered in blood and he is hoarse from screaming. And you will be pleased to know that the long smarting weals that are left will be visible for several weeks as a reminder of the need for obedience.”

She paused.

“And this is all because you didn’t heed the Principal’s rule not to fight in the corridors. It may seem a dreadful punishment for something that may seems not very serious. But you see, McCourt, the rules are not set by what you think is important. They are set in accordance with what the Principal judges to be necessary for the smooth running of this orphanage. And if you choose to disobey the rules and to show contempt for his authority, then that is a very serious matter. And you will be birched.

“You will stand in the corner for the next twenty minutes, facing the wall, and then I will accompany you to the Principal’s office.”

She sat at her desk, but she found it difficult to concentrate. She looked across at the small eight-year-old boy in his grey shirt and short grey flannel trousers. Soon they would be stripped off and his bottom bared for his flogging. She smiled, remembering again the words of George MacDonald

God’s nature is always to forgive his little ones and there is no extreme of suffering to which for the sake of destroying the evil in them, he would not subject them.

She looked at the clock.

“Time to go, McCourt. It will be painful, but my advice is to try and learn from it. Learn that you must obey rules even if you see no sense in doing so.”

She put her arm around him and shepherded him out of the room, out through the infirmary, and down the corridor. She knocked at the door and on hearing the Principal’s ‘Come in’ entered. He rose to greet her.

“Punctual as ever, Matron. And with McCourt.”

He beckoned to the boy.

“Come here, boy. Do you know why you are here?”

The boy looked close to tears.

“Ye . . . yes, Sir.”

“And why is that?”

“T . . . to be punished . . . Sir.”

“And what are you being punished for?”

“F . . . for . . . fighting in the corridors . . .Sir.”

“Yes, McCourt. For fighting in the corridor. Foolishly outside Matron’s infirmary.”

He turned to Mrs Lavington.

“And you have punished him yourself, Matron. For wasting your time when you had better and more important things to do. Is that right?”

“Yes, Sir. McCourt is here to be punished for breaking your rule forbidding running and fighting in the corridors. And I have warned him that he may expect to be punished very severely indeed.”

He looked at the small boy shifting nervously before him.

“Lower your trousers and remove them, together with your underpants. And place both neatly over the arm of the chair.”

He pointed to one of the two green leather armchairs. The boy slipped off his braces and did as he had been told, standing half naked before them.

“And now off with the shirt and tie. And turn around, boy. Let me see how effectively Matron has punished you.”

The boy turned, red with embarrassment, shivering and yet pale with fear.

“I can see the boy has been soundly spanked, Matron. And how many strokes was that?”

“Thirty, Sir. With the back of my hairbrush.”

The Principal propelled him round by his shoulders and placed his fingers under the boy’s chin, forcing his head back.

“And was it painful, McCourt that spanking with Matron’s hairbrush?”

He turned to Mrs Lavington.

“Was this the boy who disgraced himself, Matron? Who wet himself like a baby?”

“No, Sir. That was Hammond. McCourt simply disgraced himself by showing little or no fortitude in the face of adversity.”

“Well, an eight-year-old boy who cannot take a spanking without blubbering for his mother is hardly likely to win any plaudits for courage when he is birched.”

He looked at the boy.

“You do realise, McCourt, that you are going to be birched, and birched severely. Matron has explained that to you?”

“Yes, Sir, he knows what to expect.”

“Does he indeed. Have you been birched before, boy? Let the boy answer for himself, Matron.”

“N . . . no, Sir. I . . . I don’t think so, Sir.”

“You don’t think so. Never had those tough leathery twigs swished across your bare flesh until you were roaring in agony. Never looked in a mirror afterwards and seen those long bloody weals cut across your bottom. No?”

He paused breathing in deeply.

“Oh, you would know if you had been birched, boy.”

He looked as Mrs Lavington.

“Every boy remembers his first birching. And why? Because it cuts and marks his soul, as well as his flesh.”

He looked at the quivering boy.

“Stand outside the door McCourt. I wish to speak to Matron.”

The boy went, shamed at having to stand in the corridor wearing only a short vest, with his bottom bare and his small immature genitals exposed. The Principal turned to Mrs Lavington.

“I intend that McCourt’s first birching should be memorable, Matron. An experience that will give him cause to be obey unquestioningly in future.”

He paused.

“I remember the first time I was birched at the age of nine. I had been sacked from my prep school, a penalty that should have fallen on another boy for I was innocent of the iniquity of which I was accused. But he was believed and I was not. My parents were horrified. Rather than enrol me in another school, they appointed a governess who was instructed to work me hard, paying particular attention to my moral welfare. Whenever I fell short, she was to apply the rod unstintingly. She had a warmth about her but also a determination that told me she would not hesitate to provide the discipline required. Nor did she. I recall the first moment I was introduced to her.

This is Miss Ravenscourt, James. She is your new governess, and she will be responsible not only for your lessons but for all your conduct. She will rule over your whole day from your rising in the morning until you fall asleep at night. She has the authority to admonish you and to discipline you.

“I was then left with her. I remember vividly her first words to me.

I understand you are a boy in need of discipline, James. In my book, there is no effective discipline without punishment, and the best punishment for a boy of your age is the birch.’

“She pointed to the corner.

In that bucket are two birch rods. Bring one to me, please.

“I did so and she swished it through the air. I watched mesmerised. It was the first time I had seen a birch.

Were you caned at school, James?

Y . . . yes, Miss Ravenscourt. Sometimes.

And how were you caned, James?

I . . . I’m not sure I understand, Miss Ravenscourt.

I am asking, James, where the cane was applied. To what part of your body.

T . . . to my bottom, please, Miss Ravenscourt.

To your bottom. And what were you wearing when the cane was applied to your bottom?

“I could feel my face hot and damp under her interrogation.

We . . . we were caned over our school trousers, please, Miss Ravenscourt.

Over your school trousers. You mean over your grey flannel shorts, like the ones you are wearing now?

Yes, Miss Ravenscourt.’

And did the cane hurt when swished across the seat of your shorts?

Please, yes, Miss Ravenscourt.

“She smiled. A thin smile I was to become all too familiar with.

But not as painful as it would have been if swished across your bare bottom?

I . . . I suppose not . . . Miss Ravenscourt.

Well, let me tell you that the birch is always administered to a boy’s completely bare bottom. When I kiss a boy goodnight, I kiss him directly on the lips. I do not place a piece of cloth between his lips and mine. I want him to feel the softness of my lips expressing my love for him. And when I express my love by birching him, it is never done through clothing. He needs to feel the sharp pain correcting his wrongdoing and opening the path to forgiveness. To do otherwise would not be love but an empty, useless gesture. Tell me, James, when you were expelled from school were you first flogged for your disgraceful behaviour?

N . . . no, Miss Ravenscourt.

Well, I am surprised. I can understand their not wanting a perverse boy like you to continue at the school. But to leave your sin unpunished seems quite extraordinary’

“She smiled.

But that can easily be remedied. Best to start with a completely clean sheet, I think, James.

In the middle of this reminiscence, the door opened and Mrs Fairclough entered.

“I see you have a boy standing outside in the corridor James in a state of some undress. I take it he is to be punished.”

“Yes, my dear . Matron, caught him fighting in the corridor. He is to be birched.”
















Chapter 49

Owing to the propensity of the birch to shed small bits as it transforms a boy’s smooth pale skin to inflamed and scarified flesh, James Fairclough had recently adapted a small room adjacent to his office exclusively for the birching of boys. He had found that birching a boy in his office left the carpet covered in small bits of birch. He was more than happy to spank a boy there or cane him, but from now on if a birching was needed it would usually be given in the newly equipped room. Whereas his office was nicely carpeted with a pale beige Wilton, the punishment room had a wooden polished floor from which the detritus from the birch could be easily swept up. There were several upright chairs set against the walls but what immediately caught the eye was a leather gymnasium buck.

It was clear that Diana Fairclough had every intention of watching McCourt’s flogging. For her the sight of the birch being swished across a boy’s bottom was deeply stirring. She felt a shortness of breath and a dampness between her legs as the flexible twigs cut into a boy’s sensitive young flesh, rendering it first flushed and pink, then a deeper red, until the skin was broken and little seams of blood appeared. It was a disappointment when a boy was too stoical, for she enjoyed the visible confirmation of his suffering. She wanted to see his agonised writhing as the rod scored his flesh, and to listen to his demented screaming as the torture became increasingly insupportable. Fortunately for her, such stoicism was rare.

She had been the only girl in her family and had grown up with three younger brothers. Tom, the eldest was two years her junior, with Eustace and James being respectively younger by five and seven years. When Diana was born her mother was delighted and entirely comfortable with the idea of a daughter, for she had been one of five girls and a biddable child. Diana’s brothers, however, were far from biddable. So, when her first son was born, she had every expectation that he would need to be broken by severe and regular chastisement, and the governess she appointed was instructed to provide exactly that. Indeed, she was given a fairly free rein to discipline the boy both in the nursery and schoolroom.

However, there were occasions when her mother chose to punish Tom herself, and, when she did, she did so thoroughly and with enthusiasm. By the time Diana was eight, she was watching her six-year-old brother, stretched over her mother’s knee and being birched with a rod which, despite its small size, raised smarting red weals on his flesh. Her mother had no compunction about reducing him to a sobbing shrunken ruin, and indeed clearly gained considerable pleasure from doing so. As Tom grew in stature and physical strength, so did the weight of the birch and the intensity of his punishment.

When Tom was nine he was sent away to school where beatings continued to be a regular feature of his life, although less severe than the punishments he endured at home. Most boys looked forward to the holidays but not Tom. For him it meant a return to being hoisted and flogged, and without the camaraderie of other boys under similar discipline. While he was away at school, Diana was able to witness her younger brothers being spanked, who at six and four were judged too young for the birch. But despite the pleasure of watching her younger brothers squirm over their mother’s lap as the hairbrush reddened their small buttocks, it was no substitute for the pleasure of seeing Tom birched. James and Bertie would howl as they were spanked, but the sound was nothing like the roaring agony of their older brother as the rod was swished vigorously and repeatedly across his bottom, raising long throbbing weals that would eventually break and ooze blood.

It was not that Diana was cruel or wanted her eldest brother to suffer. Indeed, her eagerness for the delicious sensual pleasure of seeing him well-flogged rendered her oblivious to his personal agony. And now at the prospect of seeing McCourt flogged she felt a mounting excitement and an impatience for the punishment to commence.

“And how many strokes is the boy getting, James?”

“That is something I was about to discuss with Matron, my dear. I have already said I wish to give the boy something to remember. Something that will be a real deterrent to any more fighting in the corridors. And serve as a deterrent to others.”

He turned to Mrs Lavington.

“So, what do you think, Matron?”

“Well Sir, the boy may think fighting in the corridors is a small matter but I have already told him that what he thinks is irrelevant. He is not responsible for setting the rules. You are. And if he breaks a rule, he is challenging your authority. Such disobedience is subversive and deserves to be severely punished. I would not consider two dozen strokes excessive.”

The boy looked pale and anxious and his buttocks tightened, as though already tingling in anticipation of the torture to come.

“What do you think, my dear? Do you agree with Matron?”

“I do. Most certainly. Two dozen strokes, and no concessions for his age. Each stroke should be well laid on.”

Mr Fairclough nodded.

“As you know, my preference is to horse a boy rather than have hm over the buck. Unfortunately, the boy Cairns is indisposed. So, I suppose there is not alternative to the buck.”

Cairns was a former orphanage boy who now worked in the grounds, and whose sturdy back was often employed to horse boys for a flogging.

Mrs Fairclough spoke in a quiet intense voice.

“I know you prefer to horse a boy, James, and I wonder whether Mary might horse McCourt. She is a strong girl and the boy is slight for his age. I want her to take on more responsibility, especially in instructing and disciplining young Cranston, and it would be a real encouragement to her.”

“I see no objection to that, my dear. What do you think, Matron?”

“I thoroughly approve, Sir. Horsing a boy allows him just that measure of tantalising freedom that allows him to struggle and writhe, but all to no avail. For a public flogging, it is right that the boy be firmly secured to the buck. But this is different.”

When Mrs Fairclough had gone to fetch Mary, the Principal turned to Mrs Lavington.

“I wonder whether you would like to flog the boy yourself, Matron. Have you birched a boy before?”

“No, Sir. I have only assisted with a flogging. The time I restrained Burgess when he was birched for absconding.”

He smiled.

“Well, if you apply the rod with the same vigour as you do the hairbrush, Matron, the boy will have no cause to complain of inadequate discipline, that is for sure.”

He turned to the boy.

“Go through that door over there, McCourt, and stand with your back to the wall and your hands by your sides. And no fidgeting around.”

In a few minutes, Diana returned accompanied by Mary who looked flushed and nervous.

“Mrs Fairclough has explained what is required of you, Mary?”

“Yes, Sir. I’m to horse a boy for the birch.”

“And you can do that?”

“Oh yes, Sir. At the orphanage I horsed several of the younger girls when they were punished. Mrs Phillips birched them and she never complained.”

“Well, this will be a boy not a girl, but the procedure will be the same.”

He smiled.

“And I am sure, like Mrs Phillips, we shall have nothing to complain about. Follow me.”

The adjoining room was lit by a large casement window. McCourt was standing as instructed with his back to the wall and his arms by his side. His eyes were dark and fearful.

Mrs Fairclough spoke sharply.

“Come here, McCourt. When you are hoisted over Mary’s back, you will place your arms on her shoulders so she can grasp them. Do you understand?”

“Ye . . . yes, Ma’am.”

Mrs Fairclough put a reassuring arm around Mary,

“And I suggest you let the buck support you when you lean forward with the boy over your back, Mary. It is best to grasp his upper arms just above the elbow. Matron will be birching him and all you have to do is hold him tight. Are you happy with that?”

“Yes, Ma’am. If I could manage the girls, I am sure I’ll be able to manage this boy. Some of the girls were bigger than him.”

Mrs Lavington watched as McCourt was positioned for his flogging. In a bucket three rod were steeping. She selected one, shook it and swished it through the air. She looked at the boy’s buttocks, bare and awaiting the first stroke. He had been described as slight for his age, and so he was, but wonderfully proportioned. Part of her would have liked to have birched him across pale unmarked flesh, but the spanking she had given him had been deeply satisfying.

There was no doubt in her mind that a boy’s bottom was intended for punishment. Often, with a boy over her knee, she would run her hand over the firm contours of his bottom, enjoying the round, fleshy fullness before she spanked him. But to birch a boy would be very different. She recalled one of her favourite passages from Eugenia Strang’s book on The Management and Discipline of Boys.

Even if the hairbrush resides in a drawer or is visibly displayed as a deterrent, its true home is his mother’s bedroom. That is whence it came. It speaks of female attire, lawn handkerchiefs and perfume. In disciplining a boy with its hard wooden back, each smarting stroke is redolent of a mother’s love. It declares that her love is no sentimental attachment, that at its heart is a firm commitment to love him in a deeply practical way, prepared to meet his needs whatever the cost to herself. Maternal love does not cling to him, does not seek to own him, or to treat him as a plaything. It never shrinks from punishing out of fear of losing his love. A truly loving mother knows that discipline does not destroy love but creates that distance between her and her child which allows love to flourish. And each time a boy is spanked, the hairbrush reminds the mother of this essential truth.

The rattan cane speaks less of love expressed through discipline but more of discipline itself. It is fashioned for one purpose and one purpose only, and that is punishment. It preferably has a crooked handle and hangs from a hook, and is visible to the child and all who enter the home. It embodies the spirit of discipline, and all who see it cannot doubt the use to which it is put. It is pencil thin, wonderfully limber, and has a rigidity that when swished across a boy’s bare bottom causes intense pain and distress. Whereas a spanking leaves a boy with a crimson bottom radiating the heat of his mother’s love, the cane imprints weals that are distinct and visible: a series of tramline markings cut into his flesh. In their meticulous regularity they exemplify the very nature of discipline. It is calculated and measured. It weighs the boy’s offence and awards the appropriate penalty. Each cut can be counted off on his flesh until his punishment is complete. In this a caning differs from a spanking. A spanking is less calculated, continuing until the mother is satisfied that the boy’s red and smarting flesh fully expresses the discipline that her love demands.

I do not believe that exclusive use should be made of either the hairbrush or the cane. Both should play a part in a boy’s upbringing. In the earlier years, the warm, practical and physical demonstration of a mother’s love is of the greatert importance. Hence, the hairbrush is the preferred implement applied to the bare bottom with unstinting vigour. However, by the time the boy is six or seven he is becoming increasingly independent. At this age, therefore, it is appropriate to use an implement such as the cane, expressing the mother’s discipline in a more direct and overt way. The cane may be used for clear acts of defiance and the boy stood in the corner afterwards with the marks of his punishment visible for all to see. However, where naughtiness is more a consequence of childish thoughtlessness or lack of control, then a spanking with the hairbrush is still entirely appropriate.

I should add that similar considerations apply to the tawse, as they do to the cane. It is crafted out of a solid piece of thick leather for the sole purpose of whipping an errant child. It will leave long throbbing weals on a boy’s buttocks or if used on the palms of his outstretched hands inflict an indescribable smarting pain. The tawse is the ideal implement to impress upon an older boy that he is still under his mother’s authority and subject to her discipline. This is rendered particularly acute if the boy has reluctantly to offer his palms to be beaten, and to stand facing his mother, displaying his agony and shame as the punishment proceeds. However, given the bony and uninviting structure of the hand, I would reserve such punishment for those rare occasions when it is indicated by exceptionally defiant behaviour, and would always combine it with a thrashing to the buttocks.

The birch has in recent years acquired a reputation as being unusually cruel and appropriate only for delinquents brought before the courts or placed in a reformatory. In fact, it is an eminently versatile implement that, bound up as needed, may be matched to the age and stature of the delinquent. I have used a light birch across the bottom of a five-year old as a stinging reminder of the need for obedience; while a weightier birch swished with resolution across the bottom of a twelve-year old is equally effective in securing an improvement in behaviour.

The birch consists of five or six switches stripped of their leaves and bound up into a rod. The binding should run for two thirds of the length so that the end used for punishment springs forth from the stock in a spray of fine slender flexible twigs. This spray has great elasticity so that a sharp twist of the wrist is enough to make it leap through the air with an impressive and punishing speed. Because of its lightness it cannot bruise or cause deep tissue damage. The thin whippy twigs punish by inflaming, scarifying, and eventually puncturing the surface of the skin. What at first seems an unpleasant sensation, rapidly becomes an intense prickling pain and soon the boy feels as though a swarm of bees were stinging his bottom. If continued much beyond a dozen strokes blood may be drawn but the damage to the buttocks is entirely superficial, and should not be a cause of concern.

Mrs Lavington raised the birch and brought it cutting down across the bareness of the boy’s buttocks. He gave a piercing scream and kicked desperately. Mary gave his arms a sharp pull to secure him the more securely over her back.

Again, the birch descended. And then again. And again. It seemed to have a life and intent of its own. The tough lithe twigs were like a cat pouncing and sinking its claws into the soft warm body of a trembling field mouse. And as a cat plays with its prey, releasing it only to seize it again and continue the torment, so did Mrs Lavington torment the boy.

She recalled that for Eugenia Strang a boy’s punishment was a small foretaste of Hell itself.

A boy who is brought before the Court of his Mother for sentence should be filled with apprehension. Although his punishment is of limited duration it should bear down upon him with the weight of eternity. Stripped and defenceless, the light of hope should be extinguished. He should be conscious of nothing but the everlasting torment of Hell. This is made real for him by the love of a mother who is prepared, if necessary, to demand of him the last farthing.

Mrs Lavington’s approach to a boy’s discipline was to apply the chosen implement of correction in an unhurried and measured way, allowing the boy time to smart between each stroke. Some mothers preferred a series of fast strokes, as many as perhaps two or three a second, until the boy was overwhelmed by pain and lost in a single enveloping agony. But this was not Mrs Lavington’s way. She wanted a boy to be aware of each stroke, and when the pain of that had subsided, to anticipate the next, and not just the next but the whole succession of strokes that were still to come, stretching out endlessly before him.

For her this was a foretaste of Hell. Heaven, she understood to be timeless, the all-enveloping joy of an eternal present. But Hell was not eternal but everlasting. It might have the weight of eternity but time was not abolished. The damned in their torment were conscious of time passing, endless time, in which there was no reprieve, no respite to their dreadful suffering. And it was a foretaste of this that she sought to replicate in the punishment of her own children; and now in the punishment of the boy horsed before her.

Stroke after remorseless stroke was applied until the boy was sobbing and screaming with his buttocks streaked with blood. He was writhing in his desperation after every cut, but Mary held him firmly in her grasp. But suddenly she screamed, a shrill scream of protest unlike the demented screams of the boy hoisted over her back. She continued to hold him but she was shaking her head.

“He bit my ear, Sir.”

Mrs Lavington stepped back and looked at the Principal.

“Mary release the boy and Matron will examine your ear.”

The boy slipped to the floor. The enormity of what he had done and fear of the consequences had quietened him. He had been grinding his teeth between each agonising stroke, and then screaming as each cut penetrated his whole being with its searching pain. In truth, he had scarcely known what he was doing. He stood against the wall with his hands by his sides his cheeks wet with his tears.

“The ear has been marked by the boy’s teeth, but there is no bleeding.”

The Principal nodded.

“Are you happy to continue, Mary? Or should we put him over the buck for the rest of his flogging?”

Mary held her ear. “No, Sir. I can continue, if that would be best. But I don’t want him biting me again, Sir.”

“There will be no more biting, I promise you that.”

He turned to Mrs Lavington.

“And how many strokes of the allotment have still to be given, Matron?”

“A further six, Sir. Eighteen have been given.”

“Then, add a further dozen to the six, Matron. And then a further dozen across the boy’s thighs for his biting like an ill-trained puppy dog.”

He stepped across to a corner cupboard and opening it, took out a wad of cloth about the size of a rolled table napkin, together with a narrow length of material. He handed them to Mrs Lavington, as he took the birch from her.

“When you have muzzled the boy, Matron, take a fresh rod from the pail.”

He watched as Mrs Lavington inserted the wad of cloth between the boy’s teeth, instructing him to bite on it, and then stretched the strip of material across his mouth and secured it tightly at the back of his head. The Principal smiled.

“Bend forward, Mary, and Matron will hoist him. And hold him firmly. Just above the elbows.”

He was pale and terrified, swallowing desperately, fearful of choking with the gag filling his mouth. Mary, when a younger girl, had herself been horsed and flogged at the orphanage. And now as she had listened to the swish of the birch and felt the boy kick and writhe as she held him, his pain became for her an inward writhing pleasure.



Chapter 50



After the original sentence of twenty-four strokes was complete, Mrs Lavington paused., enjoying the anticipation of administering yet further cuts to the boy’s small firm bottom. His buttocks were already raw and wealed and small droplets of blood had trickled on to the tops of his thighs. She had no regrets about the flogging. Some might have regarded it as cruelty but not Mrs Lavington. For her, cruelty was the infliction of pain for a purely selfish, sensual satisfaction. But the flogging of the boy before her was given for his own good, to teach him a valuable lesson in obedience. Without that, the flogging would have been meaningless, and instead of a deep satisfaction she would have felt guilty of abusing both the boy and her position. To take pleasure in gratuitous and unmerited suffering was an abhorrence. But suffering that was just and proportionate and inflicted to break a child’s servitude to sin was quite different. There justice and love coalesced, and the deep sensual satisfaction was a sharing in the joy of heaven as the child was remorselessly driven toward repentance.

All that could now be heard in the room was the boy’s desperate sobbing.

She remembered the occasion when as girl she had been playing with Edward Atkinson and his mother had seen him throwing stones. She had immediately come out and taken him into the kitchen by his ear. And he had bit her on the arm. She had a vivid recollection of all that followed. His mother’s immediate response was to deliver a series of hard stinging smacks to each side of his face that immediately quietened him.

‘Come inside, Cordelia, and I’ll show you how boys who bite are dealt with.’

Cordelia had always been a little afraid of Mrs Atkinson for she rarely smiled, but the thought of seeing Edward punished overcame any reluctance. She knew that both he and his brother were spanked for she had heard Mrs Atkinson and her mother speaking about it. But as they entered the kitchen, Mrs Atkinson took a cane from a hook behind the door. Cordelia’s eyes widened.

‘Mr Hairbrush has a lot to teach a boy, but there are some lessons that his friend, Mr Whippy Cane is better at teaching. Isn’t that right, Edward?’

Edward was biting his lip.

‘I said, isn’t that right, Edward?’

‘Ye . . . yes, Mother.’

Mrs Atkinson placed a low stool in the centre of the kitchen.

“Off with your trousers and pants, Edward. And kneel across the stool.’

He went down on all fours, his stomach resting on the seat, and his mother rucked his shirt and vest high up his back. And with slow measured strokes the boy was flogged. Cordelia remembered her amazement at his fortitude. He screamed like a small animal caught in a trap but not once did he attempt to rise or wriggle out of position. Even at her young age Cordelia recognised that he had been well-schooled and that he knew that any opposition would result in an even worse punishment. She remembered wondering what that might be.

The cane was pencil thin and enormously limber. It might have been swished lightly across bare flesh to redden the surface of the skin and impart merely an unpleasant stinging sensation. But that was not how Mrs Atkinson used it. Cordelia felt a sinking feeling in her stomach at each whoosh of the cane. She watched, scarcely breathing, as it sliced through the air and cut into the boy’s soft, firm flesh. After two dozen strokes, he was heaving and sobbing and the stone flagged floor was wet from his tears.

‘Stand up, Edward.’

He did so, slowly, his head bowed and his hair damp and disheveled.

‘Look at me.’

Slowly, reluctantly, he raised a hot, tear-stained face.

‘You know you are forbidden to throw stones. Normally, you would have been spanked for such disobedience. But a boy who resists his mother needs a lesson that only the cane can teach.’

She paused.

‘You bit me. And as you have chosen to behave like a dog, you will be treated like one.

He looked down, his eyes filling with tears. She went to retrieve a lead and collar that were hanging on a hook. Soon the collar was around his neck and the end of the leash handed to Cordelia.

‘Badly behave dogs need to be chained up and eat from a bowl, don’t they Edward. But first our new little doggie needs to be taken for a walk. So, please will you walk him down to the village and back, Cordelia.’

Cordelia could hardly believe what she was being asked.

“But . . . but Mrs Atkinson, he’s only wearing a shirt.’

‘Don’t be silly, Cordelia. He’s a little dog. He’s lucky to have a vest. Most dogs don’t wear clothes at all.’

She went to the kitchen range and took a wooden spoon from a stoneware jar at the back.

‘And as dogs like to carry something in their mouths, you will hold this between your teeth Edward. And if you drop it, I’ll be spanking the backs of your legs with it when you return.’

She nodded.

‘And if anyone asks what you are doing, Cordelia, just tell them he’s a little dog that has bitten his mother and before being chained up for the rest of the day, he’s being taken for a walk.’

Please, Mrs Atkinson, my mother will wonder where I’ve gone.’

‘No need to worry, Cordelia, I’ll tell her. Now off your go.’

Cordelia remembered that walk. She was just twelve and Edward was her junior by about four years. He was small for his age whereas she was tall, and that accentuated her sense of authority over him. Looking back, she realised that it was then that she knew she wanted to be a mother with children of her own to discipline.

‘Come on, Edward, don’t dawdle.’

And she gave a pull on the lead. They went through the garden gate and set off.

‘Please, Cordelia, People will see me. Please, let’s hide in the field.’

He was speaking with the spoon between his teeth and his voice was strange and distorted.

‘Please, Cordelia. Mother needn’t know. You can tell her we went. Please.’

Cordelia felt a constriction in her chest.

‘You mean I’m supposed to lie. To tell your mother a lie. Is that what you are asking?’

He was whimpering now and crying. He nodded.

“Please, Cordelia, please.”

‘That would be very wrong, Edward. I am not going to do it. When we get home, I will have to tell her you tried to get me to lie. And what do you think she will do, then?’

They walked on with him crying bitterly, dragging his steps and being told that his reluctance would also need to be reported.

‘And I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes, Edward. Not one little bit.’

As they entered the village, they met Mrs Graham coming out of the Post Office. She was pushing a perambulator and beside her were two children a few years older than Edward.

‘And what may you be a-doing, young Cordelia? And Master Edward Atkinson in only a shirt. And on a lead like a little dog.’

‘Please, Mrs Graham, he bit his mother when she was taking him into the house to spank him. And then she asked me to walk him down to the village.’

‘Bit his mother! I never heard such a thing. Well, I can see now why he is collared and on a lead, and carrying something in his mouth.’

Edward was red with embarrassment, and then had to suffer the humiliation as Mrs Graham’s asked Cordelia to lift his shirt so she could examine his bottom.

“Well, his mother’s done more than spank him. He’s been given a good caning that’s for sure. I haven’t seen a bottom like that since I were a girl and my brothers were caned.’

She bent down and gave Edward’s bottom a hard slap. He gave a sharp scream and twisted away. And the wooden spoon clattered on to the cobbles.

“Hot and sore is it, Master Edward. And so, it should be.’

She smiled. And picked up the spoon and handed it to Cordelia.

‘Makes me think I should be getting a nice rattan cane for these two, the way they’ve been behaving recently. Turn around Master Edward and let Robert and Christopher see what the cane can do to a boy’s bottom.’

And she gave his bottom another slap.

‘And how was Master Edward caned, Cordelia? Was he turned over the sofa arm? That’s the way my brothers got it.’

‘Please, Mrs Graham, he had to kneel on all fours over a stool.’

Mrs Graham nodded.

Well, I can see from his bottom that your mother knows what she’s about. No point in tickling a boy. When my brothers were caned, it was well laid on. And did they roar. Well, let me not keep you. You’d best be continuing your walk. But meeting you and Master Edward has certainly given me something to think about, that’s for sure.’

Cordelia led him a bit further into the village and although the pair of them attracted a few glances nothing more was said. As they returned Cordelia made Edward take the wooden spoon once more between his teeth. She smiled.

‘What was it your mother said about the spoon, Edward?’

He spoke with difficulty with his mouth crammed with spoon.

‘She . . . she said I was to bite on it and not let it . . . drop.’

‘Yes. Not to let it drop from your mouth. And did you? Did you let it drop from your mouth?’

‘But it was because Mrs Graham smacked my bottom where it hurt. I didn’t mean to. Please Cordelia.’

‘Well, all I remember is that she said if you let the spoon drop, she would smack the backs of your legs.’

‘Please Cordelia, don’t tell her.’

Cordelia paused, relishing the power she had over the boy.

‘And then there is trying to get me to lie. I don’t know what she will say about that.’

‘Please, Cordelia, don’t tell her.’

‘I’ve told you already, Edward. I am not going to lie for you.’

She gave a tug on the lead.

‘Come on. We’re nearly home.’

Mrs Atkinson had seen them approaching and opened the door.

‘Thank you, Cordelia. I hope you enjoyed your walk, Edward. I see you still have the spoon in your mouth.’ She tilted her head back, eyebrows raised.

‘And did he behave himself, Cordelia?’

Cordelia felt Edward stiffen. She knew he was hoping beyond hope that she would spare him.

‘Well, Mrs Atkinson.’

Yes, Cordelia?’

‘Well, he tried to make me not go into the village. . . and to tell you we had gone even though we hadn’t.’

Mrs Atkinson raised her eyebrows.

‘Is this true, Edward?’

His voice was low and hopeless.

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Is there anything else, Cordelia?’

‘Well, we met Mrs Graham, and . . . and she talked to us and Edward dropped the spoon out of his mouth. And then he tried to get me to lie about that.’

‘And why was that, Edward? It was surely possible to speak without dropping the spoon. And if there was the risk of dropping it you should have kept quiet. I am sure Cordelia would have explained your predicament.’

‘But Mother, Mrs Graham, she smacked me and I . . . I dropped the spoon. I didn’t mean to. Please, Mother.’

‘I cannot see why a smack meant you had to drop the spoon. It was quite unnecessary. There is no excuse. And certainly none for lying.’

Cordelia watched as she made the boy stand facing the wall and about two feet away from it.

‘And now lean forward and support yourself against the wall with your hands. Come on, Edward, you’ve been punished like this before. You may be a little dog but you are not learning a new trick.’

She picked up the wooden spoon and smacked it against her palm.

‘And if you collapse in a sorry heap, we will simply have to start again from the beginning. So just show a little fortitude and try and learn from the punishment.’

She turned to Cordelia.

‘And what is he learning, Cordelia?’

‘I . . . I suppose to do as he’s told.’

‘Exactly, Edward. To do as you are told. And not to make silly excuses.’

Cordelia watched as the spoon was raised and its hard wooden back smacked down raising a smarting oval mark on the boy’s soft thigh flesh. As when he had been caned, he protested vocally, but made no attempt to resist. Cordelia was counting the strokes and when the spoon was set down, he had received a total of twenty strokes to each thigh. He was sobbing and choking but was made to stand back to the wall that he had just faced for his punishment.

‘And now Edward there is that other little matter that we have to deal with. Indeed, not a little matter but a very serious matter. And what am I talking about?’

He managed to curb his sobbing although still in obvious distress.

‘I . . . I tried to get Cordelia not to take me to the village.’

‘Yes. You tried to persuade her to go against my word. And what else?’

‘I wanted her to lie about it. Please, Mother, I’m sorry. Please don’t punish me more.’

He was crying quietly now, tears of fear and desperation. His face was wet and his eyes red and swollen. Cordelia felt sorry for him, but her sorrow was not of the sort that would wish to see him spared the punishment that was his due.

Mrs Atkinson looked at her.

‘Well, Cordelia how would your mother punish a small boy who had done what Edward had done? Would she let him off with a warning? He has already been punished severely. What do you think she would do?’

‘I . . . I don’t think she would let him off, Mrs Atkinson. The punishments you’ve already given him are for different things. This is for telling lies and my mother would say he needed to be punished for his lying so it could be forgiven.’

Mrs Atkinson nodded.

‘But perhaps she would punish him less severely because of the earlier punishments?’

Cordelia shook her head.

‘No, Mrs Atkinson. I don’t think she would. She’s never done that.’

Edward was listening to this exchange biting his lip and standing forlornly in his shirt which was still rucked up over his shoulders.

“So, Edward. you tempted Cordelia to sin and you are also a liar. And that is like Satan who tempted Our Lord and who Our Lord called the Father of Lies. And you have chosen to serve him and to be a tempter and a liar just as he is. And how did God deal with Satan? He cast him out of Heaven into Hell and there he will be bound in chains along with all those who serve him. Even small boys like you, Edward.”

She frowned and looked frighteningly serious. Cordelia admired her strength of purpose and yet was also more than a little afraid of her. And she felt a small animal stirring in her chest as she waited for the pronouncement of Edward’s further punishment.

“So, Edward what is to be done? “

She waited letting the question hang heavily on the air.

“You will for a while be cast out of the warmth of my love and experience the cold love of rejection. And you will be chained to the table leg for the next few days by the end of that leash that is still around your neck. And there like a little dog you will eat your food and sleep on the floor. And you will remain there until I judge that our have learned your lesson and purged your sin. But first, you will be flogged across the backs of your already sore and well spanked thighs.

Cordelia came out of her reverie, aware that James Fairclough was addressing her.

“Are you ready to continue, Matron. Are you unwell?”

“No, Sir. I am sorry. For a moment I was remembering an incident in my own childhood. No, I am more than ready to continue.”

Fortified by the memory of Mrs Atkinson’s severity, and relishing every cut, she administered the further strokes to McCourt’s already wealed bottom and to the backs of his thighs.. At the end, the boy was released and stood heaving and choking, unsure whether his ordeal was over. The Principal studied him appreciatively the Matron’s excellent work.

“I hope you appreciate, McCourt, the trouble that is being taken on your behalf. We have a Matron who is not only concerned with your physical well-being, but with shaping your character and rooting out sin. As the psalmist says a broken and contrite heart, God will not despise. And the best way of inducing those in a boy is through unremitting discipline and the unhesitating application of the rod.”

He breathed in deeply.

“So, before you go, McCourt, you will thank Matron for her exertions on your behalf.”

“Th . . . thank you . . . Matron.”

She was aware how dry and hoarse his voice was from his agonised screaming. And she watched as he slowly dressed himself, wincing as he pulled his pants over his scarified flesh. When he was finished, she placed her hand behind the nape of his neck and propelled him towards the door.

“Off you go, McCourt. And straight to the infirmary and ask Mrs Simmonds to inspect your bottom and thighs and to do whatever is necessary. And then back to your class. And no dawdling.