By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com
Copyright 2024 by Governess, all rights reserved
* * * * *Chapter 64
Isobel
nodded and turned back to William. She went across to a rack of luggage
straps and selected a broad supple strap that she judged to be of the
right length. She pressed the boy’s chest flat against the cantle and
pulled him back a little so that his buttocks his buttocks were
stretched apart and his bottom jutting up. Cordelia watched as the
strap was run under the stand on which the saddle was mounted and then
drawn up under his armpits and secured across his back. Isobel picked
up the tawse.
Cordelia thought of the various ways in which
she had experienced corporal punishment over the years. First,
receiving it as a child, and later administering it as a mother.
As a child she had often seen her brothers whipped and her friends
disciplined. But watching now as her younger son was whipped, and
whipped at her instigation, was something entirely new.
Cordelia was a devoted Christian who prayed and read the Bible daily,
and insisted that her children did the same. And for her, redemptive
suffering was at the heart of the Gospel. Christ had been flogged, and
crucified for us and that suffering was accepted by His Father who
raised him from the dead. And as Christians we entered into life by
sharing in that suffering and being renewed by it. And this began in
childhood when a boy’s first encounter with suffering was as a small
child, with his bottom bare, and over his mother’s knee. For a mother
is, then, the agent of God’s wrath, providing a first experience of
that pre-existing and eternal love that drives us into the embrace of
the Suffering Servant Himself.
As a young girl her own mother
never withheld chastisement and applied the rod with the firm intention
of inflicting suffering that took her to the limits of her endurance.
But did this reform her, she wondered. Did it change her for the
better? Certainly not at first. She resented her whippings and the
sight of the martinet hanging from its hook in the kitchen filled her
with dread. And yet it imparted a sense of a moral truth that was
greater than anything she could imagine or construct herself. A truth
to which she was accountable. And the guardian of that truth, who
weighed her wrongdoing in the scales, was her mother. And she accepted
that unquestioningly and the judgment that followed. After a severe
whipping, she would often be sent to an early bed to cry herself to
sleep. But in the morning, she awoke to a new day refreshed and calm
and to be warmly greeted by the mother who had punished her. Later, she
read in the Psalms that “weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh
in the morning”. And that seemed to describe her experience perfectly.
But it was only slowly that she began to conform to her mother’s
expectations. The process of sanctification was slow and painful, but
she knew that it was only the frequent application of the rod that made
it possible.
And similarly with her friend Anna, the
repeated whippings she received seemed only to reinforce her rebellious
spirit, with little evidence that her suffering was in any way
redemptive. Anna’s spiritual and moral growth was, like hers, a slow
process. But Anna would eventually marry and have children of her own
and raise them with the same loving care and diligence as her own
mother.
And as she observed William with his bottom jutting
out provocatively, she questioned again why she had asked Isobel to
punish him. Certainly, part of it was to shock him into better
behaviour. But also the wish to see him beaten by someone with the same
loving commitment to discipline as herself. To see that truth
objectified and played out before her.
In earlier times, great
spiritual truths had been enacted in mystery and morality plays. And
what greater mystery, what greater spiritual truth, was there than that
love could be expressed through the infliction of suffering. Those old
plays were not like modern plays staged for entertainment. It was
intended that both actors and those who viewed them should be
confronted and shaped by the truths they unfolded. And every spanking
was, she thought, just such a drama. A drama in which she had
participated since her earliest years, first as the child who suffered
and later as the one inflicting the suffering herself. And now watching
such an enactment unfold before her.
And she thought of the
parts she herself had played in this drama, and how emotionally
consuming they were. How as a child she had been overwhelmed by the
torturing pain of the hairbrush or martinet; and as a mother how she
embraced spanking an errant child with her whole being.
But
now as an observer, the perspective and emotional response were
altogether different. She watched with an increasingly breathless
excitement as Isobel ran the leather strap through her hand,
tantalising herself, as she anticipated that first stroke across the
boy’s bottom, now cunningly positioned over the saddle. And she waited
breathlessly wondering whether the first stroke of the tawse would be
lashed with frightening force across his flesh alerting him to the
suffering that was to come; or whether the initial stroke would be
gentle, almost caressing, encouraging him to believe that his ordeal
would be less terrible than expected. Only to suffer shock and
disappointment as smarting ridges were raised on the flesh of his
bottom and on the backs of his thighs.
Whan a mother spanks a
child, her whole intention and purpose is centered on inflicting a
level of suffering sufficient to break the will and render the child
compliant. There is no place for compassion as usually understood. For
the child who is roaring under the rod, screaming for forgiveness, and
promising never to sin again, for him compassion means halting the
punishment. But his mother compassion is to continue the punishment
until he is sobbing with the marks of a thorough chastisement visible
on his flesh, broken and ready to accept forgiveness and to be restored
to the heart of her love, a love that in reality he has never left.
It had never really worried Cordelia that she found spanking her
children a particularly rewarding aspect of motherhood; and that she
experienced a deep visceral satisfaction as they suffered at her hands.
That whipping a child was mandated by scripture meant that such
pleasure, indeed enjoyment in doing God’s will, was to be expected. But
any whipping needed to be proportionate both to the child’s age and the
offence committed. The capacity for enjoyment might be God-given but to
abuse God’s provision was deeply sinful. Food was good but greed was to
be deplored.
William’s toes were curling and uncurling and
his hands twitching in his anxiety. The tawse was lifted, rested on
Isobel’s shoulder, then flicked up and brought sweeping down in a
shuddering stroke across his bottom. Although it was lighter than the
medium strap used on Samuel, it was still a formidable implement for
punishing a boy of William’s age. The stroke was on flesh already
doubly spanked, and Cordelia could imagine the penetrating smart as it
left a band of deeper red across his small compact buttocks. As an
observer she entered both into his suffering and also the firm
intention of Isobel in punishing him. Both could be enjoyed, each in
their own way.
After half-a-dozen strokes, William was
roaring and bucking. But the flogging continued, remorselessly, until
he was desperately panting, fighting for breath, his back glistening
with sweat, and his hair damp and disheveled. Isobel let him rest for a
moment before unbuckling the restraining strap and helping hm down from
the saddle. Sobbing, he stumbled across to his mother and buried his
face in her skirt. She smiled and looked down.
“I hope you have learned your lesson, William.”
He buried his face deeper and she ran her hand affectionately through his hair.
“I asked you a question, William. Have you learned your lesson?”
“Please, yes . . . yes, Mother.”
“Then, go and thank, Mrs Crampton for punishing you.”
He turned and went reluctantly to his tormentress. She crouched down and reaching out took his hands in hers.
“So, what have you got to say, William?”
“That I’m . . . that I’m to thank you for punishing me.”
She smiled.
“Then you’d better do so”
He looked down.
“I’m waiting, William.”
“Th . . . thank you for punishing me.”
She frowned.
“I have a name, William. Are you trying to be deliberately rude?”
“Please, no, Mrs Crampton. No”
Then, use it. please.”
She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“Th . . . thank you . . . Mrs Crampton.”
She shook her head.
“William when you thank someone for a present, it is only polite to
thank them for what they have gave you. I’m sure you don’t want to be
impolite. You know what happens to little boys who are impolite. So,
let’s try again.”
He swallowed, not sure how to reply.
“William, I becoming impatient. If someone gives you a toy car for your
birthday, do just say ‘thank you for my present’, or do you say ‘thank
you for my toy car’? Please try again?”
William was not aware
that it was his birthday or that he had received any present or that he
needed to thank anyone for. He looked bemused.
Mrs Crampton straightened up, and sitting on the chair beckoned to him. He stood beside her his heart thudding with anxiety.
“Perhaps I have confused you, William. A toy car is certainly a gift
worth thanking anyone for. But not all gifts are the same. Some gifts
are educational. Something to learn from. Like a spelling book, or a
globe of the world. What they teach has to be learned, and it continues
to be of value, long after a toy would be broken or forgotten. What I
have given you is just such a gift. A sound spanking on your bare
bottom, followed by a good dose of the tawse to teach respect for your
mother and obedience to her word. So let me hear you thank me for that
gift.
He stammered out his reply.
“Pl . . . please Mrs Crampton, th . . . thank you for sp . . . spanking me and for giving me th . . . the tawse.”
She smiled.
“That’s much better, William. And what was the reason for punishing you?”
“S . . . so I would learn to be obedient to m . . . my mother.”
“And will you be obedient from now on?”
“I . . . I hope so . . . Mrs Crampton.”
“Well, for your sake, I hope that is true.”
She picked up the tawse, and handed it to him.
“This is going home with you, and I expect it will be hung in your room where it will be taken down and used when necessary.”
She smiled.
“And if that doesn’t improve your behaviour, your mother can always
bring you back to me. For the moment place the tawse on the counter and
go and thank your mother for loving you enough to see you well
punished. And promise to obey her in future.”
She walked over to the door, pulling up the blind, and turning the sign round to ‘open’.
The boy ran to his mother and again buried his face in her skirt and
then. looking up at her with wet, bleary eyes thanked her for loving
him. His mother gently stroked the back of his neck.
“You had better dress, William.”
She turned to Isobel.
“And thank you for all you have done this morning, Isobel. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”
Isobel smiled.
“It was a pleasure, Cordelia. And don’t forget your purchases.”
She laid out a large sheet of heavy brown paper on the counter and
placed on it two tawses and the heavier paddle. Cordelia watched and
then said,
“I know I said my preference was for the heavy
weight belt, but I had better take an extra heavy weight, too. I
promised the Principal that I would bring back both so he could assess
which was to be preferred. “
Isobel added the third tawse.
“But let me make you a gift of the light weight tawse for Wiliam. I’ve so enjoyed our time together.”
“Isobel, that is such a lovely thought and so kind.”
“It’s a pleasure. And I do hope we keep in touch.”
Cordelia made William carry the package as they made their way home. He
was still crying and she held his hand as he walked uncomfortably
beside her, feeling the soreness of his bottom as his clothing rubbed
against his wealed flesh. She opened the door. The house was empty as
both Samuel and Elizabeth would be in school until early afternoon.
After making William a sandwich for his lunch she sent him up to his
room.
“And lie on the bed, William. I have a few chores to do and then I will be up to have a word with you.”
He bit his lip. When his mother promised to have a word with him, it
usually meant trouble. But he knew better than to argue and obediently
went upstairs. Cordelia took the package and went into her study.
Unwrapping it she placed the various implements of correction on her
desk. She picked each one up in turn and ran it through her hand,
appreciating their increasing punishing power. And then she smacked the
leather paddle across her palm and imagined spanking a child across her
knee. She smiled, and went to make herself a cup of tea.
She
rinsed her cup under the tap and placed it to dry. Then, taking the
tawse with which William had just been beaten, she ascended the stairs.
When she entered his room, she found him lying on his bed face down in
his clothes, with his trousers and pants eased down, exposing his
bottom to the cool bedroom air. She stood there for a moment, saying
nothing. His bottom was a deep crimson, and as Isobel had been standing
to his left, it was his right buttock that was most prominently marked.
“Get off the bed, William. I’ve told you before that if you rest on
your bed during the day, you must either change into pyjamas or lie
there naked. Children do not lie on any of the beds in this house in
thier clothes.”
He scrambled off the bed.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I was only there for a moment.”
His mother shook her head.
“Please don’t spank me. Mama. Please. I’ve said I’m sorry. Please. I was spanked in the shop by Mrs Crampton.”
“Yes, William. But lying on the bed in your clothes is, I am afraid, a
fresh instance of disobedience. And I need to deal with it. Go and
stand facing the wall by the chest of drawers.”
She walked
over and rucked up his shirt and hoicked it over his shoulders. She ran
the tawse through her hand, and placed it on top of the chest of
drawers. She left him in disgrace and went downstairs to her study. And
for the next ten minutes tidied her desk. Then, picking up the recently
acquired paddle, she returned upstairs. The paddle was placed on the
chest of drawers beside the tawse.
In his room hung a
picture that had been given to William for his third birthday. It was a
picture she had never liked. It showed Jesus surrounded by a group of
shiny faced children under which was written
Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven
But
children came to Jesus as they did to their parents, to be forgiven but
not without first turning from their sin and embracing obedience. That
was what love was: to do his will. As Jesus told his disciples in St
John’s Gospel
Whoever loves me keeps my commandments
And children showed their love for their parents by obeying them. No,
the picture was sentimental and utterly misleading. She had always
disliked it. She took it down leaving the hook bare.
“Turn round, William.”
He watched as she hung the tawse where the picture had been. That, she
thought, sent a far more appropriate message to a small boy.
“So, tell me, William, what do you see hanging on the wall?”
“A . . . a tawse Mother.”
“Yes, the tawse with which you were beaten this morning. And it hangs
there as a warning that it will be taken down and used again if you
disobey.”
She paused.
“As you have disobeyed me by lying on the bed with your clothes on.”
He started to plead and cry afresh.
“Please, Mother, please, don’t punish me. I’ll never do it again. I promise. Please.”