An Old-Fashioned Christmas 1905
By Governess
Copyright 2009 by Governess, all rights reserved
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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit
depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are
not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or
if such material does not appeal to you, do not read
further, and do not save this story.
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An Old-Fashioned Christmas 1905
It would soon be Christmas. Jane Fortescue had been preparing for days now. Ordering food, organising the children to assist with decorating the house, and overseeing the cooking of mince pies. She had been a widow for several years. When her husband had been alive, there had been a clear division of responsibility between them. His realm started at the front door and stretched into the man's world beyond. Her kingdom was the household. And just as she would never interfere in his world, nor would he in hers. In the house and in matters concerning the children she had always reigned supreme. And in that, his death altered nothing.
She looked out of the window. Flurries of snow were falling, and in the distance bare elm trees were silhouetted against an overcast sky. She frowned. In a few days, they would be celebrating the Nativity of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, whose coming into the world had marked a new beginning. And for each of them, she thought, Christmas ought to be just that, a time for renewal, and amendment of life. Much more so than the New Year, a worldly occasion, lacking the rich meaning and significance of Christmas. But there was a sombreness about her mood. A weight on her heart. Her eldest child, William, at the age of eight, was proving difficult and disruptive. Not only was he disobedient but he had developed a spirit resistant to discipline. A sound spanking, that but a short while ago would have brought about an immediate improvement in attitude, was now failing to do so. And worse, his behaviour was affecting his younger brother and sister. If any family needed a visit from the Prince of Peace this Christmas, it was the Fortescue family.
Jane had a firmness and resolve about her that was much admired. She was warm and full of concern for others, but there was nothing sentimental about her. The poor might be in need of charity, but as the Apostle Paul said if any would not work, neither should he eat. And wrongdoers needed not only forgiveness but to be reformed. And what most effectively turned a wrongdoer away from his sin was the sure certainty of punishment. A punishment that was sufficiently severe for a repetition to be dreaded.
She stared for a moment at the lowering clouds gathering over the distant hills, and saw in her imagination the angel of the Lord descending to strike a universal peace through sea and land. But she could expect no celestial help. It was for to ensure that for William this Christmas would mark a new beginning and a new start.
Up in his room, William was planning a battle, but was aware that he needed more soldiers. He had seen a large box in the toy shop window and hoped his mother was buying them for Christmas. He stood up and looked around his room. Why wasn't his room larger? It was no way big enough for him to play proper games in. He kicked out sulkily at a pair of shoes, and felt very hard done by. He was no longer a little boy but was still treated as one. His mother was always expecting him to do this and do that, or not to do this and not to do that. And he had been spanked several times recently and deeply resented it. He was, he thought, too old for spanking.
Downstairs his mother was also coming to the view that William was too old for spanking; but her conclusion was somewhat different.
It was the practice of the family to exchange cards on the morning of Christmas Eve. And beside each plate at breakfast was an envelope on which the child's name was written in their mother's neat copperplate. William went to open his but his mother quickly forbade him.
"No, William. First Anne and then James. You will open yours last."
William looked angry and kicked about under the table.
"Please stop kicking, William, and sit quietly."
Anne's and James's cards each depicted Santa Claus with a large sack of presents being welcomed by a group of cheerful looking children. Both smiled at the implied promise of gifts to come.
"Now you may open yours, William."
Slowly, he pulled his card from the envelope. He stared at it. And then looked at his mother.
"Well, what do you see, William?"
"It's Santa Clause with . . . "
His voice tailed off.
"And does he have a sack of presents?"
"No . . mother."
"And are there any children in the picture?"
"There's a boy."
"A boy? And does he look pleased to see Santa Claus?"
William looked down.
"No . . mother."
"No, William. Santa Claus only brings presents to those children who've been good and obedient throughout the year. For those children who've been disobedient and who have behaved badly, he brings a birch rod. As you can see in the picture."
She smiled.
"Put your cards on the sideboard, children, where everyone may enjoy them."
For the rest of the day, William felt distinctly uneasy. He told himself there was no such person as Santa Claus, but his anxiety persisted.
At bedtime, as usual, his mother came to say prayers. She sat beside him.
"And what are you hoping for in your stocking tomorrow, William?"
"Perhaps some soldiers, mother?"
"Soldiers? You think you deserve soldiers? That Santa Claus will bring you soldiers? Well, we shall see. Now kneel beside your bed and let us say prayers."
He knelt in his pyjamas on the cold wooden floor and his mother placed her arm around him.
Dear Lord Jesus, tomorrow is your birthday when you came as a little child into our world to save us. To make everything new and to open to us the gates of paradise. Help William to learn from whatever the coming day may bring. And help me to do all that is necessary to make him a better boy, obedient and grateful and an example to others. Amen
She tucked him in. And turned out the light.
"Off to sleep quickly, William."
He lay in bed wondering what his mother had meant by doing all that was necessary to make him an obedient and grateful boy. After a while he slipped into sleep, but his dreams were far from reassuring.
On Christmas Day, it was a tradition that the family gathered around an early fire in the drawing room to open stockings. These had been laid around the fireplace by their mother as the very last act of the night before. Beside each was a parcel. Two of the stockings were fat and full of sweets and other small childish fripperies, including at the bottom an orange. But William's stocking was virtually empty. He saw immediately that there was virtually nothing in it. He felt the tears pricking at his eyes. Tears not only of disappointment but also of shame at his exclusion. At the bottom of the stocking he could feel a solitary orange. He put in his hand and felt that it was not round but oval. It was a lemon. He held it in his hand and looked at it through his tears.
"Yes, William, it's a lemon. And do you know why?"
He shook his head.
"Then let me explain. I've been disappointed, very disappointed, at your behaviour over the past few months. You've not only been disobedient, but wilfully disobedient. A boy can sometimes please himself and break his mother's rules but you have gone out of your way, time and time again, to oppose me. You argue with me, and then, when you do obey, you do so reluctantly. What I want is a sweet and obedient boy. Not a disobedient and sour little boy. And that lemon is to remind you just how unpleasant sourness is."
On a table she had placed a plate and a knife. She cut the lemon into halves and set it before her son. She turned to her daughter.
"While William is enjoying his lemon, Anne, you may open your large present."
Anne knew better than to tear at the wrappings. She carefully undid the string and peeled off the paper, folding it neatly. Inside was a box. Expectantly, she removed the lid and discovered a beautiful china doll. She looked at her mother wide-eyed.
"Thank you, mother. She's beautiful."
"And now you James."
James was less respectful of the wrapping, and earned a rebuke from his mother.
"James, don't claw at it like an animal."
Within a box, and nestling in tissue paper, was a wooden horse and cart, carved from beech and with wheels that really went round. He looked at his mother with glistening eyes.
"Th . . . thank you, Mother."
She smiled.
"And now you, William."
William looked at the large parcel beside his empty stocking. It was narrow and very long. If it was soldiers there must be a whole regiment there, perhaps with cavalry, too. He looked at his mother.
She smiled encouragingly.
"Aren't you going to open it, William?"
Eagerly, he peeled off the wrapping. The box it revealed was perhaps the longest box he'd ever seen. He looked again at his mother.
"Aren't you going to look inside?"
Unlike the other two boxes, it had string around it. And as he removed the final piece of string, the box sprung open. Inside was a lithe, springy birch rod.
"Well aren't you going to take it out, William."
He picked it up, gingerly, lost for words.
"Well, William, what do you think of your present? I'm afraid Santa Claus felt this would be more useful to you than toy soldiers."
He looked up, his eyes welling with tears of disappointment. His mother turned to his brother and sister.
"Anne and James, you may go into the parlour and play with your new presents. And shut the door, please. William and I will be in here for a while. He's going to learn a little more about his present and what it can do."
She stepped across to the door and locked it.
"You do know what this birch is for, William, don't you?"
"He nodded."
"I don't just want a nod of the head, William. You have a tongue. Please use it. What is a birch for?"
"For . . . for punishing . . . naughty children."
"No, William. Not for punishing naughty children. Naughty children are spanked. The birch is for boys who have been spanked, and spanked several times, but whose behaviour has not improved."
She pointed.
"Put the birch on the chair, William. And now I want your shoes and socks off and all your clothes, except for your vest. And fold them neatly."
His face was contorted with anxiety, and he was red to the tips of his ears.
"No, mother. Please, no."
She stepped across to the piano and lifting the stool placed it in the middle of the room. The seat was well padded. She raised it and removed a long leather strap.
"I'm waiting, William."
"Slowly, he crouched and unlaced his shoes, placing the socks inside them as he'd been taught. Then, he removed his jacket and slipped off his braces. His trousers slithered to the ground."
"And the underpants, William. And now your shirt."
His vest barely came down to his waist. Defensively he clenched his small compact buttocks, looking down, ashamed and frightened. His mother pointed to the stool. He stood in front of it.
"Presents have a meaning, William. When the three Kings brought gifts to the baby Jesus they all had a meaning. The gold showed him to be a king, the frankincense that he was a priest, and myrrh, used for anointing the dead, showed he was a man like us and would die."
She paused.
"And your present has a meaning too, William. And you must learn from it. It shows you are a disobedient little boy who needs to be saved from his sins. But it is more than just a symbol, William. Fortunately it also provides the remedy for such willful and continuing disobedience."
She pointed.
"Over the stool, please."
She hoisted him well forward and ran the strap underneath and over his body, fastening it tightly across his back. She was not unfamiliar with the birch, having, as a girl, watched her father flog her younger brothers. She swished the birch several times through the air. William's breathing was now short and anxious. He tensed himself for the stroke. But still his mother waited, letting his fear grow until it became also insupportable.
Then, unhurriedly, she gave him twelve measured cuts. He squealed and writhed. The cuts were swishy and painful, but no blood was drawn. And at the end she left him a full five minutes across the stool before releasing him. She sat on a chair and beckoned him to her.
"Come here, William."
He was sobbing and shivering. But from his eyes, that window into a boy's soul, she could see that the dark glimmering of resentment remained.
"William it gives me no pleasure to punish you on Christmas Day. Christmas Day should be a day full of joy at the birth of our Saviour. But Jesus came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance, and if the flogging you've received brings you to repentance, so that from now on you are an obedient, helpful, and even-tempered boy, then there will be much to rejoice over. You will have given Jesus the best possible gift on his birthday."
She put her arm around him.
"But that depends upon you, William. A boy can either accept the necessity of punishment and learn from it; or he can resent it and harden his heart against it. But if he does that, then his mother would need punish him again . . . until he is brought to a place of repentance. Do you understand?"
"Ye . . . yes, mother."
"But in his eyes she could see the resentment and anger still smouldering within.
She rang for Abigail and handed her the birch.
"Abigail, please would you place this in the pail in the scullery, with the stems immersed in the water. It may be needed again later."
After breakfast, they walked to church through the crisp snow, leaving foot prints behind them.
"Just like Good King Wenceslas," said James.
The church was full for Christmas Matins and the four of them sat towards the back. Jane had warned the children that she expected exemplary behaviour. No talking; no wriggling; and they were to sing with enthusiasm all the Christmas hymns and carols.
First there was the age old prayer
We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts . . . There is no health in us . . . Spare thou them, O God, which confess their faults. Restore thou them that are penitent . . .
She glanced at William. It would be so easy to turn a blind eye to his faults and to spare him further punishment. To restore him without true penitence. But that was not God's way, nor must it be hers.
Soon they were singing the first hymn. Once in Royal David's City. Jane remembered how in her father's bookcase there had been a copy of the first edition of Hymns for Little Children by Miss Cecil Humphreys in which the hymn first appeared. It was shortly after that that Miss Humphreys had married a clergyman and became Mrs Alexander.
And through all his wondrous childhood
He would honour and obey,
Love, and watch the lowly maiden
In whose gentle arms he lay:
Christian children all must be
Mild, obedient, good as he.
Again she glanced at William. What Mrs Alexander didn't say was that if Christian children were to be as mild, obedient, and good as the Christ child, then strict discipline and correction were necessary.
Mr Symington-Bassett's Christmas sermon was short and to the point. In his firm clear voice, he warned against too sentimental an attachment to the account of Jesus's birth.
This is a story about a child, but is not a story for children. They may love the stable with its animals. The little baby in the manager. But that is to enjoy the story rather than enter into its deeper meaning. The Lord of glory has come into a cold, hostile, unwelcoming world to suffer and to die. He is placed in a manager, an eating trough for animals. And we too need to place ourselves in that manager, in a place of shame and humility . . .
And Morning Prayer concluded with The Holly and the Ivy. A carol that Jane had always loved. Grafted on to a strange pagan regard for two evergreen plants was a profound meditation on the meaning of Christmas.
The holly bears a berry
As red as any blood
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To do poor sinners good . . .
The holly bears a prickle
As sharp as any thorn;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
On Christmas Day in the morn.
Mr Symington-Bassett was at the door to wish his congregation a joyful Christmas as they departed for their goose and plum pudding.
"Good morning, Mrs Fortescue. And good morning children."
The children responded as they had been taught by their mother.
"Good morning Mr Symington-Bassett."
"And what has Santa Clause brought each of you for Christmas?"
"A doll, Sir," said Anne.
"A wooden horse and cart . . . Sir," said James. Just remembering in time to add the Sir at the end.
"And what about you, Master William?"
The boy reddened and looked down.
"Answer Mr Symington-Bassett, William."
"I . . . I was given a . . ."
Mr Symington-Bassett smiled.
"Yes, William?"
He was suffused with shame, a shame made yet more bitter by his resentment and anger.
"A . . a birch rod . . . Sir."
"A birch rod! That is an unusual present. Although in the old stories, Santa Clause did bring a rod for naughty boys. It was only the good boys who received presents."
He looked at the boy not unkindly.
"And have you been a naughty boy, William?"
He hung his head. His mother, aware of the congregation queuing behind her, answered for him.
"I am afraid he has, Mr Symington-Bassett. And he's shown a stubborn reluctance to learn from less severe punishments."
"Well, William, it's a gift that will probably be more valuable to you in the long run than toys or sweetmeats. As the Book of Proverbs says Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him."
He turned to Jane.
"And I and Mrs Symington-Bassett are greatly looking forward to the little party you have arranged for later this afternoon."
Wending their way back to the house, Jane noticed how her older son kicked and scuffed the snow. She could understand that the questioning at the church door had been shameful, but that was no excuse for such an obvious display of angry resentment. At the gate he pushed in front of his sister and she slipped and fell. William watched nervously as his mother helped Anne to her feet and comforted her.
"We'll have a little talk about your behaviour after lunch, William. And when you've hung up your outside coat, go straight to your room. You'll stay there until I call you. And James and Anne, you may play in the drawing room until lunch.
Up in his room, William sat on his bed. It was as though a host of resentful demons were dancing through his body. He picked up a shoe and threw it across the room. It landed with a satisfying clunk against the chest of drawers. He listened, sobered by what he had done. If his mother had heard . . .
For most of his childhood be had accepted spankings as part of the hazard of being a boy. But over the last year things had changed. He had grown older and more was expected of him. His wings had been clipped. And as his mother enforced new rules, and new duties were placed upon him, so his resentment grew. And that caused the screw of discipline to be tightened yet further.
He felt the tears pricking at his eyes. As a Bedouin anticipates the pleasures of the oasis as he treks across an inhospitable terrain, only to arrive and find it empty and the water brackish, so was William's disappointment. Over the past year he had diverted himself from the increasingly harsh reality of his eight year old life by playing with soldiers in his room. The game was based on the recent war between the English and the Boers in Southern Africa. And he'd been hoping for a present of tin soldiers dressed in proper British Army and Boer uniforms. And instead, he had been given . . . He bit and gnawed his hand in his frustration.
Christmas lunch cooked by Mrs Fergusson was delicious. Roast goose, roast potatoes, with parsnips and other vegetables, followed by Christmas pudding, mince pies and custard. But William found he had little appetite for it. In part out of a contrary spirit, but more from apprehension at the little talk his mother was to have with him. He knew what 'a little talk' usually meant.
When a concluding grace had been said, and Abigail had cleared the table, Jane looked at her son. There was a restless moodiness about him. Several times during the meal she had chided him for not passing the vegetables to others and for serving himself first.
"William, your behaviour during lunch has been selfish and impolite. Jesus, whose birthday we are celebrating, made a point of saying that he had come to serve not to be served. And that, William, is a lesson you urgently need to learn. You will go to the kitchen and help Abigail with the dishes."
His brow furrowed.
"And from that look, I can see we most certainly need that little talk in the drawing room."
She turned to Anne and James.
"You two children may go to the parlour and play. And I want no arguments or unnecessary noise. And, William, as soon as you've finished helping Abigail, you will come straight to the drawing room."
Slowly, William made his way from the kitchen to the drawing room. Abigail had made him dry and stow away the plates and the cutlery. She was eighteen years old, and enjoyed having a small boy to order around. And much to William's chagrin, she'd made several allusions to the pail in the scullery and the shameful implement of punishment that was soaking in it. He knocked at the door.
"Come in."
The fire was blazing, and the candles had been lit on the Christmas tree. His mother was reading in an armchair. She put down her book.
"Come and stand here, William."
He went and stood before her.
"Put your hands behind your back. And take that sullen look off your face."
She let him stand there under her gaze for a moment. He shuffled uncomfortably.
"William, what is today?"
"Christmas Day . . . mother."
"And what are we celebrating?"
"The birth of Jesus, mother."
"Yes. The birth of Jesus. And Jesus came into the world to save us from our sins."
She paused.
"And what do you think is necessary if a boy like you is to be saved from his sins?"
"I . . . I'm not sure, mother."
"Well, let me ask you another question. If you were very ill, but thought you were well, that there was nothing wrong with you, would you be likely to go to a doctor to be made better?"
"No, mother."
"So what would be necessary for you to decide to go to a doctor?"
"I . . I'd have to know . . . that I was ill."
"And how does a boy know when he's ill?"
He thought for a moment.
"Well, he'd be in pain, mother."
"Yes. But the trouble with sin and disobedience is that they're not painful. In fact a naughty boy enjoys his naughtiness. He sees nothing wrong with lying when in trouble. He's quite happy to continue playing with his toys when ordered to come into tea. He much prefers to please himself than to obey others. So, when a boy is naughty there's no pain to tell him he's doing wrong."
She paused.
"Unless his mother provides it. Unless she spanks him whenever he's naughty or disobedient. Only then does he know he's doing wrong and can start to do right."
She looked at the boy standing before her. His lips were pressed tightly together and his eyes were dark.
"You see, William, when a boy has a nasty stomach pain, he has to go to the doctor to be made well. But naughtiness is different. A boy can cure himself. When his mother spanks him, not only does he know he's done wrong, but the spanking provides a good reason for him not to do the same thing again."
She smiled.
"He has a choice. Either to continue his naughtiness and pay the penalty for it. Or to be a good and obedient boy and avoid the pain that goes with bad behaviour. And, of course, if he goes on being naughty, then his mother has no alternative but to make the spanking more painful. And if, like you, William, he continues to disobey and remains a sullen and argumentative little boy, then he will need to be birched. And she will need to continue birching him until there is a marked improvement in his behaviour."
She drew him toward her. His body was stiff with resistance. She rose.
"Take off your shoes and socks, and undress down to your vest. When I return I expect to see your clothes neatly folded over the chair."
The scullery was opposite the kitchen down a long stone flagged corridor, and was itself flagged. It was used for a range of domestic chores, such as cleaning silver and preparing flowers for the house. It was a large area with an eight foot deal table at one end beneath a not too large window. There were shelves on most of the walls containing a range of household impedimenta. On a strong slatted bench stood a large zinc bath about five feet in length with handles on each side and also at each end. This was full of holly that had been gathered to decorate the house but which had not been needed. It was not a well lit room at the best of times, and in the winter afternoon had a dark and slightly menacing feel about it. In the corner stood the pail in which William's Christmas gift was steeping. It was not alone. His mother had asked Fergusson to bind up three rods. She had a feeling that one rod might be insufficient to effect the improvement in her son's attitude that she was seeking.
Across the passage she could hear Abigail busying herself in the kitchen. The cooking range kept the kitchen warm, and although a certain amount of heat permeated across the passage, by contrast the scullery was decidedly cool. This might not be a stable, she thought, but in such a dark place, away from the warmth of the house, the infant Jesus had been born.
She wondered whether, as he grew up, his mother Mary had spanked him. The teaching of the Church was that Jesus was truly God and truly man, and if so, then he had also been a real boy. And what boy didn't get up to mischief and need to be corrected by his mother. She reached down and took the birch from the pail.
She made her way back to the drawing room. William was facing the fire, the roundness of his thighs limned by the glow. The windows reflected the candles on the Christmas tree, and outside the snow cast a white light into the room. The boy's buttocks were pink from his earlier punishment, with here and there some darker flecking. She sat on an upright chair, the birch across her lap.
"William."
He turned, his face flushed by the heat.
"Come and stand here."
Instinctively, his hand covered his penis and tight little scrotum.
"Tell me once again, William, what we are celebrating today?"
He scuffed his feet and looked down.
"Christmas . . . mother."
"Yes, when Jesus was born in a stable in Bethlehem, a tiny helpless baby. And I remember the day you were born over eight years ago, William. You were like that. But no longer. Small babies grow into boys. Just as you did. Just as the baby Jesus did. And boys can be mischievous. They do not do what is right without being taught. And they are taught by being spanked. As I am sure Jesus's mother needed to spank him. To teach him what he should choose to do and what not to do."
He looked up.
"Does that surprise you, William. That the boy Jesus was spanked. He was a real boy, just like you. Except . . . "
She paused.
" . . . except there is a difference. Can you think what that difference is?"
He shook his head perplexed.
"Then, I will tell you, William. The difference between you and the boy Jesus, is that for any particular naughtiness, one spanking was enough to set him on the right path. Once he knew what his mother expected of him, he did it, and did it willingly. But you, William, have been spanked again and again. And still you actively delight in wilful disobedience. We sang this morning in church that Christian children all must be mild obedient good as He. And my present to you, William, of this lithe, springy rod, is to render you obedient. As Jesus was obedient to his mother."
She walked over to the piano stool, and pulled it away from the piano. Then, opening it she took out the leather strap. She pointed to the floor. Stiffly, he walked over and placed himself in front of the stool.
"Bend forward."
For the second time that day, she heaved him over the padded seat. The flickering firelight accentuated the cleft between his buttocks and the swell of the cheeks. Earlier she had tickled his bottom to a dark, smarting pink, a warning of the danger to come should he choose not to amend his ways. But now she intended to give him a thorough reformatory flogging. The time for half measures was over. She fed the strap under the stool and over his body. And noticed for the first time how the strap fitted neatly into a decorative channel carved into each side of the stool. It would usefully keep the strap from slipping. She tightened the buckle an extra notch across the small of his back.
She looked down at the boy. His soft round buttocks, full, and firm, were an open invitation to the rod. And it was an invitation she had no hesitation in accepting. She drew the birch across his bottom, allowing it to scratch the surface, alerting him to his helplessness and vulnerability. Then, raising it, she brought it swishing down, using both arm and wrist to maximise the rod's punishing flexibility. It sprang like a cat eager to sink its claws into its prey. His head reared up and he roared angrily. Another stroke was given. And then, after a long pause, another. He writhed and his screams of agony echoed around the room. Jane had a little frown of concentration on her face as she continued to flog him. After a dozen strokes she stepped back, and waited for the boy to cease his sobbing.
"You may think this is painful, William. But let me tell you that it's as nothing compared to the pains of Hell. And in that dreadful place there are certainly small boys like you who are suffering there and who will suffer there for ever. Boys, disobedient to their mothers, who died impenitent, full of anger and resentment. The baby Jesus came into this world to save us from that place. He died for us so that we might be forgiven and be with him. But we must accept first that we are sinners, that we deserve Hell and its pains. For only then will we ask to be forgiven."
He said nothing but merely struggled against the strap that bound him to the stool.
Jane raised the birch. Although she regretted the need to flog William, she had no compunction about doing so. She loved the boy and for her the flogging was an expression of that love as much as a kiss or a caress given in happier circumstances. And yielded an equally warm and pleasurable sensation.
The sharp, lithe twigs renewed their assault. Small seams of blood were now appearing on the surface of the boy's skin, as the birch cut and scored his firm, soft flesh. But his angry roars and tormented writhing showed a stubbornness of spirit that was far from the contrition his mother desired. After a further twelve cuts, she paused, saying nothing, waiting for the fierce sobbing to abate. Waiting for some evidence of his acceptance of the punishment and that it had wrought a change of heart: that the fires of anger and resentment had been extinguished. But he kicked his legs violently. Wrenching up his body and emitting a long piercing scream of rage.
She gave him another twelve strokes, and then left him for ten minutes bound across the stool.
When she released him he was clearly frightened at his outburst, and what it might portend.
"Stand by the Christmas tree, William. You will remain in your state of undress until bedtime. And that will be brought forward to six o'clock. Turn around and face the wall. In half an hour, the guests will be arriving for mince pies and carols."
Mince pies and carols was a tradition of the household, to which a dozen or so immediate neighbours including the rector and his wife were invited. There would be friendly conversation and at the end Jane would play the piano and the assembly would sing some carols. And in conclusion one of the children would sing Once in Royal David's City. This year it was to have been William, and he'd been practising for several weeks now. He stood there shivering, a dull ache deep in his buttocks, while the surface of his skin was smarting with a sensitivity that would make even the wearing of pyjamas an agony. He angrily bit his lip, making it bleed.
Until recently he had lived unquestioningly within the will of his mother. When he had disobeyed, it was because of forgetfulness or because of absorption in his own small affairs; and when he was spanked he had accepted it as the inevitable consequence of his disobedience and never questioned his mother's right to rule over him. But over the past months his perception had changed. He had grown up. He was old enough to decide things for himself. And if he obeyed, it would be because he freely chose to do so. And so obvious and reasonable was this to his eight year old mind, that he in no way connected the severity of his recent punishment with this change of attitude.
He heard his mother step over to the fireplace and ring for Abigail. When she entered, he could feel the girl's eyes upon him. Inwardly he cringed.
"As you can see, Abigail, I have had to birch William. Before you bring the tea and mince pies, please would you sweep up the little bits of birch that have scattered themselves over the carpet. And, then return the birch to the pail in the scullery. And please, no talking to William. He's in disgrace."
After a quarter of an hour, the guests began to arrive. William had hoped that his mother would release him from his shameful stance facing the wall and send him to his room. But this was not to be. Soon he heard the tinkle of a spoon striking a cup, silencing the first hum of conversation. And then his mother welcoming everyone.
"It's such a pleasure that you've all been able to come today and share mince pies with us. And sing carols to celebrate the birth of Our Saviour. As a family, we've been holding this little gathering for some time now. And when Richard died a few years ago, I had no hesitation in continuing the tradition."
She paused for a moment.
"We are told of Jesus in the carol that
He is our childhood's pattern;
Day by day, like us He grew;
He was little, weak and helpless,
Tears and smiles like us He knew;
And He feeleth for our sadness,
And He shareth in our gladness.
And as you may have noticed there's a small boy in our midst who has certainly known tears today."
She gave a wan smile.
"And as you can see, his bottom is a very seasonal red. He's been birched for disobedience and a resentful spirit. But the Lord Jesus, I know, feeleth for his sadness. And when he accepts the loving rule of his mother and becomes once again mild and obedient, then that same Lord Jesus will rejoice and share in his gladness. And then, for him, Christmas will have truly come in a new way. As I hope it will for all of us."
There was silence for a moment before the buzz of conversation restarted and the mince pies were handed around by the two younger children. William looked down at his feet and counted his toes. He could feel his face hot and damp with shame. He bit his lip. And clenched his hands into small, tight fists at his sides.
After what to William seemed like an eternity, the carols were sung. God Rest You Merry Gentlemen; I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In; The Holly and the Ivy; and several more. Soon, thought William, it will be over, and the worst Christmas Day he'd ever had would end with his having an early bedtime. What his mother had intended as a punishment would be for him a blessing. Then, he heard his mother speaking.
"And now we shall have our final carol Once in Royal David's City sung by William. Turn round William and face the guests."
He felt the heat rise to his scalp. He stood hoping against hope for some reprieve. It had been shameful enough to stand with his whipped bottom exposed to their gaze, but to turn and confront them, to be not any boy in the corner with the marks of the birch upon him, but eight year old William Fortescue, to own his shame by showing his face was more than he could bear. But slowly he turned around.
"I will give you the note on the piano, William to start you off."
But he made no attempt to sing. He hung his head. Again, his mother struck the note.
"We are all waiting, William."
"Please, I can't, mother."
"'Can't' is not something I expect to hear when I tell you to do something, William."
Again the note was struck into the quiet of the drawing room.
"No, I won't. I'm not going to sing. I'm not going to."
His voice was shrill and defiant.
Then if you refuse to sing, you will go and stand in the hall. And we will have a little discussion about your refusal, later. When the guests have departed."
With her hand on the nape of his neck she propelled him towards the door and out into the hall.
"And nose to the wall by the clock."
William's heart was pounding. He had refused because he hadn't the courage to stand facing all those people in his distress and shame. There would be a cost to his defiance, but there was also some faint satisfaction in disobeying and defying his mother. Soon he heard the piano and all the guests singing the carol he had refused to sing.
Christian children all must be mild obedient good as He.
He heard the muttering of what seemed to be a prayer from the Rector and then the door opened and the guests began to depart. He was surrounded by snatches of conversation.
Wonderful occasion, Mrs Fortescue.
A horse, a boy and a walnut tree, the more you beat them the better they be. Never understood about the walnut tree, but most certainly true of horses and boys.
The breath of cold air from the outside world swept into the hall. He could hear a woman's voice
Such a pity the boy had to be punished on Christmas Day, Jane.
And his mother's reply.
The Lord Jesus did not come into the world just so boys could have presents and sweetmeats, Lavinia.
Eventually all were gone and the front door was shut and bolted.
"Into the drawing room, William."
But his mother did not immediately follow him and he waited nervously for her return. After a while he heard the clack of her shoes on the hall floor. She entered and beckoned to him.
"Take off your vest and put your hands by your side."
He did as he was bid, too frightened to do otherwise. A small naked boy.
"What is this, William?"
"It . . . it's a dog collar . . . mother."
"Yes, William. A dog collar."
She paused.
"When Reuben is told to come, what does he do, William?"
"He . . . he comes, Mother."
"And when he is told to sit, what does he do?"
"He . . . sits, mother."
"Yes because he is an obedient, well-trained dog. And you will wear this collar until you are an obedient, well-trained boy. You will wear it during the day, and you will wear it during the night. And it will not come off until I grant permission. Is that understood?"
He looked at her pleadingly.
"I said, William, is that understood?"
"Ye . . . yes, mother."
She buckled the collar around his neck. Then, raised her eyes in the direction of the clock on the mantelshelf.
"What is the time, William?"
"Quarter to six, mother."
"And what did I say was to happen at six?"
"I was to go to bed early . . mother."
His heart lifted. Bed, escape between the sheets with a warm blanket pulled up, forgetfulness of the bitter disappointments of the day and the punishment he had suffered.
"Yes, an early bedtime, William."
She took him by the hand and led him out into the hall. But not upstairs.
"But my bedroom's upstairs, mother."
"Yes, William. But you will not be sleeping in your bedroom tonight."
He clutched her hand tightly. Down the cold stone corridor, past the kitchen and then into the scullery, now dark and even more gloomy than earlier. She left the door open so a little light from the corridor shone in. He shivered as the cold wrapped around his small, naked body
"When I came in here this afternoon, William, I realised that in a place like this, cold and ill-lit, the baby Jesus was born. He didn't have a bed. There were no sheets, no blankets. He lay in a manager, a trough from which animals ate. His mother probably placed some hay from the stable in it to make him as comfortable as she could."
It was difficult to see in the gloom but she could make out the pail in which the birch rods were steeping. And further over was the long, zinc bath filled to the brim with the pieces of unused holly.
"So, William, as you are a boy who needs to become more like the Lord Jesus, you are going to sleep here in this cold, dark scullery just as so many years ago, Jesus slept in a cold, dark stable. And although we don't have a manager, we have something very similar."
She led him over to the zinc bath. And then stooping, heaved him up, holding him for a moment in her arms. He clutched at her as she lowered him into the mass of holly, and then screamed as he felt the pricking of the sharp leaves. While he had been waiting in the drawing room, she had come to the scullery and fastened lengths of tough hairy string to each of the four handles of the bath. Quickly she fastened the collar to one end, and then his wrists to each of the side handles. She had run string around the end handle for his feet, but could see that with his head and wrists secured there was no need for further restraint.
"The Lord Jesus had hay in his crib, William, but I am afraid for you it is holly. You remember what we sung in church?
The holly bears a prickle
As sharp as any thorn;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
On Christmas Day in the morn.
The prickles, William, are to remind you that Jesus was born this day by Mary his mother to save little boys like you. To save them from their sins. And to do that he had to suffer and to die. He shed his blood for us, William. He was pierced by cruel nails, flogged with a dreadful whip that had spikes and jagged bones attached to it. He was made to wear a crown of thorns. All for you, William. And I want you to think of that as the holly berries prick and wound you. Your suffering is as nothing to his. He didn't deserve to suffer but you do. For only by suffering will you become obedient and it is obedience that opens the way to sorrow and repentance."
He sobbed and writhed as the leathery, spiny leaves pierced and punctured his skin. Already she could see little beads of blood forming.
"No mother . . . please."
She shut the door and left him in the darkness.
After settling down James and Anne, she herself went to her bedroom. It had been an exhausting day. She said her prayers and read her Bible. Then, she opened a drawer to take out a fresh nightdress. Beneath it was a box of tin soldiers. She sighed. Well, perhaps tomorrow, she thought.
The End