On the Bare (4 page)

As she made her way to Mr Chandos’s study she did her best to ignore the cameraman pacing her and trying to get close-ups of her face. She tried to imagine what the viewers would be seeing. The voyeuristic public would want to see her nervous, worried, fretting. Biting her nails and then pleading with the headmaster to let her off. Regretting her actions. Well, she wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction.

Her stomach fluttered with dread, but she swallowed her panic and held her head up high. This was her Big Moment. She was playing a part and her role was that of martyr. She was the heroine in this little drama and the viewers would all side with her and think her terribly brave for facing such a cruel punishment.

She could see Mr Chandos through the little oblong window in the door of his study and he looked up at her tentative knock. His questioning look faded as understanding dawned, but he played the game. It was a performance, after all.

‘Come in, Rutherford. What can I do for you?’

Amelia chewed her lip and looked at the floor, again forcing herself to tune out the cameraman who took up a position behind the headmaster’s desk. Amelia clutched the little note behind her back, where her fingers toyed with it nervously.

‘Well? Don’t just stand there, girl.’

She showed him the note and mumbled, ‘Mr Jones told me to bring you this, sir.’

Mr Chandos held out his hand for it and she stumbled a little as she stepped forward. She hated the way her hand trembled as she passed it to him and her fingers nervously plucked at her skirt as he unfolded the slip of paper.

‘Hands at your sides, girl,’ he said sharply. ‘Stop fidgeting.’

She obeyed, withering under his stern gaze until he finally turned his attention to the note.

‘“Grossly offensive language of a sexually explicit nature”.’ He looked up, eyebrows raised. ‘Is this true, Rutherford?’

‘Sir, I –’

‘Is it true?’

She shifted her feet. ‘Yes, sir.’

He pushed back his chair and stood up, his height making her feel small and weak as he circled her.

‘I can only imagine, Rutherford, what possessed you to say what you did. We pride ourselves on turning out
ladies
from this school, not foul-mouthed guttersnipes. And
when
we do encounter debased and vulgar behaviour, we take the strongest possible action to eradicate it. And to punish the offender. Do you understand me, Rutherford?’

There was no way out. Amelia looked down at the floor. ‘Yes, sir,’ she whispered.

‘Very well, Rutherford. You are about to have the distinction of being the first pupil at Queen Mary’s College to be caned. Are you proud of yourself ?’

She shook her head miserably, unable to think of an appropriate response.

‘Cat got your tongue, Rutherford? I asked you a question. Are you proud of yourself ?’

Amelia couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She felt her cheeks burning and she just managed to mutter, ‘No, sir.’

‘Right. Let’s get this over with, shall we? Take off your blazer.’

Amelia swallowed hard as her fingers fumbled with the buttons. She was shaking so violently that she began to fear she’d never get the thing off.

‘Oh, do get on with it, girl,’ he barked.

His annoyance only made her clumsier, but at last she managed to struggle out of the blazer. She held it limply until Mr Chandos nodded at the chair against the wall. She folded it and set it down carefully as though laying flowers on a grave.

As she stood waiting, her head well down, she heard a cupboard open and close. Her stomach churned and for a moment she feared she might be sick. Her heart thundered in her chest and she finally dragged her gaze up to meet the headmaster’s.

He flexed the cane in his hands, bending it so far into a C-shape that she cringed, expecting it to snap in two. The fact that it didn’t break only made her more nervous and she clenched her bottom cheeks, unable to imagine how the whippy length of rattan would feel.

‘Six of the best, Rutherford. What we call a short, sharp shock.’

Amelia’s face burned as she glanced uncertainly over at the camera. Its cold glass eye was a spyhole through which millions of people were about to witness her punishment.

‘Lift your skirt and bend over the desk,’ he said, all business.

She froze. ‘What?’ she blurted.

Mr Chandos furrowed his brow, as though he hadn’t quite heard her. He repeated his instruction, this time more firmly.

Lift her
skirt
? But she wasn’t wearing … Frantically her mind searched for a solution. Should she say something? Pull him aside and confess her little rebellion out of earshot of the cameras? Surely they wouldn’t show her bare bottom on TV.

‘I’m waiting,’ came the headmaster’s voice. There was no hint of sympathy in his tone and she knew that it would only magnify her humiliation if she tried to get out of it. Oh, for the courage just to hoist her skirt brazenly!

The three feet to his desk seemed like miles, but she made her unsteady legs carry her there. She gathered the heavy grey wool in her hands, peeling it slowly up to reveal her long legs.

The sudden noise of the door opening made her start and she dropped the skirt and spun around. To her horror, a second cameraman entered and closed the door behind himself without a word. Mr Chandos didn’t speak, but it made sense that they’d want two cameras for this pivotal moment. It was the whole idea behind the show, after all.

‘Carry on, Rutherford,’ Mr Chandos said.

With a miserable little whimper she faced the desk and reached behind her again. She bent forward and lifted her skirt, unveiling her legs with slow and painful reluctance. The wool felt unbelievably heavy, like the massive curtains in front of a stage. She hesitated for a second, then pressed on, raising the material all the way over her bottom and dropping her elbows down onto the desk where she was grateful of its support.

In the icy silence that followed she imagined herself as though in a dream, both participant and observer. Behind her the cameraman made a flustered little noise and she had a clear vision of the moment from his perspective, could see perfectly the slight camera-wobble as she exposed
the
peach of her bottom, the soft round cheeks indecently bare beneath her chaste school skirt.

For a moment there was no response, and Amelia realised that Mr Chandos was facing away from her, pacing around behind the desk to reach her left side. Then his footsteps stopped abruptly and Amelia imagined she heard a quick intake of breath. His voice, when it came, was shocked.

‘And just
what
does this shameful exhibition mean, girl?’

She lowered her head, blushing furiously. What could she possibly say?

The headmaster thought for a moment. ‘Very well, Rutherford. Since you seem determined to make this worse for yourself …’

He slashed the cane through the air, making her jump.

‘Your knickers would have given you some small protection from the cane. But now it will be on your bare bottom, and I shall make sure that every stroke counts.’

Mr Chandos took some time arranging her and making sure that her bottom was presented at the perfect angle for his cane – and the camera. He also made sure that her head was lifted so that her face was in full view.

There was no escape from either indignity. The camera behind her would show the world her bare bottom while the other would capture every wince, every yelp of pain and even – God forbid – her tears. She couldn’t allow herself to show any pain or embarrassment and she made a promise to herself to be stoic. She was not going to disgrace herself further by making a fuss on television. A new game had begun, one where her only chance of survival was taking what he gave her with pluck. The whole world would be watching. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. She closed her eyes as she stretched out across the polished wood, taking hold of the edge of the desk.

Mr Chandos stood behind her and beyond her line of sight. She felt him lay the cane across her bottom. The implement tapped once and she flinched, every muscle in her body taut and tensed.

‘You will count for me, Rutherford.’

‘Yes, sir,’ came her whisper-thin reply.

Time slowed to a crawl and she heard the first stroke cleave the air like a faraway jet. The cane landed evenly across both cheeks with a fearful crack. A moment later the nerve endings began to process what had been done and came to life to produce a line of fire where the cane had struck. Her eyes flew open as the pain began to build – burning, freezing, itching, stinging and aching all at once.

Amelia gasped, gripping the desk, waiting for the sensation to fade. Instead it only seemed to intensify with each passing second. She pressed her forehead into the wood. She would not yelp. She would not cry.

Be brave, be brave
, she told herself, feeling anything but.

She waited for the next stroke, panting and bracing herself for the impact and she grew more anxious when it didn’t come. Finally Mr Chandos prompted her.

‘Rutherford. You’re to count, remember? Or do you want the next stroke to be number one?’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she blurted. ‘One, sir!’

Almost immediately, the second stroke landed. This one was a little lower and a lot harder. She let go of the desk, nearly jumping up, as the pain bloomed. But then she stopped herself, realising what that would display to the camera in front of her. She forced herself back down, but she couldn’t help wriggling as the burn swarmed across her cheeks. It was a long time before the sting began to fade to a tolerable blur. She could clearly feel the two distinct lines and she imagined they looked like the searing marks on a steak from the grill. Whatever they looked like, she knew the camera behind her was recording it all. Everyone would see her bare bottom, caned and striped.

‘Two, sir,’ she whimpered, preparing herself for the third stroke. Her whole body vibrated with tension as she resumed her death grip on the edge of the desk. She stared straight ahead at the books on the shelves behind the desk. The camera was there too, just off to the right, and she tried not to think about what it was seeing.

Mr Chandos delivered the third stroke and Amelia arched her back, struggling to keep in position. This time
she
couldn’t hold back a small strangled cry and she immediately bit her lip so as not to give it full voice. She writhed, her hips rolling in what she knew must be an obscene display. She didn’t care. The pain had all her attention.

‘Three, sir.’

The next stroke forced a louder cry from her and she kicked her leg up behind her, twisting her foot in the air as she waited for the fearsome sting to dwindle. Her eyes began to prickle with tears and she squeezed them shut in misery and pain as she lowered her foot. No one must see. She curled and flexed her toes over and over inside her shoes, trying to focus on anything but her bottom and the terrible pain blossoming there. She had to admit it: the cane was formidable. The threat of even a single stroke from it would be enough to make her shudder in future.

‘Four, sir,’ she managed at last.

She’d come this far. She could do this. She
would
do this. Bracing herself, she waited for the next stroke.

Number five fell. Astonishing. Amelia clenched her teeth, grinding them together painfully, making her jaw ache.

She counted through her teeth. ‘Five, sir.’

Only one more
, she told herself. A bizarre calm had begun to settle over her. She locked her knees to keep herself from moving out of position. She wasn’t about to ruin it now.

The final stroke was, predictably, the hardest of all and she bit back the strangled little sob that rose in her throat. She’d lost all her dignity earlier. This was her only chance to get it back. She had to show the headmaster – and the viewers – what she was made of. She desperately wanted to make them all proud of her.

As the fire in her bottom coalesced into a terrible pulsating burn she heard Mr Chandos’s voice, as though from miles away.

‘You may stand, Rutherford.’

She pushed herself up, swaying on shaky legs. She faced him, no longer self-conscious about what the camera might
see
. Nothing mattered but her sense of triumph. It was over and she had taken six strokes of the cane. That was something none of her friends could claim, either here or back home. It was something to be proud of.

When Amelia returned to the modern world she was overwhelmed by the publicity. The caning had been dramatic and controversial, making front page news in all the major papers. Everyone knew her name. Her face was everywhere and so was her bottom. She was a heroine, a martyr, a conquering hero. Whether the show had proved any point or not was irrelevant; Amelia was a celebrity.

As she worked through the mountain of correspondence waiting for her she found an email from a film director whose name made her squeal. Her heart soared as she read his words.

Dear Ms Rutherford
,

First let me express my admiration. You took that caning with real pluck. I often lament that punishment scenes in movies are so unrealistic. I’ve even considered hiring stunt performers to give some authenticity to onscreen punishments. Oh, but how much better it would be if the actors had your courage and conviction! Plenty of them do their own stunts, but how many would be willing to take what you did for the sake of a film?

I am currently working on a new project. It’s a Victorian melodrama about a young woman who escapes her cruel circumstances and disguises herself as a boy with the intention of running away to sea. However, a kind gentleman takes her in and offers to educate her instead. She’s a spirited girl (rather like you, in fact!) and she soon gets herself into trouble. The gentleman decides that he must birch her. There are several such episodes in the story and I just hate the thought of such a crucial element looking fake. Therefore I wonder if you would consider
…

Amelia didn’t need to read any further. She was going to be a star.

The Fourth Index

SCARGRIEVE STOOD SILENT
, its jagged roofline gouging the moonlit sky, its boarded windows like the eyes of a sleeping giant. Simon helped me out of the stolen punt and we crept stealthily up the riverbank towards the Victorian house. The wooden fence had rotted through and we slipped easily into the overgrown garden. I shone my torch across the jungle of weeds, scanning the back of the house until I located the back door beneath a gothic arch. Planks of wood had been nailed across it and signs announced in strident capitals,
DANGER
!
KEEP OUT
! and
PRIVATE PROPERTY
–
NO TRESPASSING
!