Rosemead School for Girls

Everyday Tales from an English Boarding School

I don’t know where this story originated, as I've never seen it actually published in a magazine, but a great story nonetheless.

Chapter 1 by Wendy Mathews, Form 5, Aged 16

Mondays were never particularly good and this one was proving to be no exception. We’d already had a double period of games this afternoon and if the weather was fine, that was usually quite enjoyable. Despite the fact that it’d been raining cats and dogs almost constantly all weekend, in his wisdom Mr Kingston decided that we should still go on the cross country run he’d planned last week.

‘Come along girls,’ he’d said ‘it’s only drizzling lightly and we’re not afraid of a little water, are we?’ It was alright for him, he could sit in his warm office while we were all running round Orchard Hill getting soaked to the skin.

Now we were waiting for the last lesson of the day, and I was giggling in the corridor with my friends Belinda, Judith and Lucy. The bell rang out to warn that we’d only five minutes to report for the lesson, and we hurried to the Form Room. Painful experience had taught us that it was never advisable to keep Mr Walker waiting. Mr Walker was no slouch when it came to punishment, and he only had one punishment — eight strokes of the cane. He was sitting at his desk in readiness.

‘Come on, take your places girls, we’re about to study the problem on page 89. Hurry up.’ Physics was not my favourite subject, and I had difficulty concentrating. Mr Walker droned on and on, and I found myself gazing out of the window. Suddenly he stopped in mid-sentence and turned his attention to me.

‘You might not find the lesson interesting, Wendy, but I’m sure your classmates do. I assume you’re tired after your cross country run, and perhaps should consider an early night. Pay attention.’

Phew, that was a close one. It must be his birthday or something. Usually Mr Walker wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense whatever. We’d occasionally try to play up one or two of the masters, but it never ever paid to do it with him. Resolving not to tempt fate, I sat up straight and gave my full attention to the lesson.

After a while I began to feel a little sleepy and, without realising what I’d done, covered my mouth and yawned. Unfortunately, Mr Walker happened to look at me just at that moment, and his face turned to thunder. Then he seemed to gain control.

‘Wendy Mathews, you are obviously determined to be punished. Come out here to the front of the class.’ Oh no, I was for it now. It wasn’t fair. I’d had my sixteenth birthday two months ago, and was a big girl now. Yet here was Mr Walker about to whip my bottom in front of the class, just like a little girl.

‘Oh please sir’ I begged ‘I’m sorry I’ve been tired today. It was the cross country run this afternoon. I’ll pay attention in future, I promise.’

‘Be quiet girl, and come up here to the front of the class.’ Resigned to the inevitable, and knowing that he’d brook no further argument, I reluctantly stood up and walked out to the front of the class. There was a hush, and all eyes were on me.

‘You’ve been a very naughty girl Wendy, and you know what punishment in this class entails.’

Yes, unfortunately, I knew only too well. I detested having to do it, and trying hard not to blush, I removed my school tie, blouse and skirt and folded them neatly on the teacher’s desk. Then wearing only shoes, socks and school knickers, I walked across to the punishment table. This was rectangular, padded and positioned to the side of the teacher’s desk. I stood at one end of the punishment table with my feet about one foot apart, then bent right across it, face down with my arms spread straight and wide in front of me.

This was the punishment position. How I hated it, but worse was yet to come. Mr Walker came up to me, and I felt so humiliated as he put his fingers in the waistband of my knickers and pulled them down to my ankles.

So there I was, naked except for shoes, socks and knickers around my ankles, bending across the punishment table with my arms splayed out in front of me, ready for the cane. My bottom felt so big and exposed, and was on display not only to all the other girls, but also anyone else who walked in the door. The school took boys up to the age of thirteen in the junior section, and sometimes they came into our form rooms to deliver messages. It didn’t bear thinking about…

Mr Walker went to his desk, unlocked a drawer, and there was a murmur from the other girls as he drew out that long, thin, whippy cane that we knew so well. He swished it through the air ten or eleven times, then took up position behind me. I felt the cane tapping my bottom, but he made me wait and wait, tap tap tap. Sensing him draw back the cane (right above his shoulders, I knew), I tensed and waited.

SWISH! THWACK! Barely a split second passed between hearing the sound of cutting air and the fiery burst of pain as the cane curled around my bare bottom. I gasped, breathed deeply, and braced myself for the second. Ten seconds passed, and the form room was completely hushed as Mr Walker raised the cane again.

SWISH! THWACK! Whipping it down, that one hurt just as much and I gasped again, but somehow managed to contain myself. I held my breath and waited for the next one. Ten seconds passed.

SWISH! THWACK! The cane whistled through the air and landed on my bare bottom. Ow, that one was even harder and I couldn’t help letting out a howl at the searing pain in my poor bottom. I held my breath and closed my eyes. Ten seconds passed.

SWISH! THWACK! OW! I gave an ear splitting squeal as fresh waves of agony made my whole body shudder. If I hadn’t known better I would have assumed he was using a branding iron, and not a cane. Ten seconds passed.

SWISH! THWACK! I heard it, I screamed in my mind, then I felt it… and howled like a banshee. Blazing. Biting. The purest agony.

SWISH! THWACK! Agony. Agony. Agony. I opened my mouth and screamed as loud as I could. The whole of my bottom was on fire, had been savagely flayed, and I felt that I just couldn’t take any more. But I had to.

SWISH! THWACK! A repetition of the agony I had just felt. Agony. Agony. Agony. Oh, Agony, Agony, Agony. I screamed and screamed at the top of my voice.

SWISH! THWACK! I screamed and screamed and screamed. The burning pain in my bare bottom must surely kill me. I wished it would do so.

I lay there bending across the punishment table, bare bottom still on display, arms still splayed out in front of me, burning unceasingly, incessantly. I seemed to have gone beyond the limits of what a human being could endure in physical suffering. Now I must remain in this position until the end of the class, when Mr Walker would dismiss me.

‘Now girls, where were we?’ said Mr Walker replacing the cane in his desk, and turning to the rest of the class. Yes, I had been a very naughty girl, and today Mr Walker had taught me a lesson that I would not forget in a long time. Another routine punishment in the everyday life of Rosemead School for Girls, but they never get any easier, and they never hurt any less.

Chapter 2 by Angela Bates, Form 4, Aged 15

I’d had butterflies in my stomach all week, thinking about it. Today’s Maths class with Mr Palmer that is. I worked hard at my lessons and was good at most subjects, English, History, Geography, French — you name it, but I found Maths difficult.

In fact, I always worked extra hard at Maths, to try and please Mr Palmer, but some of it was still hard to understand. Mr Palmer, for his part, seemed determined that not only would we learn Maths, but become experts at it too. He gave us a test every two weeks and I’d just managed to scrape by this term, so far, but I wasn’t sure about the last one. I’d had problems with my logarithms. Still, today we got the marks, and I’d find out soon enough.

We sat at our desks and waited for the class to begin. My friend Elizabeth, sitting next to me, said she was worried about the test too, and with good reason. In Mr Palmer’s tests, if you got less than six out of ten, you got punished. You didn’t want that. Believe me, you didn’t want that. Mr Palmer was strict and demanded high standards of work and behaviour at all times. In Mr Palmer’s class, even for the most trivial thing, a girl might find herself touching her toes for stroke after stroke of his cane on her bare bottom.

The bell rang and Mr Palmer swept into the classroom and sat down at his desk. This was it. ‘Good morning girls,’ he began, ‘today we will look at some algebra problems, then discuss the test which you did last week.’ Typical. If it wasn’t bad enough that we’d had to wait all week, we’d now have to wait through most of the class to find out if we’d be punished. Mr Palmer was keen on keeping girls waiting. He liked odd numbers, too.

That empty feeling in my stomach went on and on, but I was keen to try and please Mr Palmer, so I gave him my undivided attention. I even managed to put up my hand and answer two of the questions which he liked to frighten us with.

After about twenty minutes we heard from another classroom the distant whack, whack, whack of a cane on bare flesh. I don’t know how many there were, because they were soon drowned out by horrible screams, but they seemed to go on for a long time. We often heard these noises from the classrooms around us, and this time it sounded like the Lower Sixth, up the corridor, again. Yes, even Sixth Form girls got their bottoms whipped in front of the class at Rosemead. It was more embarrassing for them, because the school took boys in the Sixth Form and Junior School, who attended the same classes.

The masters never caned any of the boys, apparently because we were supposed to be a girls’ school, but I could never understand this. It seemed to me that if the boys were naughty, then they should get the same punishments as the girls. Even if we were supposed to be a girls’ school. After all, no allowances at all were made for us girls, so why should the boys get special treatment? The girls who shared classes with them told us that the boys were often very naughty indeed, but all they got were stupid punishments like writing 100 lines, or being gated for a couple of days. Yet the masters never hesitated to bare a girl’s bottom. I shivered.

After a few more minutes, Mr Palmer finished with algebra, and turned to last week’s test. He picked up a sheaf of papers, the classroom became tense, and some of the girls shifted uneasily in their chairs. This was it.

‘Pay attention girls. Here are the results of last week’s test. Lucy Palmer 7, Gill Flowers 6, Deborah Forster 8, Elizabeth Laing 7.’ I heard Elizabeth beside me breathe a sigh of relief. I listened and listened for my name, but it never came and I got more and more worried. ‘That concludes the list of girls who passed the test. Well done. However there is one name that I have not read out. Angela Bates, will you step out here to the front of the class, please.’

Oh no, my worst nightmare was coming true. Slowly, reluctantly, I stood up, looked around the class, then went to the front. I kept my eyes down.

‘Angela, you are a very naughty girl. You got 5, and you are the only girl to fail the test.’ He began to raise his voice. ‘This just isn’t good enough, girl. You are intelligent, look at the marks in your other subjects. It’s lack of concentration that does it, and if you won’t try harder then we must see what we can do to encourage you. Prepare for the cane.’

There was nothing else to do. I took off my school tie, blouse and skirt, and folded them neatly on the teacher’s desk. Most Rosemead classrooms had padded punishment tables which girls had to bend across, but Mr Palmer was old fashioned and he liked to see a girl touching her toes. His punishment table had been removed, and replaced with a white circle painted on the floor. Wearing only my navy blue school knickers, and feeling very self conscious, I went and stood in the circle with my hands behind my back, and waited for Mr Palmer who was talking to the class. No matter how many times it happened, I never got used to the drawn-out preliminaries, or the punishment itself for that matter. Eventually he turned to me.

‘Bend over and touch your toes, girl.’ I did as he said, with my feet together and legs straight, bending over as far down as I could and touching my toes with the tips of my fingers. Hadn’t I been ordered to touch toes? With Mr Palmer that meant touch toes, and keep touching them. We could all do this easily because we were made to practise again and again during PT. Sometimes our PT teacher, Mr Kingston, made us stay down for extended periods of five minutes or more. He would walk up and down making sure that our feet were together, legs perfectly straight and fingertips touching toes.

Mr Palmer approached, and I knew what would happen next. I never got used to this part either, and I hated it. With a quick movement he pulled my knickers down to my ankles. I nearly died of embarrassment. Here was I, a girl, with my bare bottom sticking up high in the air in front of a room full of people, and all because of some stupid test. My bottom felt much bigger than usual, oh shame, shame, and I could feel cool air on it.

Mr Palmer had several canes, but two big favourites. The first was a whippy two-and-a-half-footer which he used to beat the bare bottoms of the little girls in the Third Form. This was a bit tough on them because they were 12- or 13-years-old, and only supposed to be spanked on their bottoms with a strap. Yet Mr Palmer, as well as being our Maths master, was also their Form Master, so he could punish them as he wished. The second cane was heavier, longer, and even whippier still, and he used it on all the older girls. I knew which one he would choose for me.

Mr Palmer walked slowly across to his cane cupboard, unlocked it and selected a cane, then gave it a couple of giant, full swing, practice strokes. He always did this, and his other trick was to stand a little back, then take a step forward with each stroke, to get his full weight behind it. He took up position behind me, and with clenched teeth and hair falling about my face, I studied the floor, determined not to cry out this time.

Then down it came, slicing through the air and exploding on my bare bottom. The world exploded in light and PAIN. PAIN!

And there were six more.

And when it was over, and when I had stopped screaming, I heard Mr Palmer say, ‘Let that be a lesson to you girl. You will remain in position, and think about the error of your ways, until I say you may stand. Now girls, there will be another test next week, and since this one was too easy for most of you, we’ll make it a little harder, shall we.’

So I stayed down, with my fingers touching my toes, and my bare bottom still high up in the air but now covered in vivid red weals. Mr Palmer certainly knew how to focus a girl’s attention on the error of her ways. My bottom was burning and burning, and throbbing and throbbing, and if it felt large before, it was twice as big now. I thought about the test and I could see the direct connection between the questions I’d got wrong, and the continuous agonising pain in my bottom.

Yes, I had been a very naughty girl for failing the Maths test, and Mr Palmer had punished me for it. I must try harder in future, and do everything I could to be a good girl. I will spend every spare moment studying Maths, ready for the test next week. Mr Palmer’s punishment was very normal in the everyday life of Rosemead School for Girls, but I never get used to them, and I don’t want any more.

Chapter 3 by Tanya Watts, Form 3, Aged 13

I was a new girl at Rosemead School, and it had been a big week for me. Mummy packed my trunk, including a tennis racquet, lacrosse stick and hockey stick, so it seemed that I would be doing lots of sports. Of course, I brought along Molly, my dolly, and Cuddles, my teddy bear — I couldn’t be without them. Then on the Sunday afternoon we set off in the car, with me already dressed in my school uniform. This was a short grey pleated skirt, white blouse, long white socks, black shoes, navy blue knickers and stripy tie. My blond hair had two big ribbons in it, and I felt really happy and grown up in my lovely new uniform.

Mummy and Daddy told me all about Rosemead, and said I was a very lucky girl to be going there. It was an old school, with traditional values and teaching methods, but it had modernised and like many girls’ schools today, it took in boys as well. Just a few, because it wanted to stay mainly a girls’ school. There had been boys in the Sixth Form for some time, and as this had apparently worked out well, there had been an intake into the Junior School too. More important, these Junior School boys were now in the Third Form, and some of them would be in my class! Yes, in my class! Daddy said I must be a good girl, work hard at my lessons, and I would get a lot out of Rosemead.

Boys! I felt excited! I didn’t know very much about them, since there had been only girls in my last school. There had been a separate boys’ school in the town, but they were scruffy and loud, and we used to stick our tongues out at them. In the last term we would giggle together in the playground, and wonder what it would be like to be kissed by a boy. Golly gosh, maybe I’d meet a dishy boy, and get my first kiss at Rosemead!

After a long journey we reached the school, and I saw a big square building alone on a hill beside the sea. There were towers at each end, and I could see two more behind as well, making four in all. With green creepers climbing the walls, up to the roof in places, it looked almost like an old time castle.

‘My school,’ I thought, and a little warm feeling came into my heart. ‘Its fab. How lucky I am to be having Rosemead as my school and home for the next five years. I’ll love it.’

It was evening when we arrived, and I was tired after the journey, so the first night passed in a bit of a blur. I was taken to meet the Headmaster, Mr Thompson, with eight other new girls and two new boys. It seems that all the other girls had arrived to start the new term a few days before.

We stood in a line before Mr Thompson’s desk, and he spoke to us all. He said one day we would go out into the world as young men and women, and that we should take with us eager minds, kind hearts and a will to help. We should have a willingness to accept responsibility, and show ourselves to be men and women to be loved and trusted. All these things we would be able to learn here at Rosemead, and we should see that we gave a lot back. We were all very impressed, and whatever we might do in the years to come at Rosemead, at that moment each of us wanted to do our very best.

I was then taken to Dorm 3B, which was one of the Third Form girls’ dormitories. It was a very long room with thirty beds in it, fifteen on each side. Each bed had a locker and a chair next to it, but nothing else, and I thought it was all a bit too ‘open’ because there were no curtains to screen the beds off. Still, I would get used to it, and I was sure that we would all be happy friends sharing together.

Two separate rooms led off from the dorm, one with wash basins in, and the other with cupboards to hang things. I also noticed a locked cupboard standing on its own next to the door, and I wondered what it was for. There were dolls, teddy bears and furry animals in the beds, and I knew that my Molly and Cuddles would be at home here. My bed was in the middle of a row, and I was the only new girl in this dorm.

‘It will be fun to sleep here’ I thought. ‘What a whizzo time we’ll have talking at night, and I expect we’ll have dormy games, too.’ Just then the other girls arrived back from the showers, and there was a lot of noise and chattering as they changed into their nighties, and ran to and from the washbasins cleaning their teeth. I made friends with the girls on either side of me, Judith and Rosemary, and they said they’d been at Rosemead for two years, since the First Form when they were aged eleven. How lucky they were. I wish I had been here that long. How happy I was to be here now.

One of the girls looked at her watch. ‘Get into bed everyone,’ she ordered, and all but one of us scrambled into bed. The remaining girl, whose name was Helen, sat on her bed brushing her long golden hair until Mr Thrab, Duty Master that night, came into the dorm. Helen quickly jumped into bed, and Mr Thrab walked slowly down the row of beds.

‘You were late into bed, girl,’ he said, stopping at Helen’s bed. ‘Take your nightie off and kneel on your bed.’ I wasn’t sure if I’d heard right, but there was no doubt about what happened next. Helen got out of bed, lifted her nightie up over her head and off, and then knelt on her bed.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Helen, with nothing on at all, was now kneeling on the end of her bed, facing the wall, and with her bare bottom facing outwards. Her slim body was tanned, which made her bottom look very white, and I couldn’t help staring at it. Mr Thrab unlocked the single cupboard I had noticed earlier, and brought out a horrible looking strap — so that’s what that cupboard was for. The strap was quite long, like a short belt really, with no buckle, but wide and thick. It looked awful. Horrible.

Mr Thrab raised the strap high in the air, then brought it down CRACK really, really hard right on Helen’s bare bottom. The noise echoed round the dorm. Then he raised the strap and CRACK he brought it down again on Helen’s bottom, just as hard. And again and again, six times in all. Poor Helen was quiet for the first two, but she shouted out at the third, and by the fourth she was bawling at the top of her voice like a little girl. Her bottom wasn’t white any more, it was a bright strawberry red all over. Even worse, Mr Thrab made her stay kneeling there for five minutes afterwards, ‘to repent’ he said, and I heard her crying in her bed that night after lights out.

Next morning Judith and Rosemary told me that this was quite normal in all the dorms and classrooms, and that I would soon get used to it. They also said that one night they had found the cupboard left unlocked, and very daringly took the strap out and had a look at it. They even measured it. Apparently it was a Standard School Strap, leather, twenty-inches long, two-and-a-half inches wide, and half-an-inch thick. Oh my goodness, I didn’t think I’d ever get used to that! I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay in this school after all.

The next night another girl got the strap on her bare bottom because her locker wasn’t tidy, and the night after that two girls were caught whispering after lights out, and got eight strokes each. The second girl was made to kneel naked on her bed, in position, waiting while the first girl was punished, and they both did five minutes repentance time afterwards. Can you believe it, eight strokes with that horrible strap just for whispering! What about the pillow fights, and midnight feasts, and dormy games that I had been looking forward to?

I saw punishments in the classrooms, too, and they made me feel sick. Girls touching their toes, with their knickers down, screaming as they were strapped and strapped on their bare bottoms. There were eight boys in our class, and all this was done in front of them, as if they weren’t even there, and they just looked on and didn’t seem to mind at all. I never saw any boys being punished and I don’t know why, because they were much, much naughtier than the girls.

One morning I nearly fainted when I saw our Form Master, Mr Palmer, holding a thin, wicked looking cane. Fortunately I didn’t see him use it that day, but the other girls told me he did actually use it, on Third Form girls, frequently. I thought Third Formers were only strapped? Why, oh why had I been so unlucky as to get Mr Palmer as my Form Master?

Thursday night was worst of all. I was lying in bed before lights out, cuddling Molly and Cuddles, feeling nice and warm and sleepy, and sucking a small sweet. Mr Dawkins, Duty Master, came into the dorm, walked slowly down the row of beds, and stopped in front of mine.

‘What’s that in your mouth, girl?’

‘Only a sweet, sir,’ I replied.

‘It is against the School Rules to eat in the dorm. Take it out of your mouth and put it in the bin.’ I did as he said, walking across to the bin, then hastily returning to my bed. I started to get in. ‘Not so fast, girl. Take your nightie off and kneel on the bed.’ I was scared and paralysed, and couldn’t take my nightie off. I couldn’t, not in front of Mr Dawkins.

‘Please sir, I haven’t done anything wrong. No one told me about the School Rules. I’ll never eat in the dorm again.’

‘Take your nightie off this instant girl, or you will report to the Headmaster for the cane.’ Somehow I forced myself to take the nightie off, and I held my hands in front of me because I didn’t want him to see me down there. I was naked, and felt so shy and ashamed that I wanted to die. I got on to my bed, and knelt on the end with my bottom facing out, as I’d seen the other girls do. This was even worse, I was just as exposed and I couldn’t even cover myself. I’d never felt so bad, with my bare bottom on show to the whole dorm, and I could feel cool air on it. I waited and waited, and I didn’t normally blush but I could feel a hot flush in my face, and my heart was beating like a little animal’s, and I wondered if —

SMACK! I wasn’t expecting it just then, and OH it hurt, and I put my hand to it, and he just tapped my knuckle with the strap and told me to put my hand back on the bed. And it was burning, and throbbing, and I couldn’t get my breath, and —

SMACK! YEOW! I couldn’t help shouting out. Nothing had ever hurt me so much. I wasn’t allowed to put my hand on it, and I started wriggling my bottom around, trying to bear the pain, and he just told me to stop being so provocative and keep still, and I didn’t know what to do and —

SMACK! YEOW! I shouted out again. I couldn’t put my hand on it, and I wasn’t allowed to move, and I thought the pain would kill me. ‘Please sir, please sir, stop,’ I howled. ‘I can’t take any —’

SMACK! I screamed and screamed and screamed.

SMACK! I screamed and screamed and screamed.

SMACK! I screamed and screamed and screamed.

Mr Dawkins made me kneel on the bed for five minutes afterwards to repent, and I hung my head, with my tears dripping into the bedclothes. It wasn’t fair, nobody had told me about the School Rules, and I cried and cried myself to sleep that night, lying on my tummy.

It was now Monday morning, more than three days later, and I had completed my first week at Rosemead. My bottom was still swollen and sore, and I could feel it throbbing as we sat in the classroom, waiting for Mr Palmer to come and take the roll call.

One thing was for sure, I was going to be a very very good girl, and work really really hard at my lessons. I didn’t dare not to. I couldn’t think what it would be like to get that cane of Mr Palmer’s on my bare bottom. In fact, I didn’t want to stay at this horrible school any more. Mummy, Daddy, please come and save me. Please, please, please!

Chapter 4 by Amanda Scott, Lower Sixth, Aged 17

Nicola Armstrong was my very special friend, and on Monday she’d been so excited. She’d got a pass for the half day holiday by telling her Form Master that it would help her English Literature studies if she went to the Dickens exhibition at the town library. One of the books we had to read for our ‘A’ level exams was Great Expectations.

Of course she did not intend to go to the exhibition. No, she’d be meeting her boyfriend Mark instead, and she jubilantly rolled around the Washroom in a fit of giggles, telling Caroline and I that today was the BIG DAY, and ‘great expectations’ were exactly what she planned for the afternoon.

I told her to take care, and not end up with any other expectations, but she stared at me for ages before replying. I thought she was offended, and was about to apologise, when she suddenly burst out laughing again, telling me I’d listened to a pregnant pause!

‘You will be careful,’ I pleaded ‘and make sure he puts on one of those rubber thingies.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m not stupid, I’ve told him that if he doesn’t come prepared, we’re both going to be disappointed. The silly idiot said he used to be a scout and always went prepared,’ she added with a giggle!

With her elfin looks framed by fair bobbed hair and deep blue eyes, boys were attracted to Nicola like bees around a honey-pot, and she was always more brazen than the rest of us over how far she’d let them go. She was one of the few girls who had a boyfriend outside the school, and had been going out with Mark for three months now, a record for her.

When she came back that night Caroline, Belinda and I eagerly took her aside, and she told us all about it. They’d gone to the Common on Mark’s motorbike, then into the bushes and had a terrific snog lying on a blanket. Mark had torn open a little purple packet and pulled out the rubber johnny, which was all slimy with a nipple thing on the end. We were agog, because none of us had ever seen one before. He knelt to put it on, and then they were disturbed by some man coming through the bushes with a dog. By the time the man had gone, the rubber johnny had fallen off, and was covered in leaves, and he couldn’t get it back on, and then he stung himself on some nettles and didn’t feel like it any more.

So much for Nicola’s first time! Nothing had happened! We all chortled loudly.

I didn’t know very much about boys, few of us did, and besides, I intended to save myself for my husband, but I admired Nicola. I wished I had her confidence. Wow, I thought, she’s really grown up, and knows just how to flirt with boys. She’s cool. Really cool.

Two days later Nicola received six of the best with Mr Holroyd’s cane on her bare bottom for being a couple of seconds late for his History class.

Now it was Thursday, and we had double French with Mr Stokes. Ugh! He was rarely in a good mood, and had a soft voice which became loud when he was angry. I was terrified of him. Now that we were in the Sixth Form, he spoke to us only in French, and made us stand in turn and read a passage from the text book, to improve our pronunciation.

‘Mademoiselle Abbott, commencez vous, s’il vous plait.’

It was always tough on Susan Abbott because, being first on the register, she always had to begin. What’s more, for some reason Mr Stokes seemed to like picking on her, and frequently made her bend across the punishment table, with her bottom bared for the cane.

Susan carefully stood up and started to read, and I settled back for a long wait as Mr Stokes gave her a fairly rough time.

‘Non, non, non,’ he exclaimed, standing beside her, as Susan stumbled over a difficult section. ‘Ooo’ he enunciated. ‘Cela n’est pas ‘Owe’. Repetez vous, s’il vous plait.’

‘Ooooooo,’ Susan managed, and I thought she did quite well, but Mr Stokes’ eyes narrowed. She wasn’t that bad, I thought.

‘You have been smoking cigarettes, girl,’ he declared, reverting to English and sniffing at Susan. ‘Come out to the front of the class.’ Susan followed him to the front, looking very frightened.

‘Sorry sir, but there must be some mistake. I haven’t been smoking, honest.’

‘A likely story. I can smell it on your breath and clothes. You know that smoking is strictly against the School Rules, and is a beatable offence. Bend across the punishment table immediately.’

Blushing, Susan did as she was ordered, and bent across the punishment table sideways on to the class, with her legs slightly apart, and arms stretched out wide in front of her. This was the standard Rosemead punishment position, although some masters preferred other positions. Mr Stokes then raised Susan’s skirt high, very high, and folded it back. Putting his hands in the waistband of her knickers, he pulled them down to her ankles, and Susan was ready for punishment. I felt sorry for Susan, it was so embarrassing to have your bottom bared in front of the class, just like one of the little girls in the lower forms. And yet it kept on happening to her.

Mr Stokes retrieved his crook-handled cane from the cupboard and flexed it menacingly as if to test its efficiency. Poor Susan was bent across the punishment table, perfectly still, with her pert bottom jutting out in readiness. The whole class watched in silence as Mr Stokes whisked his cane purposefully through the air, prior to taking up position behind Susan.

With a look of determination he carefully measured the distance, then moved back a little further, ensuring that the correction he was about to administer would have the maximum effect.

Tap… tap…

Tap… tap…

Rattan cane on horribly expectant flesh.

Tap… tap…

I knew what Susan was going through, didn’t we all? Mr Stokes slowly drew the cane back high into the air, then paused slightly. The tension in the room was electric, then he scythed the cane down with all his might. A few of the girls gasped as it whistled through the air and curled around Susan’s shapely bottom, cutting her cruelly. Susan writhed across the punishment table and gasped, her mouth open, auburn hair thrown back.

Tap… tap…

Tap… tap…

I watched spellbound with horror as Mr Stokes raised the cane again and unleashed a terrific swipe. It sounded like a nest of angry hornets as it sliced through the air, and lashed into Susan’s bare bottom with a truly fearful thwack, resounding noisily around the room. Susan writhed across the punishment table again, absorbing the pain, absorbing it, taking it, still hanging on. I shuddered in sympathy, hardly believing that Susan could endure such a stroke without crying out. I could see the pain.

Tap… tap…

Tap… tap…

Putting all his effort into the next stroke, Mr Stokes slashed the cane down like lightening. That one missed her bottom altogether and lashed into the tops of her thighs. Ow, I couldn’t imagine anything so painful, and again Susan contorted across the punishment table, but she hung on, bearing the pain. Bearing it. Bearing it. Her mouth kept opening and closing silently. Silent screams? I saw tears in her eyes, but despite being so pitilessly thrashed, she remained in position, and I was impressed. What a Trojan.

Mr Stokes raised the cane again and I winced as it sang through the air and, with a sound like a pistol shot, whiplashed into her bare bottom. The cane all but embedded itself into her bare bottom. Poor, poor Susan. That one broke her. She writhed across the punishment table again and gave a terrible, piercing scream. And another. And another. She was in complete turmoil, and I really felt for her, but Mr Stokes hadn’t finished yet.

Rhythmically beating, Mr Stokes gave her four more real scorchers. She almost did acrobatics across the punishment table, and the room echoed with her bloodcurdling screams. Susan screamed and screamed and screamed, and I thought I would be deafened.

Afterwards, Mr Stokes made her remain in position, across the punishment table, for five minutes ‘to contemplate whether cigarette smoking is worthwhile.’ She cried and cried the whole time, and her bare bottom was criss-crossed with the vivid imprints of Mr Stokes’ cane. The stripes were ghastly, each double tramline weal angrily swollen and flaming red. I could almost see them throbbing, and she must have been in agony.

Sigh, another routine punishment in the everyday life of Rosemead School. Susan was used to them, as we all were, but that didn’t make them any less painful. I reckon she’d be a bit more careful with her cigarette smoking in future. If she wanted her morning ciggie in the loos, why didn’t she suck three polo mints straight afterwards? Like I did.

Chapter 5 by Deborah Ashworth, Form 5, Age 16

‘Please sir, I’m very sorry sir, but I had to finish Mr Holroyd’s History prep first, because if it’s late, we get beaten.’

It wasn’t a very good excuse for having hurried through Mr Emerson’s English prep, and I wasn’t sure why I’d said it. I was frightened and had started to babble.

It wasn’t fair. No matter what we did, or how hard we worked, we couldn’t win. The masters always gave us tons of prep every night, and insisted that every bit of it be done properly and neatly, which took up all our time. Yesterday Mr Holroyd had set us a long essay on the Napoleonic Wars, and I had spent hours and hours last night writing about the Iberian Peninsula, the advance on Moscow and William Pitt the Younger. I found history boring, but I kept at it because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Mr Holroyd was big and strong, and the lash of his cane on your bare bottom was not something you’d forget in a hurry.

Unfortunately I’d run out of time, and then had to rush through Mr Emerson’s English prep — Chaucer which I didn’t even understand because the language was so strange. Now I was standing before Mr Emerson, in front of the class, with my hands behind my back, fidgeting nervously. Mr Emerson always kept the front row of desks free, to be used for punishments, and I glanced anxiously over my shoulder at the knicker-clad bottoms of the six girls who were already bending across them.

Annabel Cotton, Samantha Minter, Wendy Mathews, Belinda Yates, Sarah Webster and Elizabeth Walters had all been struggling with History last night too, and their English prep had also displeased Mr Emerson. Now they were lined up, each one stretched across a front row desk, facing the rest of the class. Their skirts were raised high and folded back, and their navy blue school knickers were on display, pointing to the front of the class.

‘This prep just isn’t good enough, girl,’ Mr Emerson repeated, waving it at me. ‘You’ve hardly given it a moment’s thought, and it’s riddled with spelling mistakes. And look here, and here, and here, you’ve just copied out the textbook, word for word. Do you consider that History is more important than your English prep?’

‘N — no sir.’

‘No sir indeed. You will do the prep again tonight, in addition to all your other work, and hand it in to me first thing in the morning. Is that understood’?

‘Y — yes sir.’

‘Good. I see there is one empty desk at the end of the front row. GO AND BEND ACROSS IT IMMEDIATELY.’

Fearfully, I did as I was told, standing in front of the desk facing the class, raising my skirt and blouse, and bending right across it. I made sure my skirt and blouse were folded as high up my back as I could. The desks were the type that had seats attached to them, and I reached out and grasped the wooden bar at the back of mine with my hands. I knew Mr Emerson’s rules. Each girl must stay in position, and keep her hands on the back bar of her desk, until he released us. Girls who let go of the wooden bar got extra.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Mr Emerson then approached Annabel and pulled her knickers down to her knees. Then he did the same to Samantha, and Wendy, all the way along the row, finishing with me. I was so embarrassed. No matter how many times I got punished, I could never ever get used to having my knickers taken down.

I felt so humiliated, so exposed, so vulnerable, so unprotected, and there was nothing I could do to hide myself. As always, my bottom felt so much bigger than normal, and knowing what was about to happen to it made me feel even worse. Also, it was summer so all the windows, and the door, were open, and I could feel a cool breeze. This was no way for a girl to be treated. It wasn’t.

Just at that moment someone knocked on the door, and entered the classroom. I looked over my shoulder and saw that it was a boy from the Junior School, with a message for Mr Emerson. I couldn’t believe that this was happening to me. The class had started so badly, and was getting worse and worse. Could it possibly get any worse than this?

Mr Emerson started to read the message, and the boy just stood there motionless staring at us, his eyes almost out on stalks. I wanted to die of shame. I was a big girl now so why should I be made to bend across a desk like this, with my bare bottom on display to a junior boy. For that matter, why should I be punished like this at all?

Rosemead took a few boys in the Junior School and Sixth Form, to be more modern, and there were plenty of other areas where I wished they would be more modern too! I always behaved very haughtily towards these junior boys, ignoring them and pretending that I never noticed their existence, but I recognised this particular brat. He was about 13, in the Third Form, and one of the naughtiest and cheekiest boys in the school.

He was part of a small gang who liked to play very stupid and childish games, like raiding the girls’ dorms at night. They would run through the dorm throwing water on the girls in their beds, and flicking them with ‘rats tails’ made out of towels, and then disappear. The Duty Master would come to investigate the disturbance and, as often as not, the girls would be punished for making a noise after Lights Out.

Another one of their games was to creep up on a girl who had recently been punished, and slap her bottom. They even did this to older girls, and got away with it because there was nothing we could do. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t! Huh, it was alright for them, boys at Rosemead were exempt from corporal punishment, but all the girls got the cane on their bums.

At last Mr Emerson finished reading the message, told the rat that no reply was required, and dismissed him. He seemed to leave the classroom as slowly as possible, eyes still riveted on us, and lingering at the door, until finally he tore himself away. He’d probably hear everything from his own classroom, anyway.

Mr Emerson took his cane down from its hook next to the blackboard, and stood behind Annabel. He raised the cane high into the air, and the rest of the class sat in complete silence, pens down, arms folded, staring at Annabel.

This was terrible, horrible, and I began to panic. Please God, help me, come and save me. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee; Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus; Holy Mary mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death, Amen. Please, please, mother Mary save me from this. If you help me now I promise I’ll be a very good girl in future. I’ll always do all my prep, and I’ll pray to you every single night.

And then the horror began.

Again and again the cane lashed down into bare schoolgirl bottom flesh. Again and again. The classroom was a maelstrom of swirling dust, swishes, thwacks, howls, and screams of agony.

It was worse for me because I was on the end of the row, and had to wait until last. My bottom began to tingle, and I could almost feel every stroke that the other girls got, and when they started screaming, I wanted to scream too.

And then it was my turn. I was facing the rest of the class, and could see them looking at me. I heard a swish, and then WHIP! It felt like a bolt of lightning had come from the sky and struck my bare bottom. A swathe of white hot pain hit my bottom cheeks and went deeper, deeper, deeper, and then exploded and my whole bottom was on fire. Unbearable. Unbearable. I kept my hands on the back bar, tilted my head back, and howled.

Then WHIP! Down it came again, just as hard, and that one hurt even more. OWWW.

Then again WHIP! and that one hurt even more. And again. Eight strokes in all. I screamed and screamed and screamed.

We waited for the usual five minutes afterwards, seven pairs of hands on seven back bars, ‘to consider why little girls should do their prep properly,’ and I kept my head down and sobbed. Mr Emerson continued with the class, as if nothing had happened, and began to talk about metaphysical poets.

I couldn’t wait until the end of the class, when I would run to the changing rooms and join the lineout. No, this wasn’t a game of rugby, it was a collection of tearful girls who went to the changing rooms after most classes. They would stand in a line, knickers down and skirts up, and press their bottoms against the cool, cool tiles that lined the walls there. How I longed for that cool relief.

Another routine punishment in the everyday life of Rosemead School. It looks as if I’ll be sleeping on my tummy for the next few nights. Again.