Whipping Girl

From Blushes Supplement 4, with Belinda Laine

…ANCIENT CUSTOMS DIE HARD

Sophie Grayson studied the advertisement for the umpteenth time. It was in the classified ‘Personnel Section’ of one of the heavy Sunday newspapers, so there was no doubt it was genuine. Yet it seemed too good to be true. Just what she wanted. Certainly anything would be better than the humdrum existence she was leading at that moment, looking after Mrs Dixon’s two cheeky brats of six and four years respectively.

The advertisement read as follows:

Strong, healthy English girl, with some experience of educational procedures, required to help with upbringing of young family of the ruler of minor Arabian sheikdom. Little experience required but must be adaptable, willing and open-minded. Minimum length of service one year. All accommodation and expenses. Salary in region of 15,000 dollars p.a. Girls aged from 16 to 18 preferred. Write with details to Box CH 298876A.

Once again Sophie worked out what 15,000 dollars was in pounds. Quite a lot. In any event it was three times and more what she was earning at the moment. Beyond that, Sophie realised she would be able to save all of her salary and, with 15,000 dollars minimum in the bank when she got back to the UK, she would at least be able to do what she had always wanted. Set up her own business. She began to daydream a little but then told herself to snap out of it. This was the time for action.

Six drafts of a letter were required before Sophie was satisfied with her effort. Then, enclosing a photograph, she sent it off to the Box Number.

----//----

Several weeks passed and Sophie Grayson had almost forgotten about her application. Whenever she did think about it, her mood was rather despairing. Why didn’t she ever have any of the luck going? The kids she was looking after were driving her potty. She was nearly 19 years old and life was passing her by rapidly. She positively yearned for romance and adventure.

Then, after a month, came a reply… and Sophie’s confidence and hopes at once revived. She was to attend to the Mahfukla Staff Agency, which had a Mayfair address in London, and ask for Mrs Armstrong. It seemed a nice, safe British sort of name. That, thought Sophie, was important when one was dealing with these Middle East people. They had such different standards from us. Frankly, at one time, the job had seemed such a push-over that Sophie had vaguely suspected she might be about to be lured into a ‘White Slave Ring’. Then she told herself not to be so absurd. Surely such things didn’t exist these days? In any event, the newspaper containing the advertisement was of the highest repute. Sophie had quickly dismissed her fears.

Mrs Armstrong was as reassuring as she sounded. Middle-aged, unfussy, quiet-spoken. She asked a lot of questions. all of which she recorded on a large white form. She seemed particularly interested in Sophie’s upbringing and background. Certainly more so than in her academic qualifications.

‘So you have no parents alive?’

‘No. I only have one relation. A cousin living in New Zealand.’ Mrs Armstrong nodded with seeming satisfaction.

‘Are you broad-minded?’

Sophie reflected on this. What was best to say? She decided on ‘Fairly.’

‘I mean,’ continued Mrs Armstrong, ‘you haven’t got a narrow Christian outlook?’

‘Not at all,’ replied Sophie, seeing what the woman was driving at. After all, she might soon be working in a Muslim household. Again Mrs Armstrong nodded in satisfaction, then she looked up and smiled.

‘You see, Miss Grayson,’ she said. ‘many families in the Middle East have different customs and practices. To them, they are quite normal. To us… some of us… they would seem rather strange. I thought I ought to mention it.’

‘Quite… quite…’ nodded Sophie. ‘In that sense,’ she added, ‘I am quite broad-minded. Many English people are far too insular.’

There were quite a few more questions before Sophie was permitted to go.

‘You’ll be hearing from us within a week,’ said Mrs Armstrong.

‘Thank you.’ said Sophie politely. ‘I do hope I am successful.’ Mrs Armstrong just smiled, making Sophie feel rather hopeful. She might, however, have been faintly disturbed to read some of the comments which Mrs Armstrong wrote at the end of her report.

Largely recommended as the girl has no near relatives…

Has the advantage of being rapacious financially…

Independent with a veneer of bravado…

Strong, healthy, athletic. Will come to no harm…

----//----

This is the life, said Sophie Grayson to herself as she entered the hustle and bustle of Heathrow airport. She looked at all the nationalities milling around her. Going to every part of the world, she thought. And I’m bound for Arabia, where civilisation began. How exciting! How much better than sitting in a boring London suburb! She checked in her baggage and waited contentedly in one of the Departure Lounges. Apart from anything else, Sophie said to herself, I’ve already started to earn that 15,000 dollars. Every day it goes drip… drip… drip into my account. All ready for me at the end of twelve months. But then, maybe I’ll stay two years, Sophie told herself. If they’ll have me? Why not? She reckoned she was tough enough to stand the virtual isolation of a Muslim household for that length of time. Anyway, no need to take a decision at that moment.

The flight was as boring as such flights are… although Sophie found it a novelty. The knowledge of where she was heading, constant service, exotic-looking passengers all around. Everything was so different.

Sophie was met at the airport by a small, sallow-faced man wearing a red fez. He wore a black suit and said little, escorting her straight away to a large, American-looking limousine. Feeling a little lost and nervous, Sophie found herself being whisked through dusty, white-walled streets then along an equally dusty road. On either side were bleak outcrops of grey rock surrounded by tattered scrubland. Sophie was not impressed by her first glimpse of what had been once known as ‘The Fertile Crescent’.

She was impressed, however, by the place she arrived at. Having fallen asleep, Sophie first became aware of being in a courtyard, in which a fountain softly splashed. It was rather like a film set. The car door opened and a woman wearing a white burnous beckoned her out.

‘Miss Grayson?’ was all she enquired.

‘Y-yes…’ nodded Sophie. Her throat was dry.

‘Follow me. I’ll show you to your quarters.’ Sophie followed and the man in the red fez brought up the rear carrying her two suitcases.

----//----

The quarters themselves, it seemed to Sophie, were quite modest in view of the fact that she was installed in a palace. They were on the level of a three-star English hotel and consisted of bedroom, sitting room and bathroom. All the same, they were considerably better than anything Sophie was used to. From her sitting room, Sophie looked out on to a walled garden. She wondered if she should go and walk about in it then decided against it for the time being. Better learn the ropes first.

After about an hour, a silent servant brought in scented tea. Sophie had unpacked and was becoming somewhat restless. She told herself not to be impatient. Soon, doubtless, she would meet her two young charges. Really, she was quite honoured to have two ‘royals’ to look after, she thought. Even if they were only ‘wog royals’. They couldn’t be worse than Mrs Dixon’s two!

Then, suddenly, without warning, the door of Sophie’s sitting room opened and a tall, imperious-looking woman, severely dressed in a black European-style dress, entered. Automatically, Sophie stood up, sensing she was in the presence of authority.

‘I am Miss Breslow,’ announced this being. ‘The tutor of Prince Rima and his sister, Princess Subra. You will be Sophie Grayson.’

‘Er… that’s right,’ answered Sophie. ‘J-just arrived.’ The woman, she noted, had a central European accent and somehow she rather scared her.

‘Sit down, please.’ It was more of an order rather than a suggestion. ‘I will explain your duties at the outset. If you do not like them, you will be returned to your country on the next plane.’

Sophie experienced resentment and some apprehension. What was this all about? ‘I… I thought… I was to look… look after… the young r-royals…’ she said lamely.

Something like a sneer momentarily transformed Miss Breslow’s austere features.

‘Then you have been misled,’ she said acidly. ‘Your duties are of a considerably more humble, but nevertheless necessary, nature. They form part of the educational customs in our world.’

‘Well… what are they?’ Sophie was feeling naturally bewildered.

‘Tell me,’ demanded Miss Breslow. ‘Are children still beaten in England?’

‘Sometimes…’ replied Sophie, even more bewildered.

‘They are here, too,’ nodded Miss Breslow. ‘But not royal children.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ nodded Sophie. Where was all this leading?

‘Yet,’ continued Miss Breslow, ‘the punishment has to be administered. It is the custom, from time immemorial. Have you not, in England, the phrase ‘whipping boy?’

‘Yes… yes…’ agreed Sophie. ‘It… it’s someone who takes the blame for something someone else has done.’

‘Precisely.’ A travesty of a smile flickered over Miss Breslow’s face. ‘Well, in this country, we have both whipping boys and whipping girls…’

A cold knot formed in Sophie’s stomach. The penny definitely dropped. Or the dollars began to. She suddenly realised why she, a relatively ignorant English child-minder had been selected for this upper-crust positon. Because, in fact, it was no position at all! It was a cruel mockery. It was why they were paying her so much. For nothing…

For nothing!

Dear God… had she not been chosen as a whipping girl?

Miss Breslow, Sophie realised, was on her feet. ‘I shall be back in an hour,’ she was saying. ‘For your decision.’ Then she was gone.

Sophie buried her face in her hands and sobbed and sobbed. It was not so much she was scared but the sheer, utter humiliation of being chosen for such a post. She was white; they were Arabs. It was a reversion of centuries of history. But then, with all the petro-dollars they possessed, who, after all, were the masters now?

----//----

Sophie Grayson wrestled with her conscience and her fears for an hour. In the end, as Mrs Armstrong had calculated, her avarice won.

Once again. she was confronted by Miss Breslow. ‘I want to know… how severely I will be b-beaten?’

‘Not very,’ replied the Governess calmly. ‘Perhaps once or twice a week you will be strapped or paddled. Less frequently, for more serious offences, you may be caned.’

‘Oh lord… I don’t th-think…’

‘Take it or leave it,’ snapped Miss Breslow.

Sophie ground her teeth impotently. She wanted the job — the money — desperately. Was it worth it? ‘Who…. who will beat me?’ she asked.

‘I will. Usually.’ came the flat answer.

I’ve come all this way, thought Sophie; I had such high hopes. Could she crawl back now, with her tail between her legs? To Mrs Dixon? The idea was intolerable! The acceptance of childish correction — a simple Eastern custom — was surely far to be preferred.

In any event, Sophie finally decided to prefer it. Or, as she put it to Miss Breslow, ‘I’ll give it a try.’ For that she received another acid smile.

‘Once you sign the Contract of Service,’ stated Miss Breslow, ‘you will remain here for a year.’ There was a definite hint of menace in that statement — but, in the end, Sophie signed.

Once again, Mrs Armstrong had been proved a good judge of character.

----//----

Princess Subra turned out to be a lovingly-gentle, doe-eyed girl with honey skin, aged sixteen years. On introduction, she kissed Sophie fondly. ‘I do hope we get on well together,’ she said. ‘And, I promise, I’ll try so hard to be good.’ Sophie, two years older, felt at once two years younger. The easy assumption of their two contrasting roles was wounding. She was just an unconsidered ‘whipping girl’. She bit her lips. Think of the dollars, she told herself.

To her chagrin, Sophie found she had to attend Princess Subra’s class.

Prince Rima, it seemed, was taught separately… having a whipping boy in attendance. The whole set-up was crazy. Yet it existed! For two hours, every morning and every afternoon. Sophie Grayson sat in a small classroom, bored out of her mind, while the Princess Subra studied a wide variety of subjects. Fortunately Sophie quickly gathered that Princess Subra was remarkably bright. Certainly far brighter than she herself was.

Tension soon began to be replaced by lassitude. The only compensation for Sophie was to be able to tell herself at the end of a day she had earned another sixty dollars or so.

However, at the end of the first week, there were test papers. Princess Subra, it seemed, failed on two of the six set. One would have been acceptable, but not two. ‘I am afraid I shall have to award a punishment,’ Sophie heard Miss Breslow announcing, whilst a ringing noise began in her head.

‘I am so sorry, Miss,’ Princess Subra said. It sounded as if she meant it. I tried hard.’

‘You will have to try harder. I think ten strokes of the strap will suffice. Five for each failed paper. Come out.’

Though the order was addressed to Princess Subra, Sophie knew it was for her. Trembling, she stood up and advanced to Miss Breslow’s desk. A plain, brown leather strap had already been placed on top of it. It made Sophie feel slightly sick. In quick succession, she had a desire to wet herself, then to run. She did neither. This was a testing time and she knew she had to face it. Otherwise, it was the end of the road. Right… she would show these backward ‘wogs’!

‘Kneel on the punishment stool.’ Sophie had already guessed the purpose of the low-set stool set alongside Miss Breslow’s desk. She knelt, clasping its rails. This was ridiculous; yet it was happening! ‘I want your hindquarters bare,’ came the relentless voice behind her. Sophie flushed deeply. This was too much! She was wearing the traditional Muslim under-trousers with Kaftan over the top. The garments were so thin… why need they be removed? In her heart, Sophie knew why. It was simply a matter of humiliation. Something she had to get used to. With a half-sob, half-sigh she pushed down her under-trousers, feeling cool air on her bare flesh.

Whack! The leather thong burnt across her nakedness. It hurt, but not all that much. Sophie gasped more in anger than in pain. What a way to earn one’s livelihood!

Whack! Again it came… lower down… stinging, but by no means intolerably. She sensed Miss Breslow was testing her out. Sophie clenched her teeth, determined not to cry out.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Oh it hurt… it hurt! And they were only halfway. Sophie almost pleaded, then her anger gave her resolution. She would show them she had guts.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Oh how difficult it was! The strokes were now falling where they had fallen before. They seemed to burn twice as badly. At one moment, Sophie almost twisted right off the stool in her anguish. Dear God, to think she was being treated like this for someone else’s faults! How unjust, how barbaric! Yet… yet… that was now her job. She was simply a whipping girl. And the terms of her contract had already been laid down. She was being paid dollars to suffer.

Whack! Whack!

The final two strokes descended on Sophie’s bare, now burning, flesh. Sobs of hate and fury came from her as her head bowed low. The pain she could just about stand; the degradation was more difficult.

‘You may return to your place…’ Miss Breslow’s voice was icy. Sophie gasped as she stood erect and pulled up her under-trousers. Turning, she saw Princess Subra’s girlish features placidly calm, young eyes gravely concerned. She did not resent the girl; after all, it was not her fault. It was just the system. A bloody ridiculous system, unless you happened to be Princess Subra. Sophie sat down, feeling the cheeks of her bottom glowing. By then, it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. Nevertheless, her hatred for Miss Breslow was unabated.

‘I trust you will do better next week, Princess,’ she was saying.

‘Yes, Miss…’ came the meek reply. One calmly accepting the situation. It wouldn’t matter a damn to her whether she did well or not, reflected Sophie with some bitterness. My God, she might even earn her some cane! Would she be able to stand that? The year which had once seemed quite short, now stretched interminably ahead. Were there ever any school holidays. Sophie wondered? That would be something.

Another sixty dollars, said Sophie to herself, that’s what I’ve earned today. But today I’ve earned it the hard way. Was it worth it? It might get better, it might get worse. Only time would tell.

Sophie suddenly saw Miss Breslow’s gaze upon her. Those hard eyes were both gloating and triumphant. Gleaming symbols of power.

‘You may leave us, girl,’ she said. ‘The Princess and I will now have a purely private discussion. In which no punishment whatsoever will be involved.’ The sharp-teethed smile was feline. Sophie got to her feet and half-stumbled from the classroom.

Hate burned deep…

What had she become? Simply a piece of flesh to be made to suffer at another’s whim! Once again she asked herself the question.

Was it worth it?

Only when she had those fifteen thousand dollars in her hand, Sophie realised already, would she truly know!