Late

by

Claris­sa

Late again, yes, she knew she was late again; and it was for dou­ble maths, with Miss Prim. She was bound to get a tongue-lash­ing at least, she thought to her­self, as she laboured up the school dri­ve and start­ed across the rose gar­den. She glanced at her watch: five min­utes late had become ten, and she still hadn’t reached the block. She sighed, find­ing her­self flop­ping down on one of the orna­men­tal seats that lined the path. The ros­es were in full bloom: whites, yel­lows and the occa­sion­al splash of flam­ing crim­son; it was a beau­ti­ful sight. Twelve min­utes late now. What was she to do? If she wasn’t going (which, she realised now, she wasn’t) her best hope was that Prim wouldn’t miss her. Was that pos­si­ble? Or maybe she could pre­tend she had been sick? But for that you need­ed to go and see Matron, and that wasn’t going to happen.

She stood up: she had bet­ter get her­self out of sight, she thought; it would be too bad to be caught by a teacher or sixth-for­mer now.  She head­ed across to the main school build­ing, then up the back stairs to the old art room, right at the very top. No one went there now – in fact, strict­ly, it was out-of-bounds.

She looked around the art room – what had once been a hive of activ­i­ty had now fall­en silent; dreams and ambi­tions cov­ered in dust sheets. She paced the floor­boards, rehears­ing pos­si­ble excus­es in her mind, the clock tick­ing relent­less­ly on. She looked again at her watch – quar­ter to one. Gina and Emma would be out of lunch now for sure; maybe she should go and see them?

She found them near the hock­ey pitch. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘how’s things?’

‘Where the heck have you been?’ demand­ed Gina cross­ly, though her expres­sion denot­ed relief.

‘Just out and about,’ said Roz; ‘how was maths?’

‘Ter­ri­ble as usu­al,’ respond­ed Emma.

‘Did Prim miss me?’

‘She did ask if any­one knew where you were,’ con­tin­ued Emma, ‘and we said “No”.’

‘That was it?’

‘Yup.’

After­noon French went pret­ty much as usu­al: Roz enjoyed read­ing du Mau­pas­sant, and liked Made­moi­selle; she start­ed to for­get about what had hap­pened in the morn­ing. As the clock approached half three, how­ev­er, her stom­ach start­ed to tighten.

There was the bell; she was so close now. She grabbed her bag and made for the door.

‘One moment please, Ros­alind’; it was the voice of Mademoiselle.

She stopped in her tracks and turned round, as her friends filed past her.

‘Miss Prim wants to see you,’ con­tin­ued Mademoiselle.

‘What, now?’ said Roz.

‘Yes, now please,’ said Mademoiselle.

Roz sim­ply nodded.

Miss Prim was a woman in her thir­ties, but she dressed like a six­ty-some­thing librar­i­an – Prim by name, Prim by nature, thought Roz.

‘Why weren’t you in class today, Ros­alind?’ demand­ed Miss Prim, sur­vey­ing the school­girl with pierc­ing blue eyes.

Roz had of course antic­i­pat­ed this ques­tion; but her mind drew a blank.

‘Were you sick?’ con­tin­ued Prim.

Here was her chance; she could pre­tend she had been silent­ly retch­ing behind the bike sheds, but no, she couldn’t do it.

‘No.’

‘So?’

‘I’m afraid I was late,’ blurt­ed out Roz.

‘So you thought if you didn’t come at all maybe I wouldn’t notice – is that it?’

‘Yes,’ con­tin­ued Roz, then ‘sor­ry.’

‘Well,’ con­tin­ued Prim, ‘you have been a very fool­ish girl.’ Roz dropped her gaze.

‘If you had been late, I would of course not been very pleased,’ con­tin­ued Prim, ‘but,’ and now Roz felt her eyes burn­ing into her, ‘I would have dealt with it myself.’ A slight pause.

‘How­ev­er, as you have cho­sen to miss a les­son – and a dou­ble les­son at that – I have no choice but to send you to Miss Svenson.’

Roz’s stom­ach hit the floor; sure­ly not the head­mistress – that could only mean one thing, and it was not good.

‘Please,’ she found her­self say­ing, ‘I won’t do it again,’ and now hot tears start­ed spilling uncon­trol­lably down her cheeks.

‘I’m sor­ry,’ con­tin­ued Miss Prim, ‘but Miss Sven­son is already expect­ing you: I’m afraid it’s just too late.’

A dif­fi­cult customer

by

Claris­sa

She didn’t enjoy using the cane, Miss Sven­son remind­ed her­self as she stood at the study win­dow, watch­ing the rain­drops course down the goth­ic arch­es. No, for her, the cane was the weapon of last resort; the weapon you used when all oth­er sanc­tions – tellings off, lines, stand­ings, nose to the wall in the cor­ner, had not worked. Still, when she did use it, she intend­ed to make it hurt. After all, this was for the good of the girls: this was not just about pun­ish­ing past bad behav­iour, this was about encour­ag­ing future good behav­iour, even if this was accom­plished through fear. And most­ly it worked; most­ly, girls would leave her study, tears flow­ing hot­ly, and promis­ing not to come to her atten­tion again. But, and she sighed, this was not always the case: there was some­times what she referred to as ‘dif­fi­cult customers’.

She turned from the win­dow and sat back at her desk, upon which sat the file of fifth for­mer Miran­da Spears. She opened the file, the wind now howl­ing incon­solably out­side, and took out the note from Miss Thom­son: ‘Dear Elsa, I would be grate­ful if you could deal with Miran­da Spears. As you know, she has a gen­er­al inso­lent atti­tude towards staff, but this morn­ing her insub­or­di­na­tion reached new heights when she refused point blank to com­plete her lines. I would be very grate­ful if you could deal with her severe­ly. Yours exas­per­at­ed, Helen.’

‘Exas­per­at­ed’ was a heavy word, and ‘severe­ly’ left no doubt in her mind that Miss Thom­son was call­ing for the cane. And so it would be. Here came the knock.

‘Come in,’ boomed Miss Svenson.

A tall, blonde-head­ed girl walked in and stood before her desk.

‘I won’t take long over this,’ Miss Sven­son con­tin­ued, ‘as I’m sure you know why you are here.’

No response from the schoolgirl.

‘This lev­el of insub­or­di­na­tion is not to be tol­er­at­ed: do you understand?’

Still no response.

‘And it’s not the first time you have come to my atten­tion,’ Miss Sven­son now remov­ing a sheet of paper from the file. ‘I had hoped you had learned your les­son from last time.’

Still no response, not even a waiv­er from the school­girl. Miss Sven­son stood up.

‘Take off your blaz­er off and bend over the desk; I am going to give you six strokes of the cane – and I intend it to hurt very much.’

With­out a mur­mur the school­girl removed her blaz­er, hung it over the back of the chair by the door, and stretched over the desk.

‘Lift up your skirt,’ – the girl com­plied. ‘Don’t move!’

Miss Sven­son wait­ed a moment, then walked across to the cor­ner cup­board and select­ed her weapon; she had already decid­ed on the senior cane.

She stead­ied her­self, remind­ing her­self that this was a nec­es­sary – though painful – part of her duties as head.

She slammed down the cane, right across the schoolgirl’s blue school knick­ers. A slight jerk and gasp, but noth­ing more from Miran­da. Was she real­ly going to sub­mit to this with­out response?

Anoth­er stroke, then anoth­er in quick suc­ces­sion, allow­ing no time for recov­ery. By the end, Miss Sven­son was slight­ly sweat­ing, but the school­girl remained impas­sive across the desk.

‘Get up, and adjust your skirt.’

Up stood the school­girl, and turned to Miss Svenson.

‘Thank you, Miss Sven­son!’ demand­ed the head.

‘Thank you, Miss Svenson.’

‘Do you have any­thing else to say?’

An apol­o­gy would be nice; but noth­ing came. Still, Miss Sven­son was pleased to note, Miran­da did at least look some­what discomposed.

‘I want 100 lines from you by this time tomor­row young lady, and heav­en help you if you disobey.’

Miss Sven­son looked at the 15-year-old in front of her: ‘”I will not be insub­or­di­nate in class” – 100 lines by tomor­row!’ she went on, although some­where deep inside her she wished they could be ‘I will not be so brave when caned’!