Lost for words

By Claris­sa

It could only have been about fif­teen min­utes, but she couldn’t check her watch as she had her hands on her head, fac­ing the wall, out­side the head­mistress, Miss Svenson’s, office. Fif­teen min­utes, but it felt like an eter­ni­ty. She had start­ed out fourth in a line of mis­cre­ants, and now it was down to her. Two girls had already come and gone, dis­patched from the office in vary­ing states of dis­tress. Now it was the turn of the third girl, Rober­ta Jami­son, and she had been in there an age. Miran­da was mus­ing on why this might be when, sud­den­ly, the heavy mahogany door of Miss Svenson’s study swung open, and out stepped Rober­ta. ‘Your turn now,’ mum­bled the girl to Miran­da, ‘she wants you in straight­away.’ Miran­da turned round, man­ag­ing to raise a brief half-smile to her tear-stained fel­low, before knock­ing on the dread­ed door herself.

Miss Sven­son was sit­ting behind her desk, a fine, crook-han­dled cane promi­nent­ly on dis­play before her. This was a weapon Miran­da had become famil­iar with over the past few years – that and, of course, the strap. She did not know which she hat­ed the most, but hav­ing tast­ed the bite of both, she was at least pre­pared for their sting: Miss Sven­son couldn’t real­ly hurt her.

‘Well Miran­da, I haven’t seen you in my office for a while,’ began Miss Sven­son. Miran­da remained silent.

‘I assume you have a note?’ con­tin­ued Miss Svenson.

Miran­da stepped for­ward and held out the note she had placed in the top pock­et of her blazer.

‘Cat still got you tongue I see,’ went on the Head, as she picked up her glass­es and read through the missive.

Miran­da said nothing.

‘Well, this sounds like a very child­ish offence,’ assert­ed Miss Sven­son at last, sur­vey­ing the tall fifth-for­mer before her.

‘Go and fetch me that chair,’ she sud­den­ly instruct­ed, indi­cat­ing a low wood­en chair near the win­dow, ‘and put it in front of the desk.’

Miran­da didn’t move.

‘Do it, right now!’ com­mand­ed the Head.

Miranda’s feet obeyed, despite her mind reel­ing in con­fu­sion: this was not how she took the cane, or the strap for that matter.

Miss Sven­son stood up, wait­ed for the chair to be set­tled, then sat down.

‘Come here and bend over my lap.’

Again, Miran­da didn’t move.

‘Come here at once,’ con­tin­ued Miss Sven­son, her voice ris­ing to a crescen­do, ‘or I will spank you hard­er and longer.’

Spank? Miran­da was hor­ri­fied: she had nev­er been spanked before; nev­er had to lie across the lap of the head mis­tress – this was too much.

‘Come here!’ ordered Miss Sven­son, and this time the girl did move, approach­ing the Head and then low­er­ing her­self care­ful­ly over her lap as indicated.

Before she could do any­thing else, Miss Sven­son had pulled back her skirt and slammed her hand down hard on her behind.

‘Ow…ouch!’ issued from Miranda’s lips in shock, as anoth­er blow, and anoth­er rained down.

‘Be qui­et!’ ordered Miss Sven­son, Miran­da grit­ting her teeth as the blows increased in inten­si­ty; ‘This is not your place to speak!’