During the 1970s I went to an all-girls grammar school in Kent. The headmistress (Miss C) was a stern-looking woman in her early fifties who had been headmistress for over twenty years and so was well known in the area. She had grey hair that was always tightly fastened back in a bun and I always remember her fingernails were so scrupulously clean they appeared to have white edges.

The school was thought of as being strict, but I think in those days that could be said of most schools. We had lots of rules, like walking on the right hand side of the corridors, addressing the teachers as ‘miss’ or ma’am, wearing the correct uniform (basically a grey box-pleated skirt, white blouse, black-and-white striped blazer, white knee-length socks and black shoes. Underneath, we had to wear white knickers and a white bra. It seems remarkable now that schools could even dictate what underwear you had on. During the winter months we could also wear a grey pullover under the blazer). Breaking the rules usually resulted in a one-hour detention served after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It wasn’t a large school, maybe two hundred and twenty pupils, as we were called back then. Some teachers also used the slipper, which meant getting your bottom smacked with a rubber-soled gym-type shoe from one to six times although it was usually two or three whacks. This would be done in front of the class, typically because some girl had misbehaved by talking to her neighbour, by passing notes or generally being a nuisance. It was known the headmistress kept a cane, but no one I knew had ever been caned, so I presumed this was reserved for the most serious offences.

Only a small number of girls had permission to go home for lunch, so most of us had lunch in what was called the refectory in two sittings. All the meals were hot and the menu was the same each week, so on any given day we knew what we would be given. Tuesday was the bad day for many of us; spaghetti with chunks of beef in a not very nice tomato sauce. We often talked about sneaking out one Tuesday lunchtime and getting fish and chips from a shop about a mile down the road from the school. It would, of course, be against the rules, so for a long time it was just something we talked about. Then, someone dared three of us to actually do it.

Our little group of friends, Joanne, Abigail and me, were not especially daring. We were average really. Quite good at most subjects, not especially sporty, and certainly not in the habit of misbehaving. The only detention we had received was two years prior when our whole class was given detention for larking around when our teacher had left us alone for a few minutes. It was probably because we were the least likely to actually accept the challenge that we were surrounded by the other girls in our class and given the dare, their thinking being that we would never accept. Abigail, though, was tempted and Joanne needed little persuasion to join her. They wanted me to go with them and I could simply not face being called a coward by all the others, so reluctantly I agreed.

Leaving school without being spotted was easy. Everyone, including the teachers, was focused on lunch, so the side entrance to the school had no one around. We caught a bus to the fish and chip shop and, being early summer, we had an enjoyable meal sitting on a bench in the park opposite the shop. We checked the time of the buses and knew we had to leave by a certain time, and the bench we chose was behind a large hedge, so even if a teacher drove by they wouldn’t be able to see us. Our little scheme was foolproof, or so we thought.

It all went wrong when the bus that was due to take us back to school didn’t turn up. Presumably it had been cancelled. We were torn between waiting for the next bus or walking back. Walking back would mean we could easily be spotted by a teacher driving back to school, so we chose to wait for the bus, but that would mean we’d be late and probably get detentions. When we got off the bus, we made as certain as we could that no one was looking out of any window, and re-entered the school via the side door rather than the main entrance. We were just inside when our headmistress appeared from around the corner. It seemed as though she had been waiting for us. We were told to report to her study at the end of school, four o’clock in those days.

During the mid-afternoon break, we of course speculated on what would happen when we faced our headmistress. We hoped she would regard it as being late back to school, meaning we would likely get one-hour detentions. That would mean a very boring hour on Thursday after school and having to explain to our parents why we would be home late. More likely, though, was that she would consider it as truanting, and that would be much more serious. We even wondered if she might cane us, or perhaps slipper us.

At four o’clock we knocked on her study door and she called us in. We had to stand in front of her desk while she lectured us on the perils of leaving school without permission, although I don’t think any of us really listened. Of far more importance was what she was going to do about it. Her demeanour was firm but not angry, and the more she droned on the more I reckoned we would be caned. She stopped speaking and looked at us one-by-one. Presumably she was considering what our punishments would be, and the longer she took the more convinced I was that we were getting the cane. And then we were told we would each receive three strokes of the cane.

I think all three of us were stunned. I certainly was, even though I already had it in my mind that was where she was leading. For one thing, being caned was an unknown consequence. Clearly, it would hurt, but how exactly would it be carried out? How much would it hurt? I presumed it would be applied to the palm of our hands, but that wasn’t a known certainty. I almost failed to hear her telling us to go and stand outside in the corridor, and just followed when Joanne started towards the door and Abigail trailed along behind.

Out in the corridor with the door firmly closed behind us, I wanted to discuss the situation we found ourselves in, but I just couldn’t find the words, and neither could the other two. Joanne and Abigail’s faces were white. They looked shocked, as I probably did. We could hear noises inside the study, like Miss C was moving around, but had no clue what she was doing. Then her door opened and Joanne was called in. From outside, we could hear more noises and murmurs of Miss C speaking, but we couldn’t hear Joanne answering. Then it all went very quiet.

Suddenly, a loud crack sounded, and of course we instantly knew Joanne had been given the first stroke. There was a pause of ten seconds, maybe more, and we heard a second crack. Another pause, and then a third crack. After a couple of minutes, the door sprang open and Joanne emerged in a flood of tears. She ignored Abigail and me, and went off down the corridor with her left hand tucked under her right armpit. The door remained half open.

Then Miss C called for Abigail to go in. I could see Abigail positively shaking as she stumbled into the study and closed the door behind her when instructed by our headmistress. On my own now, I could feel myself shivering and I couldn’t control it. I knew I couldn’t simply turn and run because that would only delay my punishment, and probably lead to me getting more strokes. I had to stay and take my turn, no matter how afraid I was.

I jumped when I heard the crack, meaning that Abigail’s punishment was beginning and my own was getting ever nearer. As before, after another ten seconds or so there was another crack, and even through the closed door I heard Abigail cry out. I anticipated the third stroke but instead the delay was much, much longer and I began to wonder what was going on. Was Abigail being let off with just two strokes? Then, finally I heard a third crack, and another cry from Abigail. A short while later, the door slowly opened and Abigail emerged, also with her left hand tucked under her right armpit. She wasn’t crying, but she was huffing and puffing. She briefly looked at me and headed off along the corridor.

I was panicking. Now it was just Miss C and me. I could see her through the open door, standing in front of her desk with a thin cane in her hand. She saw me looking and beckoned me inside. I closed the door behind me, not that there would likely be anyone passing by. My eyes were glued to that cane while Miss C spoke calmly to me, telling me I had to be punished and to hold my left hand out, palm uppermost. I did so and tried my very best to hold it still, but I could see it shaking. Miss C took hold of my hand and guided my thumb out of the way so that my palm was flat. It was still shaking when she raised the cane quite high up and lashed it back down across my hand. I screamed at the sudden pain, the worst pain I think I had ever experienced. I nursed my injured hand in my right hand and felt tears forming in my eyes.

Miss C allowed me to comfort my poor hand for several minutes before she asked me to hold it out again for the next stroke. I tried, I really tried, but I just could not bring myself to do it. I looked at her pleadingly and told her I really could not do it. She told me I had to. My two friends had managed it, and so could I. I asked her if there really was no other way, meaning that I was asking her to give me a month of detentions, anything rather than bringing that cane down across my poor little hand.

Miss C paused for a few moments, and I took a handkerchief from my blazer pocket and wiped away my tears. Then she told me to take off my blazer and place it on the end of her desk. I was confused, but at that moment I would have done anything to avoid that cane hitting my hand again. Then she said it would probably be best if I took my skirt off as well. Maybe I was stupid, but it took me several seconds before I realised what she was proposing to do. I quickly ran the idea through my mind. I certainly did not want to feel that cane across my already sore hand, and it seemed certain that one way or another I was going to have my final two strokes. She was not going to offer me an alternative punishment that would avoid my being caned. I took off my box-pleated skirt, despite my trembling fingers struggling with the zip and fastenings. I folded it roughly and placed it on top of my blazer.

I was told to bend across her desk. It felt very odd to be standing in Miss C’s study in just my white blouse and knickers. I was on the point of bursting into more tears, but I so wanted to get out of there that I simply leaned over her desk and supported myself on my elbows and forearms. I could feel Miss C gently folding my blouse up my back, probably more clear of my knickers than was really necessary. I was still trembling, but at least it was easier to hold my bottom still. Within moments, the cane whistled through the air and cracked across the seat of my knickers. It really hurt, but not as much as the stroke across my palm. At least I felt I would be able to hold still for the third stroke. A few seconds later, the cane lashed my bottom again and caused me to gasp.

When Miss C told me my punishment was completed, I stood up and rubbed my bottom through my knickers. It took a couple of minutes, but then the sharp pain started to ease and I just felt very sore. I was told I could get dressed and slowly pulled my skirt back on, followed by my blazer. Miss C seemed strangely sympathetic. I really do think she regretted having to cane us but felt she had no other option. It took me a couple of hours before I slowly started to see it from her perspective. At that moment, I just wanted to get back with my friends. I was soon dismissed.

Joanne and Abigail were waiting for my by the main entrance and we began walking home. They asked me how my caning had gone and I freely admitted that I could only take the one stroke across my hand, and that the second and third strokes had been applied across my bottom. I seemed to think they would have preferred it done that way too.

Jane S