Jane S’s memory brought back my own recollections from my all-girls boarding school, also in Kent, that also allowed day-girls for those who lived near enough to come in every day. Our school comprised a quite large main school building with dormitories on the upper floor of three stories. Most dormitories had beds for eight girls, with just a few for senior sixth form girls that had four beds per room.
At the time I’m thinking about, the seven girls and me in our dormitory were all sixteen-years-old. We all got on very well most of the time and it was really when our interest in boys started in earnest. Until then, we just regarded them as rather silly nuisances. Only three of us had brothers. While those three were always willing to talk about their brothers’ anatomies, for the rest us it all seemed a bit odd. Perhaps girls matured more slowly in those days.
About a quarter of a mile away down a country road was an all-boys school, quite similar to ours. I can’t remember now who started it, but a plan was hatched to sneak down to their school, grab a boy who was alone and basically pull his trousers down. Nowadays, people will think that a horrible thing to do, but at the time it felt like just good playful fun.
It was late spring going on early summer, and so the evenings were getting lighter. We were allowed to leave the school grounds up until 7.00 pm, so all eight of us quietly left our school without anyone asking where we were going. We walked along the grass verge until we reached the grounds of the boys school. A simple three-bar fence lined the rough grass and shrubbery at the edge of their grounds, so getting through the fence was easy, and we were able to hide behind bushes as we made our way further into their grounds. Then we spotted what we were looking for.
A boy was sitting on the grass on his own at the edge of the playing fields furthest from the school building. He was maybe two or three years younger than us and not a particularly good specimen with red hair and glasses. Perhaps because he was enthralled with the book he was reading, he didn’t notice us creeping up behind him. Eleanor, a small blond girl, got right up behind him and grabbed him round the neck, pulling him backwards. At that point, any thoughts any of us had about this being a bad idea went out the window and we all moved forwards, took hold of him and lifted him behind a particularly large bush so we couldn’t be seen from their school building.
Some of us took hold of his arms and legs, and we had him spreadeagled on his back. Eleanor was grinning from ear to ear as she began to undo his trousers which were soon pulled down to expose his white Y-front underpants. Then Eleanor took hold of the elastic waistband of his underpants ready to pull them down too, but presumably she had a pang of conscience and asked him if he minded. I could see he was not at all happy, and he plainly objected despite Eleanor offering him something along the lines of, ‘I’ll show you mine if you show us yours’.
That idea clearly did not appeal to him, and at that point someone noticed a man in a suit approaching from the direction of the school building. I think it was Eleanor who kissed the boy full on the lips. and then we quickly ran off back to the road. I remember feeling very nervous as we walked and almost ran back to our own school. I kept looking around for anyone who might be chasing after us, but no one was. In our dormitory that evening, we were all rather quiet. I think we all regretted what we had done.
The following day at morning assembly, we got through the usual two hymns and then our headmistress stood at the centre-front of the stage for her daily announcements. I panicked when she told us she had a very serious matter she needed to deal with. It simply had to be about our excursion the previous evening, and it was.
Our headmistress, Mrs J, was quite young, maybe early forties at most. She had blond hair, quite long, which she often wore in a single plait that ran half-way down the middle of her back.
She didn’t go into any detail, just mentioning that a boy at the school along the road had been assaulted by a group of girls from our school, and she asked for those responsible to report to her office after school. I was trembling in my seat.
Of course, we couldn’t wait for assembly to end so we could all get together and discuss what we were going to do. No one was at all keen on the idea of going and confessing all to our headmistress. I’m sure it wasn’t the thought of punishment that held us back, it was the shame of having to admit to doing such an awful thing. Through the day, whenever we could meet, we kept talking it over, and that led other girls to cotton on to us being the culprits. As the end of the school day drew near, it seemed most of the girls, and possibly one or two teachers, knew we were the guilty ones. We were left with no alternative but to own up.
It was an awful feeling as we all stood outside the headmistress’s office at 4.00 pm. Eleanor knocked on the door and led us inside when called in. We stood in a long line in front of Mrs J’s large desk and I’m sure the looks on our faces left her in no doubt why we were there.
She was shocked. She was ashamed of us. We were disgusting creatures. She should send us home immediately, although that would not have been practical since several of us boarded because our parents were working abroad. She should expel us on the spot. She was really angry, and I think she realised she was too angry to judge there and then what should happen to us, so she told us we were barred from leaving the school until she had considered the matter further. Our parents, though, were going to be informed and she was going to consult with them and the headmaster of the boys school. We left the office feeling awful. We were to report to her office the following day at 4.00 pm.
Dinner that night was difficult. Everyone kept staring at us, and our appetites were non-existent. Of course, in our dormitory we kept going over and over what was going to happen, the main point being whether we would be allowed to stay at the school. Actual punishments did not really come into it. It was very hard to concentrate on lessons the following day.
At 4.00 pm the next day, back in Mrs J’s office, we were again lined up in front of her desk. She appeared less angry and more matter-of-fact. She confirmed she had consulted all our parents and the boy’s headmaster, who had spent a long time consoling the boy, and the consensus was that we should all write a letter of apology to the boy, and that we would all be caned; twelve strokes!
Now, the school mainly dealt with misbehaviour by giving out lines to write or after-school detention, usually a single detention lasting one hour, but sometimes two hours. We had always seemed to know Mrs J had a cane, but it was very rarely used, and so that was not a thought that even entered my head. None of the other girls had mentioned it, so presumably they also had not considered it. Right then and there, it was more the shame I felt with my parents having been informed that concerned me, and that overwhelmed any thoughts I might have had about actual punishment. It was only when she asked us how we felt about being caned that I started to think about it.
Straight away, one girl wanted to know how it would be done. I immediately thought it a foolish question. Surely, that was the least of our concerns. I felt a pang of relief that it might be a way we could avoid being expelled, and expulsion seemed a far greater ordeal. We were told the cane would be given across the palm of our non-writing hand. I tried to imagine myself holding out my hand for it to be hit twelve times. It would be a tough experience, I had no doubt about that, but I supposed that was what we deserved. I simply thought it something I would just have to endure.
Several others, although I did not think any had actually been caned at that point, seemed to feel it was simply too much, and they told Mrs J so. On the few occasions my mother had spanked me, she always gave much more than twelve spanks, so arguing about the number seemed to me rather futile. One asked if the twelve strokes could be given in two sessions of six, with a few days in between. Eleanor said that twelve strokes seemed fair but would be too painful to have them all on the hand. I thought she was meaning she wanted six on each hand, as did Mrs J at first, but then Eleanor clarified her ideas by saying it would be more practical for us to be caned across our bottoms. I began to get the impression the cane was likely going to be a lot more painful than my mother’s hand!
At first, Mrs J poo-pooed the idea, and only began to think more about it after several other girls added their support. I kept silent throughout this part of the process. My mother’s spankings had, of course, always been dispensed on my bottom when she was home, so the principle of a smacked bottom was not entirely alien to me. In those days, home spankings were a common way of dealing with naughty children, even teenagers. I don’t recall being that concerned about which part of my anatomy would be struck, just that if this was to be the outcome then could we please just get on with it.
After some thought, Mrs J told us we would indeed be getting twelve strokes each, but that we could choose between our hand or our bottom. She sent us out to wait outside her office, and told us she would call us in one at a time. I still wonder why she did that. Her office was quite large; there would have been plenty of room inside for us to stay while each one of us was dealt with. By then, I had gathered the cane was going to be more a more daunting punishment than my mother’s spankings, so why not at least allow us the support of our dormitory friends?
I was too ineffectual to actual raise that with Mrs J, so I just kept quiet and followed the others out of the room. We moved a little away from the door and started discussing the options. Eleanor was adamant that getting the cane across the palm of our hands would be exceedingly painful and was not a good option, although to this day I’m not sure how she came to think that. I don’t recall her ever claiming prior knowledge. Others were less certain. I tried to imagine myself holding my hand out for it to be struck time after time and began to seriously wonder if I would cope with that.
And then Mrs J called for one girl to enter the office. We knew those inside were speaking, but we couldn’t hear what was being said, and none of us were going to risk getting caught eavesdropping. It seemed like five minutes before we heard the sound of the cane being applied. I believe we all counted carefully until the twelfth stroke had been given. After a little more discussion, the girl emerged in a flood of tears. She went straight off in the direction of our dormitory clutching her bottom through her uniform skirt.
The skirts we wore were maroon in colour with flat fold-over panels at the front and pleats around the sides and back. This gave them scope for adjustment as we grew older and larger, thus prolonging the life of the garment. We also wore white blouses with maroon and white ties, but no blazers, just woollen cardigans during the winter months. At this time of year, we just wore our blouses.
A second girl was called in and the performance of her caning soon took place, although we noticed a bit of a pause after just six strokes. When that girl came out, she had one hand tucked under the opposite arm, and the hand of that arm rubbing her bottom. She looked a strange sight.
Three more girls were in turn called in and they received their canings. All came out clutching their bottoms. Two were crying, the other one looked despondent and sullen.
With just three of us left, my nerves were on edge. No one was speaking now. When Mrs J appeared at the door, I heard my own name being called. It shook me, even though I knew it had to happen sooner or later. I should have been prepared, but I wasn’t. My head was in turmoil as I went into the office. I looked around, but of course much was the same as earlier. The only difference was a wooden stool with slightly splayed legs and an oblong padded top had been placed over on one side. The cane, a thin straight rattan rod only a couple of feet long, lay on Mrs J’s desk.
Mrs J came straight to the point. She asked if I wanted to be caned on the palm of my non-writing hand or my bottom. Even at that late moment, I hadn’t made up my mind. I ummed and urred. I looked at Mrs J and then I looked at the cane. I felt under a lot of pressure to give my answer quickly. I had never been whacked on my hand, I had been spanked on my bottom, so I chose to have it on my bottom. I was then told to remove my skirt and bend over the stool. I presume my expression queried why I had to take my skirt off, because Mrs J explained it was so I would have just the thin protection of my knickers (like with Jane S, our knickers were white thin cotton as per the school rules) which would be fairer to those who chose to be caned on the bare palms of their hands.
I suppose it made sense because I didn’t hesitate, I simply unfastened my skirt, unwrapped it from around my waist, dropped it on the floor and went over to the stool. I was unsure whether to go over it from one of the narrow sides, which would presumably be more comfortable, or across from a wider side which might make it easier to grip the legs. I again felt under pressure to decide, and Mrs J offered no guidance. The last thing I wanted was for my hesitation to be taken as cowardice, so I chose to go over from the wider side which happened to be nearest me. It actually felt quite comfortable. The padded top didn’t press unduly into my stomach and I could easily reach down and grip the stool’s thin wooden legs.
I wriggled about a bit. It may seem strange to some people, but my intention was to position myself to make it easy for Mrs J to hit me accurately across the centre of my bottom. Ever since, I have questioned why I did that, although others who received corporal punishment at school or elsewhere have often remembered doing much the same. Did we have some instinct it might hurt less? I doubt that. My own view is that I knew I had to be punished and there was no reason not to be fully cooperative.
I felt Mrs J tugging my knickers up a little, presumably to stretch them tightly across my bottom, and smoothing them with her hand. Seconds later, with a faint whistle of air, the first stroke struck firmly and did that sting! I wasn’t moved to tears, but I gasped at the sudden shock.
Each of the following strokes all had much the same effect. Of course they all hurt. I could practically feel the welts and bruises forming. After six or seven strokes, the stinging sensation appeared to be replaced by a constant aching that did not really go away, even after I had been hit again. Soon after that, I lost count of how many strokes I had received, and it was only when Mrs J told me I could get up that I realised my time over the stool was over.
I struggled to my feet and immediately started rubbing my bottom through the seat of my thin knickers. I was really in quite some pain, but I was not crying. Mrs J looked at me almost benevolently and said I could leave when I was ready. I was half-way to the door when she reminded me to put my skirt back on!
Outside, I smiled unconvincingly to Eleanor and the other girl who were still waiting for their turn, and headed back to our dormitory. I later discovered that only one girl had taken six strokes on the hand and six on her bottom, and one girl had started off taking it on the palm of her hand but found it too demanding after just one stroke, taking the remaining eleven across her bottom. All the rest of us had asked to be caned across our bottoms right from the start.
While our bottoms were still red sore from our punishments, we lay on our beds in our dormitory and wrote letters of apology to that poor boy. We later found out he had been informed of how we were punished.
Looking back, I think we were dealt with very fairly. What we did was an awful thing, and might have been even worse had we not been disturbed, but somehow those canings did enable us to draw a line under the incident and move on in a way that no other result would have done.
Linda W