In the 1970s, corporal punishment was a common and completely accepted form of discipline in schools in Britain. Headteachers used to wield the leather strap and the cane with varying degrees of regularity and zeal. What follows is my own personal experience of this practice, as a pupil of a private school tucked away in the south of England.

When I joined the sixth form at Rosewood School for Girls mid-way through the summer term in 1974, I was something of a novelty. Firstly, my American accent, and secondly because I seemed to be the only girl there who had never attended a private school before. This was certainly a culture shock after my High School in California, along with the constant rainy weather and the bad food. I must confess that I found this very difficult at first, subjected to the whispered conversations and not-so-subtle glances, and not just from the other students!

The intrusive questions and generally feeling like an exhibit did ease off fairly quickly, however, and pretty soon I found myself settling in, with other girls saving a seat for me in class, and including me in their conversations. Quite soon there arrived the comfort of the small social rituals that form the currency of schoolgirls everywhere; teasing, banter, inside jokes and, in our case, flirting with the boys from St Olave’s down the road.

All modesty aside, I suppose it didn’t hurt any that I was what most people would describe then as something of a ‘looker.’ With my blonde locks that I sometimes wore in pigtails, as girls back home often did, I guess I had typical the cheerleader thing going on. Sweet and innocent, but eye-catching, as my best friend in class once described me.

Rosewood was a typically stuffy place, where everything seemed carefully arranged, from the seating plan in the dining hall to the school uniform, expected to be always immaculately pressed and spotless. Inculcating polite conformity and respect for tradition appeared to be the school’s mission, a life tightly regimented and rarely questioned.

At the centre of this rigid regime was the headmaster, Reginald Montford. I’ll never forget that name. I remember that he had a low, even voice, almost a whisper sometimes, that could nevertheless cut through chatter like a blade. I can honestly say that I’ve never met anyone either before or since able to exude calmness and affability as a form of menace. He spoke carefully, even gently, but every sentence seemed intended to remind you that nothing escaped his notice, and when his hand rested lightly on a girl’s shoulder it might appear reassuring at first glance, but was always firm enough to remind her she wasn’t quite free to move as she pleased. He just had that way of looking at you that suggested he already knew every fault you were likely to make, and that tiny twitch of the mouth or brow that left you in no doubt that misbehaviour and mistakes were being duly noted and would not be overlooked. He’d fix his eyes on you just long enough to unsettle you.

Not only that, I soon found out from the other girls that he had a reputation for his frequent use of the cane, evangelical in his petty enforcement of rules, and dishing out quite severe punishments for even minor infractions. His presence in the classroom, on the rare occasions he emerged from his study, and even the mention of his name by a teacher was enough to engender a sense of dread amongst us girls, despite the superficially pleasant outward appearance.

This, and the fact that I stood out as the ‘outsider’, the new, pretty girl from the USA everyone was talking about, piled on the pressure to behave ‘perfectly’, to avoid drawing any attention to myself, especially in the presence of old Montford. I committed every school rule to memory. I was a good student academically. I made sure my uniform was immaculate; white blouse, short pleated skirt, spotless white ankle socks, shoes buffed to a dull shine. However much of a model pupil I strove to be, I always got the feeling that he was paying close attention to me whenever I was in his presence, even if I was amongst a group of other pupils.

I was determined not to find myself, as many of my friends had, standing alone in his study, while he retrieved a cane from the rack of them that he apparently kept in a box by his old oak desk. Alas, it was not to be, as his determination to enforce even the most petty rule was even more resolute. I still believe to this day that the old goat engineered the situation that led me to find myself in that very predicament, just to prove the point that no one was above his disciplinary code, even the popular new girl with the accent.

As I mentioned, the school, under Montford’s command, was obsessive about its byzantine rules and restrictions. Certain areas were off limits without written permission. These included the school library, the administration offices, the woodland edges which surrounded the back of the school, and even the corridors during certain periods.

I had only been at the school for coming up to three months when the incident happened. Earlier that week, the headmaster had apparently instructed the librarian to close the library earlier than usual on Thursday lunchtime, citing ‘inventory checks’. I heard later that he had also decided that the closure need not be announced to us. The ‘Closed’ sign was hung on the main doors, which were behind another set of doors, so any pupil found inside would be technically breaking school rules.

Mrs Hargreaves, Montford’s ever-loyal, sour-faced secretary, approached me in the corridor one afternoon, and with a perfectly polite smile, said, “Oh, Emma, I wonder if you could do me a quick favour? Would you mind running this folder down to the librarian? She’ll know where to shelve it.”

Somewhat surprised by Mrs Hargreaves’ uncharacteristically friendly tone, and eager to be obliging, I carried the folder to the library. I noticed the lights dimmed and the outer doors partly closed, but they were still unlocked. Assuming staff were still inside, I stepped in. Only then did I see the ‘Closed’ sign hanging from the main door. And lo and behold, it was at that exact moment that Montford appeared in the doorway, on his way to the school administration office.

“And what,” he said in a sort of mock-severe tone. “Are you doing in here? This library is off limits after lunch today. The notice is right there on the door, young lady.”

Of course, I tried to explain that I had been sent there by Mrs Hargreaves, but the headmaster shook his head and let out a theatrical, deep sigh.

“Rules are rules, I’m afraid, Emma. Go and wait outside my study. I’ll be along presently.”

And so that is where I found myself, standing stiffly outside the oak-panelled door of the headmaster’s infamous study, biting on my lower lip, desperately trying to reassure myself that even such a keen enthusiast for corporal punishment as Reginald Montford would surely not cane me for such a minor infraction of his sacred rules, especially after I’d had a proper chance to explain what had happened.

After allowing me to stew for over thirty minutes, the headmaster appeared around the corner, with Mrs Hargreaves in tow. In my naivete, I first felt sense of relief to see her. Surely, she would confirm my story and all would be well? The headmaster brushed past me, striding into his office with Mrs Hargreaves following behind.

“Come along,” was all he said, and I followed them in.

The headmaster took a seat in his old, leather-upholstered chair behind his desk, while Mrs Hargreaves perched herself on a more austere hard-backed wooden chair to the left, arms folded. I remained standing, my hands nervously clasped in front of me.

“So, Emma,” the headmaster said, beaming a cold smile at me. “Do you accept that you were in the library after it was closed?”

“Yes, sir,” I stammered. “But only because Mrs Hargreaves told me to take the folder there. I was…”

“I gave no such instruction!” Mrs Hargreaves interjected. “The library had been closed since lunch. Everyone knew that.”

“But you stopped me in the corridor and told me to…”

“You’re mistaken!” the woman snapped. “I would never tell a pupil to go into a restricted area.”

A cold weight seemed to settle in my stomach. I looked at Reginald Montford, my mouth hanging open.

“Emma, I understand that you are still new to our school, but you do understand how serious it is to invent stories to cover a rule breach, don’t you?”

I was almost too flustered to speak now. All I could manage was, “Please, sir, I wouldn’t have gone in there otherwise.”

Mrs Hargreaves spoke again. “It’s really very simple. You ignored the sign on the door. And now you’re trying to put the blame on me.”

I was already close to tears by this point. The sheer injustice of it, along with the rising fear of what was looking increasingly likely to happen now, created a knot in my stomach and seemed to be removing my power of speech.

With carefully measured disappointment, Reginald Montford looked at me in almost avuncular way, and said quietly, “I’m afraid this is not looking good, Emma. Mrs. Hargreaves has worked here for many years. I have no reason to doubt her word.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment. I wanted to protest, but couldn’t find the words. And then I heard the headmaster’s voice again.

“I’m afraid that I am going to have to cane you for this, Emma. Rules are rules, do you agree, Mrs Hargreaves?”

“Oh, yes,” the woman said immediately, smoothing her skirt as she sat. “A little reminder of that is needed here, I think. These things must be nipped in the bud.”

Before I could fully take in what was happening, the headmaster had risen from his chair and, after a bit of rustling round, had picked out a cane from an assortment of them behind the desk. It was a thin, whippy thing with a slight curve at the tip. He flexed it once, almost absent-mindedly. I could only stare at it, fascinated and horrified at the same time. He had moved from behind the desk and was now looming in front of me.

“Hold out your right hand,” he said gently.

I found myself obeying, despite the obvious injustice of it all. My arm stiff, palm flat and trembling slightly under the light.

“I’m going to give you four, two across each hand, Emma. These are for breaching school rules.”

The moment stretched impossibly long, and then came the stroke. A line of searing pain slashed across my palm, sharp and immediate. I remember exactly how my whole body jerked, my breath caught, my eyes clasped tightly shut, the hiss as I sucked in air. Total silence followed until I heard his voice again, almost gentle in tone.

“Left.”

I could hardly believe that I was dutifully holding out my other arm, my trembling fingers unfurling. The cane sliced down again. Again, I clenched my eyes shut, sucking in my breath, trying somehow to block out the burning pain building up in both palms now. My hands and my breathing were beginning to tremble even more. I let out a little whimper, determined not to cry.

“Right.”

The headmaster sliced the cane across my right palm again. The force with which he brought the terrifying implement down on my hand provided a unnerving contrast with the measured calmness of his general demeanour.

“Left.”

Again, the stroke fell. As determined as I was not to cry, my eyes were moist. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold them steady. After four strokes slicing my upturned palms, Reginald Mountford finally lowered the cane. He fixed me with an unwavering stare, taking in the sight of this new girl all the way from the United States, so effortlessly popular, trembling and fighting back tears before him.

As dreadful as the experience had been, I felt some comfort in the fact that it was over and I’d survived it. I had been caned by Reginald Montford. I could even brag about it and compare experiences with my new friends. But then Mrs Hargreaves stood up, and pulled the small wooden chair she had been occupying to the centre of the room, just in front of where I was standing. Smiling sympathetically, the headmaster gestured towards it.

“Bend over, please, Emma.”

I couldn’t believe there was going to be more!

Still trying to shake the burning heat from my hands, I offered a pathetic, “Please, sir!”

Mountford’s smile didn’t change, but his eyes betrayed the fact that he would brook no disobedience. He tapped the chair with the tip of the cane.

“Please don’t waste my time, Emma.”

I’d like to say I put up resistance, but in truth I hesitated for just a few brief seconds, my face pouting in faux-defiance, before I reached my still throbbing hands down onto the seat of the chair. My shame welled up as I felt my skirt being raised, and tucked into the waistline by this elderly man.

“The caning you just received on your hands was for wilfully breaching school regulations. You will now receive six across your bottom for the far worse offence of lying to me and calling into question Mrs Hargreaves good name. I think it would be fitting if Mrs Hargreaves, as the wronged party in this regrettable affair, be the one to administer the strokes. Would you care to, Mrs Hargreaves?”

“Of course, headmaster.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Montford hand the cane to his secretary. Then, I heard her own clipped tones.

“Maintain that position, young lady.”

To my utter horror, my knickers were then pulled up tightly into my crotch by the woman, providing her with a clear target area. There I remained in place, feeling the humiliation in every inch of me, but particularly my exposed backside and thighs. I heard the terrifying swish of the cane in the air as she practiced the flick of the wrist. I wondered if this was the first time the headmaster had invited her to punish a girl, or whether a special exception was being made with me.

She took up position, flexing and swishing the cane again. I breathed in hard, closing my eyes. The strokes that Mrs Hargreaves delivered across my bottom were heavier and slower, and all executed with careful cruelty. Somehow, I don’t think this could have been the first time she had been tasked with such a role. Each one burned deeper, creating an intensity of emotion in me that I had never experienced before. By the time his sixth stroke landed, I’m not too proud to admit that my resolution about not crying had evaporated, and I was openly sobbing like a baby, gripping the edge of that wooden chair like it was the only things stopping me crumbling to me knees, which it probably was.

I bent, buckled and twisted my hips with every slice of that dreadful cane. After each stroke she allowed some recovery time, telling me to straighten my legs, push my bottom out more, arch my back more, to stop being such a silly girl, threatening to focus a couple of strokes on the back of my thighs if I didn’t assume the exact position she wanted.

I think all the talking in between was more to deliberately draw out the ordeal, which I got the distinct impression she was savouring. Montford sat calmly at his desk, observing proceedings. After the sixth and final stroke had cut into my tender backside, with even more intensity than the first, producing a screeching “Owowowowowowo” from me, Mrs Hargreaves at last stepped back.

“Good girl,” the headmaster said softly. “Stand when you’re ready.”

I remember rising slowly, my eyes lowered, not bearing to make eye-contact with either one of them.

“There, there,” he said, replacing the cane Mrs Hargreaves had handed back to him in its stand. “Not pleasant, I know, but necessary.”

My hands still throbbed. My legs trembled. My bottom was torturing me in hot, rhythmic pulses.

“Well, dear, I hope that’s been a valuable lesson for you.” Mountford took up his seat again behind his desk. “Let’s not see you in here again, or I’m afraid next time things will be a lot more severe. I do tend to be lenient on young ladies if it’s their first time in front of me. Not so much for a repeat offender, though.”

I stood there, fumbling at my skirt, pulling the folds of it from my waistband, all to the accompaniment of my hiccuppy sobs.

“May I go, sir?” I managed to say.

“Yes, of course. Thank Mrs Hargreaves before you leave.”

My face flushing with a combination of pain, shame and anger, I turned to Mrs Hargreaves.

“Thank you, miss.”

“You’re welcome, Emma. Please heed the headmaster’s warning. Let’s not see you in here again.”

Finally, I was allowed to leave. Once outside, I walked stiffly back to my classroom, my mind a blur of pain and confusion. Looking back now, I do consider what happened to be a transformative moment in my life, after having never even been spanked by my own parents. Still, they were fully aware that corporal punishment was quite freely used at the school, which had not deterred them from sending me there.

Perhaps it was the matter-of-factness of the way the punishment was carried out, the breezy, crisp tone Montford used when he told me to stretch out my hand or bend over his chair. And yet I completely understood that, whatever his tone, I could not challenge his authority. If he had raised his voice in anger, it would somehow have been a different, less profound experience.

In any case, I had got my first taste of British corporal punishment, and old Mountford got, I strongly suspect, his first taste of caning an American girl. A couple of months later he was gone, retired a little earlier than had been expected, and so I never found myself bent across his chair again, but neither will I ever forget that time when I was.”

The End

© Winston Rust 2025