EXTRACT FOR
Fined or Caned
(Author Unknown)

CHAPTER 1 - DECISION

    

    It had injected fire across Margaret's eighteen year old buttocks, as she bent deeply over the back of the sofa in the headmistress's sitting room.  The sofa was a rather high backed affair, as such things go, made of cold padded leather, and an object of superstition in the school.  Hardly anybody sat on it without a shiver or two, certainly Margaret never would again.

    She had been conscious of the warm feeling of her track-suit and shorts (for she had been sent to Miss Archbald straight from the running field), around her ankles.  The pain had rushed into her belly, and almost to her gullet.  Then she had noticed little things within her field of vision.  Miss Archbald's dark green handbag at the other end of the sofa itself.  It was open.  Again that fiery impact and internal flood of pain.  Only two strokes so far, how many was she to have?  Miss Archbald had not said.  She had simply picked the longest and thickest one out of the stand and told her to get ready.  Everyone knew what that meant.  It was one of the first things which your senior told you when you were a new girl.

    Margaret had wanted to cringe, but had gritted her teeth for the third stroke.  She was not going to make an undignified scene.  She was, after all the highest in the school next to the prefects.  No one in that position had ever been in this position before.  She was going to take her punishment without squirming, if she could, but the effort of keeping still was very great.  There was a blue biro lying on the Turkey pattern carpet just by the edge of the seat.  It did not match, she had noticed.  Then the fourth, numbing and hot, had sickened her.

    Because her head was down almost to the sofa seat, she had not been able to see Miss Archbald, but at this moment she had wondered how she looked.  It was the rustle of her rather full, rather expensive but not very fashionable silk dress which had started this thought.  She had wished that she could see her.  She had given Margaret four without letting her stand up, so it was going to be at least six.  She would have raised it well behind her shoulders.  Here it comes!  God!  Hope it's only one more.

    Exposing herself thus had been an act of trust; not a hope that she would not be hurt too much, but a surrender of her privacy into the hands of this woman whom she loved and feared.  She could see herself through Miss Archbald's eyes: the red welts spreading across the fair skin of her rather wide haunches, the crease running inwards to her dark secret.  She caught her breath for the sixth which seemed worse than anything so far.  Dare she move?  She thought that she had better hold herself still.

    There was no word, only the rustling of the silk.  She's not going to stop!  In heaven's name, how many more?  This had never happened.  Always four or six!  The seventh stroke was agonising because she had lowered her defences.  The pain and sickness rose in her body like a tide.  She gathered her wits and courage together somehow, and organised them into a great effort.  She had no idea of the future in the next seconds or minutes.  She only knew that she had to get through it without disgrace.  She willed herself into a self-surrender which she had never imagined before.  The silk dress rustled, there was a slight hiss in the air and the eighth seemed to cut into her bruised nakedness like an iron rod.

    There was a small moment.  Margaret heard a clack and understood it as the sound of the cane being dropped into the stand.

    "You may dress."

    She stood up and turned around.  It was an awkward movement, impeded by the garments around her feet, but it had seemed impolite not to face Miss Archbald.  The shorts came up first, then the track-suit, into which she struggled her arms.  Then the zip.

    "Ready?"

    "Yes, Ma'am."

    "All right."

    And then Margaret had, to her own surprise, said; "Thank you Ma'am.  I'm sorry I lost my temper with Miss Cuilin," and moved towards the door.

    The headmistress checked her.  "This is the severest thrashing I have ever given.  You behaved well."

    Margaret could find nothing to say.

    "You're in the tennis finals tomorrow?"

    "Yes, Ma'am."

    "Are you going to be able to manage?"

    This was her refined way of asking whether Margaret thought that she had a good chance.

    "I hope so, Ma'am."

    And then Miss Archbald broke into her thin sweet smile and said.  "Strictly entre nous, I shall be rooting for you."

    Margaret had walked out as if she were walking on air.

    

***

    

    This was all a flash recollection of many years ago.  Now she was sitting in a corridor outside a magistrate's court.  She had pleaded 'guilty'.  The Stipendiary had said:  "Fined £200.  Fourteen days to pay, or three days to give notice under the Corporal Punishment Act.  £40 costs in either event ... next case."

    It had been a trivial affair of smuggling.  She had been to Paris, put three cases of Pernod into the boot of her car, covered them with rugs and tried to brazen it out.

    And she had not told Andrew.

    And it would disrupt their package holiday to Corfu.

    People were walking about and talking.  There was a haze of cigarette smoke. Two draws and a spit before going in.  Someone sat down on the bench.  She hardly noticed.  What do I do now?

    Then someone broke into her thoughts.

    "You look awful, Miss.  I don't feel too good myself.  Come and 'ave a cup 'o tea.  There's a place opposite."

    She seemed a nice body, perhaps forty-five, and more cheerful than she said she felt.

    "Good idea.  Where do we go?"

    They both got up and made their way to the exit.

    "I 'eard y'r case.  Shame, I call it.  What with all this Common Market and all.  There oughn't to be no taxes like that."

    Margaret heaved a sigh.  They crossed the road.

    "It 'urts, of course."

    "I know," said Margaret.  "Especially as I haven't got the money."

    They went into the cafe.

    "Pot of tea f'two, George.  And buttered toast for the lady ... she's 'ad a shock."

    Margaret smiled - wanly - but she smiled.

    "I'll make you as right as rain in three minutes," said George and he was as good as he said.  Tea, great heaps of buttered toast, jam, the lot.

    "Lovely," said Margaret.  She meant it.

    "I'll be mum.  Name's Mary - Potter."

    "You really are kind."

    "Never been up before?"

    "Er, no."

    Mary started munching toast.

    "Better'n whisky."

    "Yes," said Margaret.  "I think you're right."

    "Not my business," said Mary, "but if you haven't got the money, there's only one thing you can do."

    "I know," she said, "but ... but, I'm not sure exactly ..."

    "Well I never.  You really ain't been up before."

    "No."

    "Well, see 'ere.  You pay up the forty quid, and ... and ..."

    Margaret, dazed in the court, had only half heard.  She dragged the words out of herself.

    "I pay the costs ... where?"

    "S'right, at the orfice."

    Like everybody else, she had read the newspapers avidly.  The huge headlines in the News of the World, the more restrained comment in the Daily Telegraph.  The furious debates in the House of Commons.  The television had spread itself.  There had been left wing demonstrations, which were widely reported and thinly supported.  Back to barbarism.  The Poor Man's Alternative.

    The Poor Woman's Alternative.

    "But ..."

    Her left hand was on the table.

    "It's all right y'know.  'Urts of course.  Like I said.  Specially if you've a lot coming."

    Margaret was silent.  She had not wanted to risk it again.

    "You've done it?" she said a trifle unnecessarily.

    "Oh yes.  Going to have it again, too.  Case after yours.  Fined fifty pounds."

    It was no easier for Margaret than offering herself to an insistent man.  Everybody had talked after the act had become law, but she had shut herself away from it.  You got, she thought, a stroke for every so many pounds.  There was a minimum, but that would hardly matter in her case.  The trouble was Andrew.

    Mary spotted her wedding ring.

    "You'll 'ave to tell 'im, y'know.  Otherwise e'll think y're funny.  You know, perverted!"

    "I could tell him first, I suppose ... three days, or was it four?"

    "Three.  I've already been up in the 'orfice."

    Then Margaret saw that she would have to decide now, before she saw Andrew.  Otherwise he might insist on paying the fin, and then they would be in the same difficulty as before.  They had already put down their fifty percent for Corfu.

    "Yer don't 'ave to 'ave it all at once, y'know.  You can 'ave it on the never."

    Another problem appeared.  How long would the marks last?  Would she be able to wear a bikini?  Her eight had been the talk of the school.  They had been visible for ages.  The tram lines had lasted into the school holidays.  It was June now.  They were going to Corfu in August.  Thank God they had settled for the last week.

    She realised, then, that the decision had come to her.

    "When do you ... do it?"

    "Tomorrow.  Not today, there's a queue.  Then I'll probably go again Wednesday.  That's my shopping day.  Makes a change."

    "Will that be the end?"

    "Yes.  Got seventeen coming, y'see.  So it's got to be twice."

    This was not very intelligible, but Margaret let it pass.

    "How do I ... make the arrangements?"

    "Oh, them.  More tea?"

    "Yes, please."

    "You go up to the orfic, and tell them.  They'll want y'r forty pounds, but that's all right.  They'll take a cheque.  And then they'll give you a card, like this 'ere."

    She rummaged through her bag and produced a plastic square.

    "Funny things," she said.  "Saw a man produce it in a shop when they asked for his banker's card.  'E wasn't 'alf red."

    They both giggled.

    "Tell you what.  I'll come and show you the office.  Save a bit of time."

     And embarrassment, thought Margaret gratefully.  She said.  "Are you sure that's all right?"

    "Yes.  All the time in the world.  Rather 'ave started now, though."

    "But then I wouldn't have met you."

    She tried to pay but Mary would not let her.

    "Me and George are old friends."

    "Next time?"

    "Okay, next time."

    They went out and re-crossed the road.

    The office, behind a door discreetly marked 'Special Department', was on the first floor.  There was a small counter, a middle-aged man in uniform, a couple of filing cabinets, a desk and an empty teacup.

    "'Ullo Mr Smith.  Me again.  Not what YOU think!"

    "I should hope not, Mrs Potter."

    "This lady's been looking for you."

    Margaret smiled at him.  Mary really was infectious.

    He said.  "Oh, I see.  What can I do for you, Madam?"

    "I'll be off now," said Mary.  "So long."

    "Don't go.  Please."

    "Oh all right.  I'll wait outside."

    The door closed with a thud.

    "Now, Madam, what name was it?"

    "Shade.  Margaret Shade.  Mrs."

    "When was it, Madam?"

    "Today."

    He looked through the files piled on the in-tray.

    "Ah yes.  £200 and £40 costs.  That'll be ... three into 200 goes 66 and two over.  67 altogether, if you go to the whole distance."

    He recognised the catch in her breath.

    She got out her cheque book.

    "Will you fill in this form, please."

    She wrote out the particulars and signed.

    "You'd better read it properly, Madam.  Otherwise you might get into trouble."

    "May I have a copy to take away?"

    He pushed it across the counter, took the signed one, got a plastic card out of a box and started tapping something out on it on a machine.  Mary's story of the banker's card came back to her.

    "Here you are, Madam.  Name and address.  67, and the account number.  When you've finished, you bring it back here and we give you a receipt."

    She thanked him, put the precious card in her bag and left.

    "All right?" said Mary on the stairs.

    "Yes."

    "Punishment centre's next door to Woolworths.  Y' just go there and walk in."

    "What time are you going there tomorrow?  I was wondering whether ..."

    She began to blush.  She had no idea why, but she blushed scarlet.

    "... Whether we might go there together."

    "'Adn't thought about it, 'zactly ... er, best to avoid the rush hour.  'Leven o'clock'd be all right.  'Ow far've you got to come?"

    "Richmond."

    "What about eleven, then?"

    "Okay."

    "Meet you outside."

    They had reached a parting.

    "I'm going to Gunnersbury station."

    "See you tomorrow, then."

    Gunnersbury.  Was there not a naval joke about the gunner's daughter?  Margaret had come across it, she fancied, in Hornblower.  It was extraordinary how much better she felt.  She was almost elated.   It was the feeling of action.

    She looked at her watch.  Half past eleven.  No one at home till five.  She had time on her hands.  She might as well do her shopping here.

    The association with Mary's shopping day was strong.  She would make sure that she knew where it was.  She had, after all, never been to Gunnersbury before.  She wandered along, looking to right and left.  Eventually she asked somebody.  There was no need, she told herself afterwards, to stammer like that.  No doubt he mentally undressed her as he told her the way, but that should not disturb any right minded woman.  But he could hardly have undressed her mind.

    She came to the traffic lights and looked left and right again.  Marks and Sparks.  Sainsbury's.  Boots.  Something called Claddings.  Abbey National.  Where in the world was Woolworths?  She set off at random to the left.  Half way along she discovered the cause of her irritation.  She recognised it only when she was under the scaffolding which enveloped it.

    "Might as well look for the entrance," she said to herself half aloud.  She poked around under the scaffolding.  Woolworths had several sets of doors.  Either the place was just past the last of them or she had overshot.  Actually she found it without trouble.

    It was souped up between-the-wars neo-Georgian, with a revolving door.  The gilt figure '19' appeared in the glass panel above.  A bronze plate with white lettering said:

    

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