Harry and Alexandra (FM / fm)

This is probably the longest story I have posted on this blog. The title, with due deference, is a play on Bergman's Fanny and Alexander. (The boy gets caned by the father in that superb and unforgettable film). Considered posting it in parts but decided against. Some readers have a long attention span and this is for them. Complete fiction, none of these people actually existed, but such fantasies regularly crossed my mind when young. I clearly had a hankering for being trapped by strict and intractable adults who were not averse to baring a young behind for discipline. My childhood ogres were clearly of the CP kind. Must be my upbringing. It ain't Bergman, but hopefully some will enjoy. Alfred Roy

Harry and Alexandra


Part One

I shall never forget that day. It could have been yesterday. Was it yesterday? It could have been. When I think about it, as I often do, I can still feel the pain. Still feel the humiliation. I was fourteen; she was a year older and seemed much worldlier than me. They, I still think of them as they, were very old. Or seemed so to us. We often discussed them and decided that the man was well over fifty and his sister nearer sixty. If this was a story I would be saying that we stayed with them during the war, evacuees in a strange and remote village. But it isn’t a story, we weren’t wartime evacuees and, even though it was a village, it wasn’t remote. And it is all true. Every word. I still see Alexandra occasionally and she remembers it all almost as clearly as me. It is the thing that unites us. Write it down she said one day. Write it down. Write down what they, the Miss and the Mr Gravestock, did to us. Did to Harry and Alexandra. No one will believe, not in this day and age, but write it down. So I have.

I need to get the next bit very clear otherwise you will not truly understand the set-up. Our parents, Alexandra’s and mine and a few others, worked for some high level government department with high surveillance premises in Buckinghamshire. All very secretive and hush hush. One summer a group of them had to go away for a few weeks. At the time I had no idea what it was all about. Wasn’t a problem for families with only one parent involved but for a few, five in all, mothers and fathers would be absent. I remember my father explaining that for security reasons we could not stay with friends. Whoever took us in, this was the school holidays, would have to be approved by the relevant ministry. Sets of brothers and sisters and a pair of identical twins were easily placed but Alexandra and I caused a bit of a problem. We were both only children and none of the options were totally satisfactory. Put us with two siblings, especially the twins, and we could feel as if we were the outsider. Place us separately and we could feel lonely. Put us together and, well, we were a growing boy and girl. Unhealthy. The ministry solved the problem, at least to their own satisfaction. We could be placed with the Gravestocks. Retired headmistress of a respectable girl’s school and semi-retired chaplain to the secret base our parents worked in. Nothing could be better. I wasn’t happy and neither was Alexandra. But we knew and liked each other, occasionally met at parties and social gatherings, and the Gravestocks didn’t seem too bad. Old fashioned but friendly. At first.

The friendliness didn’t last. It took us a couple of days to realise that their house, a pleasant cottage on the edge of the village, was riddled with rules and regulations. Some were clearly a continuation of their normal life. Mr Gravestock only smoked his pipe in the garden or his private study, Miss Gravestock never entertained village ladies except on the third Wednesday of each month, and they both prayed every evening before the main meal. Television, just becoming fashionable, was banned and the wireless was only allowed for classical music and the evening news. Pastime games, especially card games, were none existent but book reading, the right sort, was encouraged by both. They both rose at six thirty every morning, including Sundays, and retired at ten fifteen every evening. A few rules were relaxed for our benefit. We were allowed to stay in our beds until seven thirty in the morning and, although required to retire at nine o’clock, reading suitable material was allowed until nine thirty. Given our ages, fourteen and fifteen, we were allowed to play in the village between ten and twelve thirty and between two o’clock and five o’clock. On wet weather days we were allowed to indulge suitable indoor hobbies, Alexandra was a chess fiend and I enjoyed crosswords and meccano, but whatever the weather shoes or boots were not allowed indoors. Miss Gravestock was particularly tenacious on this point and her brother, occasionally absent minded when returning from a pipe smoking turn in the small garden, frequently received a sharp retort regarding shoes. ‘Shoes, Hubert’ became a constant phrase over those summer weeks and Alexandra and I would often mimic her tones and burst into giggles. We absorbed most of the obvious house rules over those early days but half way through our first week Miss Gravestock decided that the time had arrived for a more formal airing. I think it was on the Thursday morning and her brother had left for a meeting in the village. He was a trustee of the Village Hall, I think. Not that it is relevant. But his absence clearly was. Miss Gravestock was a retired headmistress and used to dealing with children, and to her we were still children, and she wished for no misunderstandings. She sat us down in the cluttered and old fashioned lounge and reiterated the rules of our stay. Some we had become familiar with, it was mandatory for us to join them in their short evening prayers and the local Sunday service, and cleaning of our shoes and boots was to be undertaken every Saturday or earlier if needed. But a couple were newly amplified. No cigarettes, no alcohol, no playing games for money, and no unseemly behaviour. The latter wasn’t elaborated on but we were both old enough to get the meaning. Miss Gravestock issued these instructions and pulled herself to her full height. She was only an inch or so shorter than her six foot and lanky brother and that, coupled with her grim demeanour, made her look pretty severe. I do not remember Miss Gravestock ever smiling, or at least not a genuine one. And then she dropped her bombshell which, on reflection, should not have been unexpected. If we transgressed any of their rules we would, after an initial warning, be confined to our rooms for the remainder of that day. Without books or games. We would attend for meals but otherwise there would be no social activity. And for the more serious offences outlined we would, without any prior warning, be caned. As she said this her face became even grimmer and stating that she trusted she had made herself clear, she left the room. Alexandra and I sat where she had left us for what seemed an age and for about five minutes neither of us spoke.

When we did I think I said something along the lines about that being a bit of a shaker and Alexandra, shrugging, saying that she was not surprised. She knew a couple of the village girls and Miss Gravestock, in her working days, was known as a tartar. The Broomstick they called her. Other than that we said very little about it. Frankly I did not think it would affect us, or at least not me. The rules and regulations were fairly strict but straightforward and I could not see us seriously transgressing. And if we did, well, I was a boy and Miss Gravestock was a retired headmistress of a girl’s school. Alexandra was more threatened than me. Unless of course Parson Gravestock, our nickname for the brother, wielded a secret cane. Unlikely. He was almost as grim as his sister but had an air of vagueness and distraction that did not suggest stern authority. It wasn’t Hubert Gravestock who wore the trousers in that house. So we absorbed the information and, buried away, continued our dreary existence in the gloomy house. It was only six weeks and we both thought we could get by unscathed. In fact for the following week I never gave the matter another thought. Until Alexandra, in an unusually quiet and mournful mood, brought it up when we walking back to the cottage for lunch. Her mood had been at variance with the glorious morning sun and I was soon to find out why.

‘Have you ever been caned, Harry?’

‘Of course I have, I’m a boy.’

‘Where?’

‘At school.’

‘I mean where on you. Was it on your hands?’

‘Once. When I was eleven.’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘Of course it hurt. I cried for ages.’

‘Did you deserve it?’

‘Yes.’

I stopped our walk and looked at her.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason.’ she said and carried on walking.

‘Then why do you ask?’

‘Just curious. What had you done?’

‘Caught fighting another boy in the chemistry lab. Obnoxious beast.’

‘And the other times?’

‘What other times?’

‘I just thought you had been caned more than once. From what you said.’

‘I have. Three times in all.’

Alexandra paused at a bench on our journey back to the cottage and sat down. She was looking almost as grim as Miss Broomstick. Another nickname for our humourless hosts.

‘And the other two times?’

‘They were on my bottom, since you ask.’

I blushed slightly at the use of such a personal word.

‘Did they hurt as much?’

‘More. Much more. But I got more strokes. Why are you asking me all this Alexandra?’

The look she gave me, one of a quiet plea for understanding, made all crystal clear. I chose my words carefully.

‘Is Miss Broomstick going to cane you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘For something I did. Or didn’t do.’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Whatever it was she is going to cane me for it. She made that very clear.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon, after lunch, while you and the Parson are in the garden.

Although not relevant this was a timely reminder that I was due for some weeding activities. It would not be arduous as the attraction of the garden to ‘Shoes-Hubert’ was the opportunity to absence himself from his sister and to smoke his pipe in peace. Just my opinion. Alexandra continued, interrupting my thoughts.

‘And it will be on my bottom. She made that clear. It will be on your bottom, my girl. You are not too old for that. That’s what she said. And the bitch was almost smiling.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So you should be.’ she said and, rising, gave me a friendly thump on the arm and we continued our walk.

 

Part Two

 

 I got the full details before we arrived at the cottage. Alexandra had a book that had been going the rounds with the village girls. A well thumbed Lady Chatterley’s Lover, subject of a court case that had hit the headlines. I knew of it but had never seen it. Alexandra not only saw it but had borrowed it and it was her required bedtime reading. Miss Broomstick found it, snooping was Alexandra’s verdict on its discovery, and practically threw a fit. She confronted Alexandra, a spirited girl, and expressed her anger. Alexandra merely shrugged and said she was sorry she had not found a better hiding place. Miss Broomstick went purple, Alexandra’s words, and issued her threat. The girl would be caned and the book destroyed. Both edicts caused consternation in my companion. Hence the glumness in the morning sun. I felt for her but it was not my problem. Boys can be so unfeeling. I was just glad it was not me.

Lunch was conducted very quietly. That wasn’t unusual from the Gravestocks but Alexandra was usually chatty. If I hadn’t already discovered the reason I would have been mystified by both her silence and the sudden pronouncement Miss Broomstick made as we finished the meal. You and I have something to settle Miss Alexandra. Wash your hands and go to your room. I can still hear those words. She uttered them as she rose from the table and wiped her small and mean mouth. I shall join you in a few moments. The air was electric. Both the parson and I knew what was coming. I could tell, as when Alexandra burst into tears and ran out of dining room he searched for his pipe and said, almost inaudibly, that he and I should start on the weeding. His sister left the room and he looked at me almost apologetically. Has to be done Harry, he said, and for a moment I was not sure if he meant the weeding or Alexandra’s caning. His grim face indicated the latter. Spare the rod and all that, he added in illumination. His allusion to the painful scene to come loosened my tongue. I asked him if it was necessary, did Alexandra deserve it. His response both shocked me and created a fear in myself. Oh yes, undoubtedly, and so will you if you commit a similar offence. We have rules in this house. Saying this he lit his pipe as he left the room leaving me to wonder, if I got caned, would it be he or his schoolmistress sister who would undertake the deed?

I heard every stroke. I heard every stroke and every scream from Alexandra. Her bedroom overlooked the garden and a small window was open. Later on I wondered if this was deliberate but, at the time, I was merely transfixed by that familiar sound from school. I was tackling some overgrown bramble at the side of the cottage and a sudden and hefty thwack followed by a piercing scream stilled my exertions. I rose and listened intently. A second dull thud and an equally piercing scream confirmed the unseen picture. Alexandra was being caned. And it was on her bottom, so she had said. I pictured her touching her toes or lying on a bed or over a chair as I heard yet a third thwack, another scream, and a plea to be let off any more. I was riveted by what I could not see. There seemed to be a delay, only punctuated by Alexandra crying profusely and loudly, and I mused on whether she was being caned on her knickers or had been made to take them down. My second caning on the bottom had been with my underpants down, why should girls be treated differently. The thought of Alexandra being caned on her bare bottom added to my fascination and I felt an ungentlemanly thrill when the fourth stroke finally cut into her and invoked a further howl of anguish. I could not help thinking that it was a good job the cottage was fairly distant from its nearest neighbour. The fifth and sixth strokes were delivered fairly quickly but were as vicious and loud as the previous four. Alexandra screamed and cried and howled and sobbed and vowed to be good. She was still sobbing when Miss Broomstick closed the small window, so perhaps it was open deliberately, indicating that proceedings were at an end. The sobbing grew fainter but I was still transfixed. It was a few moments before I realised that Parson Gravestock was standing beside me. He had heard it all, especially the last two or three strokes, and placed his hand on my shoulder. A fair punishment I think. She won’t be able to sit down comfortably for a couple of hours but soon forgotten. Only way to deal with naughty children. I was gobsmacked. What I saw as terrifying and humiliating and painful he saw as a minor incident. I threw everything into that afternoon’s weeding.

I didn’t see Alexandra for the rest of the day and she was still in her room when I went to bed. She came down for breakfast and, if a little subdued, was almost her normal self. She gave me a weak smile and sat down. It may have been my imagination but I think she lowered herself gently to her seat. The parson had left for some village business and the Broomstick was gathering flowers in the garden. She had given us a good breakfast and by her standards was almost pleasant. I could not help thinking that wielding a cane had done at least one person some good. Being a retired headmistress perhaps she missed its power. Her only reference to the previous afternoon was to ask Alexandra if she slept well. When Alexandra said she had Miss Broomstick said that one usually does when a slate has been wiped clean. And on that note she gathered up a basket and an overlarge pair of scissors and departed.

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘No.’

‘I’m not surprised. I doubt if I would have slept at all after that.’

‘You heard it?’

‘I was in the garden. Did it hurt as much as it sounded?’

‘What do you think?’

‘It sounded horrible.’

‘It was, Harry. Horrible. And she is horrible. And he’s almost as bad.’

‘You think so.’

I was remembering his words to me in the garden and was hoping he wasn’t. I had no desire to be on the receiving end of anyone’s cane.

‘They are both sadists.’

‘Are they?’

I wasn’t sure then what the word meant but refrained from asking Alexandra for clarification. But she must have read my face.

‘They both enjoy giving pain. And humiliation. I saw him last night when I came out of the bathroom. He was standing at the top of the stairs. I think he was waiting for me.’

‘And?’

‘He asked me how I was and if I felt my punishment was deserved. I wanted to be sick.’

I didn’t think that amounted to humiliation but didn’t say so. Alexandra was in no mood for conciliation with our hosts.

‘Did you?’

‘What?’

‘Think it was deserved.’

‘No. And I still don’t. Certainly not what she did.’

I saw my opportunity to flesh out the sounds of the previous day.

‘What did she do. I heard you screaming so it must have been bad.’

‘Mind your own business.’

‘I’m curious.’

‘You are a typical schoolboy Harry. Boys always want details when someone gets their bottom whacked.’

‘No they don’t.’

‘Yes they do. It helps to get them prepared for when it’s their turn.’

‘Pig.’

‘And it will be your turn one day and I shall be listening in the garden.’

I was just about to say something in response when a heavily laden Miss Broomstick returned. As she passed into the kitchen she reminded us both that is was our day for cleaning the windows. My last memory of that breakfast was of Alexandra sticking out her tongue. Whether at me or Miss Broomstick I was not sure.

Alexandra did give me the full details. It was on the afternoon of the following day and her normal friendly mood had returned. We were cleaning the windows that had escaped our earlier attentions due to unexpected showers. I didn’t prompt it but I was eager all the same. She had just sat down on a garden stool for a short rest and winced as she did so. I said something about her still suffering and she said she probably would for at least another week. I can still remember her sitting there in her thin top and equally thin skirt. It was a warm day and I, unlike Alexandra, was allowed to wear shorts. She had been complaining about that all morning. I can feel everything through this she said. And then, suddenly, she took a decision. You might as well see, she said, it’ll be your turn next anyway. And saying this she looked quickly about her and, satisfied that no one was around, turned her back on me and pulled down her knickers and lifted up her skirt. The words and action were so unexpected that I was ill prepared for the sight that met my eyes. It was only for a few seconds but I have never forgotten the picture displayed. Alexandra had quite a small but chubby bottom, porcelain white and beautifully formed. And across the middle of both her cheeks were six perfectly placed deeply purple lines. From the top to the bottom they stretched about six inches and all were deep and well etched. It was the bottom of a girl who had been seriously caned. I remember seeing a boy’s bottom at school that looked like that after a thrashing from our housemaster. I was transfixed and desired to touch the heavily raised weals. I gasped and if there was a spell it broke it. Alexandra pulled up her knickers, lowered her skirt, and sat down again. But the action, unexpected as it was, loosened her tongue and I got a blow by blow descriptive account of the disciplinary sounds. Miss Broomstick had followed her to her room. I was already crying she said and when she came in with that nasty cane in her hand I cried even more. I had been hoping all day that she wouldn’t do it. But I saw her face and knew I hadn’t a chance. And then she told me to take off my skirt and knickers. I had considered allowing you to retain your knickers she said. Alexandra mimicked Miss Broomstick beautifully but I was in no mood for laughing. I was desperate for all the details, even if I tried not to show it. I had considered that dignity Miss Broomstick had said but have decided to teach you a real lesson so that a repeat may be avoided. Alexandra had cried even more and was sobbing uncontrollably as she removed her skirt. And your knickers, young lady. This caning, well deserved, will be on your bare bottom. Something tells me it is probably well overdue. I was shaking, Alexandra said, and I was scared. There was no one to help me. Her brother wouldn’t, he agreed with it, and you are too young. So I did as I was told and just stood there. Nothing on from the waist down and her standing there with that horrible cane. I had to lie on the bed, she had put a large pillow on it while we were out, and it raised my bottom in the air. Then she lifted my top and placed the cane on my bare skin. It felt cold and I thought I was going to pee with my fear.  And when she hit me with it I just screamed my head off. The pain was so intense I did not care who heard. She stopped and looked at me. Both of our faces were flushed. So now you know. And you have seen the result. She laughed and got up to continue the cleaning of the windows. She stood on a small ladder as I, filled with strange visions, went off to get some fresh water. And when you get caned Harry, she shouted, I expect you to show me your bum. I prayed twice as I entered the cottage. Once in the hope that no one had heard her last retort and once for myself never to be introduced to the Broomstick’s cane. The latter prayer was to go unanswered.

 

Part Three

My caning, or the less defining one, was as unexpected as it was painful. At least in retrospect I can take some small comfort from the fact that the Parson dished it out and, unlike his sister with Alexandra, he allowed me to keep my pants on. That was the only comfort I got because, as vague and detached as he seemed, he was a serious whacker. Must run in the Gravestock blood. As bad, or worse, as any I had at school. Equally in retrospect, I think I deserved it. I might have lay on my bed for an hour or so afterwards trying to ease the pain in my behind but, on reflection, I reckon I was lucky to get away with four strokes. And on my trousers. Subsequent events proved that. But, by God, it hurt at the time and if I did not scream as loudly as Alexandra I certainly did a bit of shouting. It happened three days after she had lowered her knickers for the attentions of Miss Broomstick. The first I knew I was in trouble was the Parson summoning me to his study. Alexandra and I were playing chess and if I looked puzzled at the summons she looked intrigued. She told me later, much later, that her heart thumped wildly when she heard the first whack. Twenty minutes she had sat silently wondering. She never did say whether she was shocked or pleased. Girls are like that.

‘I am displeased with you Harry.’

‘Why sir?’

I was a very polite boy and though I usually called him Mr Gravestock, at least to his face, I sensed a formality in the unexpected proceedings.

‘I think you know Harry.’

‘No sir.’

‘I think you do. Perhaps this will remind you.’

He produced a small exercise book from a drawer and placed it on his study desk. I recognised the book and my stomach lurched. He amplified my thoughts and fears.

‘Do you recognise it?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Is it yours?’

‘No sir?’

‘Then whose is it?’

‘I don’t know sir.’

He looked at me, almost in disappointment. He knew I was lying but refrained from saying so.

‘I think you do Harry.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Then whose is it?’

‘It’s Alexandra’s book.’

‘It’s Alexandra’s book.’

He repeated what he already knew. He opened the book and finding the page he wanted, near to the end, he turned it round to face me.

‘But Alexandra did not write that in it. Or draw that picture.’

‘No sir.’

‘Who did?’

There was no point in denial. It was a stupid impulsive thing I had done. My only excuse, but I could not offer it, was that I had been fired by Alexandra showing me her wealed bottom. Tell that and we would both be boiled in oil.

‘I did. Sir.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know sir.’

He looked at me sternly and then turned his back and looked out of the window. Perhaps searching for inspiration from his garden. It was a few moments before he spoke again.

‘Alexandra hasn’t seen it. My sister saw you scribbling in a book and thought nothing of it until she realised, later, that it was Alexandra’s, not yours. She examined the book while you were having your lunch. To say she was shocked is an understatement.

I said nothing. There was nothing else I could say. Other than that Broomstick was probably snooping again. I couldn’t believe I had been seen. But I could believe that the old cow was shocked and that was my only comfort in this moment of quiet despair. It wasn’t just the words that would have angered. Broomstick beat you on the bum was what I had written. But underneath, the picture, crudely drawn, of a plumpish bottom with six lines across it. And underneath that two kisses.

‘Do you have anything else to say Harry?’

‘No sir.’

He still had his back to me and his hands were behind his back, firmly clenched together. The silent wait for him to speak again was agonising.

‘Four strokes, Harry. Four strokes of the cane. That should wipe the slate clean. My sister thinks I should give you twelve but I think four will suffice.’

He turned to look at me and for the first time that day I was conscious of his full height.

‘And you can keep your trousers on. It will make little difference.’

‘Thank you sir.’

He gave a weak smile.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t thank me Harry. I intend you to feel every stroke.’

‘Yes sir.’

I gulped.

‘So take off your jumper, I don’t want anything to get in the way, and bend over the back of that chair.

He indicated a small stiff backed chair that was placed on the far side of the room. Unsurprisingly it looked just the right height for a bending boy who was not too tall. The strange thought struck me that I may not be the first to discover its disciplinary purpose.

‘I didn’t mean any harm sir.’

‘I am sure you didn’t Harry. But it was a stupid and upsetting thing you did. Lessons have to be learnt and this is the best way to learn them.’

I didn’t agree but refrained from saying so. The cane in his hand, taken from the desk, looked pretty awesome. Straight and long and shiny and, from memory, a bit thicker than the ones used on me at school. As I bent over the chair in readiness I wondered if it was the one that had been used on Alexandra. If so, trousers or no trousers, I expected some serious marks.

‘Hold on to the chair, Harry. It will soon be over if you don’t struggle.’

I was about to say something as I bent over the chair, what I do not know, when I felt his free hand pull on the waist of my trousers forcing me further over the chair and making them fit tight across my bottom. The thought struck me that this man, vague and distracted as he seemed, had caned boys before. I readied myself but even before I had settled into the desired position he struck the cane into my behind. I howled. It stung like nothing I had ever experienced and I struggled to remain in place. The burning fire, a searing line of intensive heat, spread across my cheeks and I clenched my hands and screwed up my eyes. That hurt, seriously. I had hardly time to absorb the shock to my system when the cane lashed into me again. The fire now trebled, not doubled as it should have done, and it took all my resolve not to overturn the chair. The pain in my bottom was agonising and I could feel the tears welling in my eyes and sensed the rising throb in my bum. I need to stop this I thought. And then the third stroke of his cane, the hardest yet, joined its companions and I let out a scream almost as loud as Alexandra’s. I half rose and stamped my feet on the ground. The pain, the searing pain enveloping my entire backside was excruciating. I breathed in and out profusely and the tears now freely flowed. Only one more, only one more I told myself so, fire still burning, I gripped the chair again and pushed out my bottom. Do it, do it, I seemed to be saying, give me that fourth stroke, and get it over with. The parson did not disappoint. The fourth stroke lashed across the centre of my upturned cheeks with unimaginable force and as it registered, first in my bottom and then in my brain, I howled again and jumped up. In stories to do such a thing without permission would have you bent again for an extra stroke. But Parson Gravestock played to a strict agenda. As I sobbed, the tears coming in proverbial floods, and vigorously rubbed the violated area in futile desperation to ease the constant pain he merely walked to his desk and put the cane away. He waited a minute or so for me to compose myself, or at least control my sobbing and cease the rubbing of my behind, and considered what he would say. You will be sore for a day or so Harry, he said, but when the discomfort passes I hope you will agree that your punishment was well deserved. What I have just done is the only way to settle such matters. Now go to your room. I left readily, not agreeing with anything he said. In my pain I did not recognise the veiled warning of a possible repeat. When that came, for both me and Alexandra, it surpassed anything in my imagination.

I spent about two hours in my bedroom lying face down on my bed. The throbbing in my behind was constant for some time but it eventually eased. There were no locks on the bedroom door, not allowed, but no one was likely to disturb me. So, as curiosity took the better of me, I took down my trousers and underpants and passed my hands over my still warm backside. I could feel the four rigid weals across both my cheeks. I gently ran my fingers across them in boyish fascination. The pain had long subsided and my crying had long ceased. I now desired, no that is too strong, I was interested in seeing the damage. Was it as bad as Alexandra’s? I went to the bathroom, no door locks here either but the rule of the house was if the door was closed one knocked and waited. I went in and shut the door. There was only a small mirror, high on the wall. I lowered the toilet seat and stood on it and, turning my back to the mirror, lowered my trousers again. I pushed down my underpants and lifted my shirt, and turned my head. Frustratingly, even precariously standing on tiptoe, I could not see my bottom. Only my lower back and the lifted shirt were reflected. But I was not deterred. I would see the damage and either the mirror would have to come off the wall, not practical, or I needed something to raise my height. Six inches would probably do it. I looked around the bathroom. At first nothing suggested a possibility and then I remembered the airing cupboard. There might be something in there. I stepped off the toilet seat and opened the cupboard. It was my eureka moment, or in my urgency it seemed like one. At the bottom of the cupboard was a box of toilet paper. The Broomsticks clearly shopped in bulk. I prayed that it would be full. It was. I placed it on the toilet seat and somehow, pants still lowered, managed to stand on it. I strained my head again and this time my bottom was glowingly reflected back to me. My efforts had been worth it. The four rigid weals to each of my bottom cheeks savagely blinked at me in fiery purple. They could have been painted on my behind, the lines so clean and straight and true. I looked in fascination at the contrast of the vivid marks, a mocking echo of my earlier pain, against my alabaster and boyish skin. I should have left it there but that fascination engendered a need to touch and feel again and this time I could see. It was the Parson who found me on the bathroom floor. My crashing fall had drawn attention. Eagerness to explore had got the better of me. He came into the bathroom to see me on the floor, pants around my knees, surrounded by the contents of a toilet stationary box. He didn’t say or do anything, either then or afterwards. Surprisingly I think he both knew and understood.

 

Part Four

Nothing much happened over the next week or so. Both Alexandra and I studiously obeyed all the rules of the house, petty and otherwise, and were the perfect houseguests. Most of the time we spent amusing ourselves in the cottage due to prolonged dreary weather and the Broomsticks were almost human. They even took us to see a play in the nearby town one afternoon. I think they were conscious of the fact we were cooped up and they considered that unhealthy for growing bodies. My opinion anyway. The play, Shakespeare’s As You Like It, appealed more to them than to us although Alexandra was quite taken with the character of Rosalind. Parson Gravestock, enraptured by both the play and the performances, took this as an opportunity to lecture, there is no other word, on Shakespeare’s heroines. I was bored both by his lecture and the play. But at least it was a pleasant diversion and we were both entertained generously, including an interval feast of chocolates and ice cream. Alexandra was particularly amused by this unexpected treat from the Broomsticks as it was only the day before that she had got to see my bottom. If they had caught us, she said in the interval, I reckon we would both be watching this play standing up. That dreary weather had delayed any window cleaning activities, our only opportunity, so it was only on the previous day that a chore we hated was on the cottage agenda. At last, she said, a chance to view the damage although by now I expect the marks have gone. Surprisingly they hadn’t, I could tell by her response when I lowered my pants. They are fading she said but you clearly got four stingers and before you ask no, you are not seeing mine again. Once is enough. But even on your trousers I reckon you got them as hard as me. Before I could say anything we heard a sharp call of our names from Miss Broomstick. I rapidly pulled up my trousers and walked to what I was sure was my execution. We had been seen, no doubt about it. But Miss Broomstick was smiling, almost, and merely announced that four tickets had been booked for some touring theatre. We were not to plan anything for the next day. If she is still alive she must still be puzzling on why Alexandra and I burst out laughing.

A couple of days later, the sun had finally returned, Alexandra and I were sitting by the small river than ran at the edge of the village. It was our first real opportunity to talk for a long time and, even though I had something I wished to ask her, she was eager to pass on some information to me.

‘I had a letter from my mother last week.’

‘So?’

‘She knows we get the cane.’

‘How on earth does she know that?’

‘Well, she didn’t know exactly but she wasn’t surprised. I told her in one of my letters that Miss Broomstick had caned me. I expected her to complain on my behalf but all she said was that I probably deserved it.’

Alexandra paused allowing me to absorb the information.

‘I didn’t tell her that the old bitch made me take my knickers down. Perhaps I should have.’

‘Did she say anything else?’

‘Only that it was part of the agreement with the ministry. The Broomsticks would only agree to take us on if ‘old fashioned discipline’ was allowed when needed. That is how mother put it. They are well respected she said and there were no suitable alternatives.’

‘Sometimes I hate parents.’

‘So do I. Grit your teeth darling, she said. It was no worse in her day. She is so nineteen thirties.’

I laughed.

‘Oh, Alexandra. You are so funny.’

‘It isn’t funny having a cane across your bare bum. Even worse when you know your parents approve.’

I thought for a moment. The time was right to ask something that had been puzzling me. Alexandra had opened the sandwiches that had been provided for us. The Broomsticks had a midday meeting in the village, something to do with an important planning agreement, and were not able to do lunch. It was a rare day, thankfully sunny, when we left to our own devices. I took my opportunity.

‘How did you know that the Parson caned me on the trousers?’

‘What?’

‘The other day when I showed you my marks you said they were as bad as yours, even on my trousers. How did you know?’

Alexandra laughed. It was a laugh I was becoming familiar with and is a memory I regularly cherish. Rich and warm and mischievous, and full of a promise which, at that age, I did not understand.

‘My, we are perceptive aren’t we?’

‘No.’ I said. ‘Just wondered how you knew.’

‘He told me.’

‘Who?’

‘Parson Broomstick.’

‘Why on earth did he do that?’

‘I have no idea, he is a strange man, but he came into the lounge after your caning and made his pronouncement. He looked so severe I almost giggled.’

Alexandra was a wonderful mimic and her conjuring of ‘Shoes-Hubert’ was both funny and disturbing. Funny for the style of retelling, disturbing for the content.

‘He said, ever so po-faced, Harry has been caned. I am sure you must have heard it. I suggest you don’t disturb him for an hour or so, he is very distressed. But slates have to be cleaned. Unlike you with my sister I allowed him to retain some dignity during the proceedings. I may not be so lenient next time. If there is a next time. And with that he left the room. I almost wet myself. He was so funny.’

‘Doesn’t sound funny to me.’

‘You have no sense of humour Harry. He was cleaning the slate.’

‘Oh shut up.’

We ate our sandwiches in silence and, gathering everything up, returned to the cottage. It was on our way that I asked her the other question that was on my mind.

‘Do you think we will get caned again? We have only three weeks to go before our folks come back?

‘You almost sound as it if you want to be.’

‘Don’t be silly Alexandra. Of course I don’t. But I am a bit scared they might.’

‘And no doubt you will howl again. This time with your pants down.’

‘Pig.’

I thumped her and she thumped me back and laughed.

‘You certainly howled the other day.’

‘So you did hear?’

‘Could hardly miss it. And you were only in the next room.’

We reached the cottage door and waited for the Gravestocks to return. It would not be long. Alexandra turned to me and gave me a rare, serious, look.

‘We will have to make sure they do not have any reason or opportunity. I suspect it would not be pleasant.’

I thought of those four strokes I had already had and then thought of them again, this time on my bare behind.

‘No, it would not be pleasant.’

‘So we shall have to be careful.’

‘Yes.’

It all sounded so easy. She nodded, I nodded in agreement. We would have to be careful, be good children. There were only three weeks to go. The Gravestocks weren’t sadists, whatever Alexandra said. I had learnt over the weeks that they were basically good, if sombre, people. But they lived by their strict rules and regulations. Applied to themselves as much as others. And they, the retired headmistress and semi-retired Parson, subscribed to that old fashioned maxim that sparing the rod spoiled the child. And, in their eyes and others, we were children and as such only learnt well when a cane was occasionally laid on their bottom. As nature intended. Besides, it wiped the slate clean. So we would have to be careful. For three weeks. Trouble is, we weren’t.

 

Part Five

I still do not know, to this day, why they did what they did. We deserved to be caned, given their rules, our actions had caused dreadful consternation in the village. But him caning me and her caning Alexandra, that was what we expected. And we expected at least six strokes each and we entertained no illusions about dignity. Pants would be off and bare bottoms presented. We were resigned to that. We would howl and scream, we would search weals and soothe hot backsides, and we would look at and compare marks. We would follow all the rituals of old fashioned discipline. And all we be forgotten when we eventually went home. But the ‘Spare the Rod, Clean the Slate’ Broomsticks were fired up with indignation and anger. Harry and Alexandra needed a special lesson and, when we came home from the police station, we got it. They wished to sear their punishment on both our bottoms and our memories. And they succeeded.

To put it bluntly we had absconded. That and related events lit the Broomstick’s righteous fire. I don’t know why we did it. My only excuse is that three other kids from the village joined us in our escapades. We all decided we were bored, long summer holidays can have that effect. On a free day we all decided to go into the local town. The one where the Shakespeare toured. One thing led to another. We cadged a lift with a local farmworker and spent a couple of hours exploring the many shops. We didn’t have much money, just about enough to buy a drink and a cake but not enough for the pictures. That was our downfall. We craved excitement. I don’t know who suggested it but before we knew it four of us were stowaways on a train, going I know not where. We played our luck for a few miles but eventually chickened out and alighted at a remote stop. It must have been an unscheduled one because the guard shouted vociferously at us. We ran like hell, managing to avoid a shocked station attendant standing on a deserted platform. What we knew, or found out, was that the place we were in was a village not much more populous than the one we were staying in. What we did not know was where it was. And equally, we did not know that half the police force in England was looking for us. Or that is what it seemed like when we were eventually caught. The fifth member of our group, not enamoured with clandestine trips at Dr Beeching’s expense, had gone home and spilled all. His friends were on a train to Scotland or somewhere. Apparently. If we had somehow found our way back, we had only been on the train for about fifteen minutes, we could have minimised the damage. But in for a penny in for a pound and the bravest, or most foolhardy, amongst us stole a car.

In mitigation it wasn’t a break in or anything like that. The local vicar saw us wandering the streets and, not recognising us, asked us where we were going. As none of us had any idea where we were it left us somewhat nonplussed. Alexandra, sharp as a button, rescued the situation. We were on a summer camp initiative test, she said. We had been dropped off at this remote station and had to get back to Aylesbury without using public transport. We didn’t have any money anyway, she added. The winning team was the one that did it in the shortest time. She said it all so seriously I had difficulty suppressing giggles, particularly as the vicar was nodding sagely as she spoke. Would it be within the rules if I offered you a lift part of the way, he asked. He was so nice and young, with a kindly sunbeam face, I almost felt guilty at our deception. It would not have been a problem if he had dropped us off at his destination but, on the way, he stopped at a wayside cottage to post something to an elderly parishioner. Alexandra and I and the other girl were sitting in the back and the other boy was in the passenger seat. Before we realised what was happening he had moved to the driving seat and, engine still running, sent the car on its way. The girls screamed and I shouted for him to stop. Trouble was he did not know how or if he did he did not try. Recklessly laughing the boy steered the car down a hill in the only gear he had found. The hill wasn’t steep and the journey wasn’t long but it was scary all the same and I was relieved when we came to a stop in a muddy field. Steering around corners was clearly not the boy’s strongest skill. As we were running away, me furious and the girls now laughing in nervous relief, I caught a glimpse of the fist shaking vicar in the distance. Not at all like his first, sunbeam, impression. And I thought the church was all about forgiveness. We walked for what seemed like miles and the day was beginning to cloud up. If it rained before we got home then this fun day would quickly lose any remaining gloss it had. Frankly it already had for me. I was tired and hungry and much as the other boy chortled at his escapade with the vicar’s car I could not join in. So I was pleased to see a large car heading in our direction from the distant horizon. Perhaps we could thumb a lift. I raised my hand to signal it as it approached us and then as quickly lowered it again. As it got closer I realised it was a police car and in the front were two smiling policeman. They pulled up and the driver wound down his window. Hello kids, he said, enjoying your day out? None of us said anything. Sitting in the back of the police car were two very grim faced passengers and one of them was Parson Gravestock. I looked across at Alexandra. Her face told me she had realised that fact even before I did. It was a long and silent drive back to our village.

‘That is the worst half an hour I ever spent.’

‘Even worse than what is to come, Harry?’

‘Don’t Alexandra. I do not even want to think about it.’

‘I thought the policemen who drove us back were very nice. They seemed amused by it all.’

‘Didn’t make Parson Broomstick laugh.’

‘No. But he has no sense of humour.’

At that moment neither did I. The journey back had been mournful. A second police car had pulled up behind the first one and the other civilian in the first car had got into that with the other two kids. I found out later that he was the reckless boy’s stepfather. Alexandra and I got in the first car next to the unsmiling Parson. And not a word was said. The two policemen chatted and I tried to respond and was immediately told to be quiet by His Grimship. I christened him that there and then and that his how Alexandra and I have continued to refer to our hosts the Gravestocks over all the years that have followed. Miss Broomstick and His Grimship. Beats ‘Shoes-Hubert’ any day. But at the time literary epithets were farthest from my mind. Get the journey over was my dominant thought.

‘What are you thinking?’

Alexandra had gone suddenly quiet on our walk back to the cottage and her silence bothered me. She was so much more resilient than I was.

‘I was just thinking it is going to be a very large slate.’

‘What?’

‘That we have to wipe clean.’

‘Oh yes.’ I said and then, when the significance dawned, burst out laughing. Alexandra did the same and our moods temporarily lifted.

‘We shouldn’t laugh. We have no reason to.’

‘Certainly not, Harry.’ And then her infectious mimicry of the Parson kicked in. ‘Thank you for your understanding sergeant. I assure you that these children, for that is what they are, will be dealt with in the appropriate manner. My sister and I are pleased, and grateful, that you do not consider it a matter for the courts. The teachings of the bible will suffice, I think.’

‘I thought the sergeant was going to curl up.’

‘Didn’t stop him giving us a lecture though Harry. Even if he did have a glint in his eye. It was all for the benefit of old misery.’

‘What do you think will happen to the boy who stole the car?’

Alexandra sat down on a bench we often stopped at. It was the one she had sat on when she told me that Miss Broomstick was going to cane her. Given our circumstances it seemed appropriate. She considered my question a long time before answering. Unnaturally long I thought.

‘His stepfather says he will be charged. Not the first time, I heard them talking. And he will get belted, his stepfather made that very clear. Serves him right if you ask me. He’s an Idiot.’

‘Doesn’t help us.’ I paused. ‘I almost envy him.’

‘Only getting the belt, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Seems a bit unfair Harry, I agree. But if it is any consolation, and it won’t be I know, just leaving the village was likely to get us caned. Everything else is just a bonus.’

I shuddered and Alexandra rose and we continued our journey to the cottage. I wasn’t sure what was worse. The lecture that was to come from a purple faced Parson or its inevitable final curtain. Hopefully the latter would be short and quick. He had made it clear at the police station that we would be dealt with that evening so I had no illusions about a good sleep healing all. As regards the lecture my expectations were not disappointed.

‘I have never, in the whole of my life, been so humiliated. You leave the village, contrary to all our instructions, you board a train without paying, you cause great inconvenience to our local constabulary and, to make matters worse, you cause great distress to a man of the church who offered you kindness. I am aware that you did not actually steal his car but you were instrumental in that sad boy’s unworthy action. In your selfish and childish pursuit of temporary delights you paid no consideration to the anguish or shame caused to my sister or myself or to any other parent or guardian. You have let down your parents, you have let down this community, you have let down Miss Gravestock and me, and most of all you have let down yourselves. You have behaved like selfish and uncontrolled children and as such you will be treated. Have you anything to say? Either of you?’

There was nothing to say. Alexandra and I had stood shamefaced in their lounge whilst the Parson delivered his lecture. Miss Broomstick stood grimly behind him, no doubt agreeing with every word. We waited for the inevitable summation and sentence. When it came it was as unexpected as it was frightening. The Gravestocks would give full vent to their anger and it was Miss Broomstick who amplified it. She stepped forward as her brother, seemingly exhausted, sank into a chair.

‘Very well. You will go to your rooms and change into your night attire. When called you will both come back here. As this is a joint offence and as you have both caused suffering to both of us we think it is appropriate that you be caned in each other's presence. By both of us. You will each receive twelve strokes of the cane. And may I say that never was a caning more richly deserved.’

Miss Broomstick paused before adding her final instruction. Whether with relish or distaste I shall never know. But she added it all the same and it completed our joint distress and agitation.

‘And there is no need or requirement for you to wear underclothes with your night attire. My brother and I have agreed that, even as a joint punishment, the only appropriate discipline is the cane to your naked posteriors. You have both caused great shame to us all. It is only right that you now suffer the ultimate shame in each other’s presence. Go to your rooms and wait to be called.’

In spite of our false bravery on the journey back the reality of the situation had produced  sickening fear in me and incipient tears in Alexandra. I could not believe what I was hearing. I was going to be caned on my bare backside by both of them and Alexandra would be watching. Or so I thought. And she was to get the same. Our shame would be quadrupled. We were both shaking as we left the room. Neither of us had expected this. We went to our separate rooms in silence. The call, when it came, would almost be a blessed release.

 

Part Six

Looking back I often wondered if I could have resisted. Run away again or fought or in some way make it difficult for them to do what they clearly intended. But those were different times, different rules, different standards. Adults caning recalcitrant youngsters were the way of the post war age. It was done all the time and few, except those getting it, complained. Besides, it was an uneven match. These two authoritative figures dominated Alexandra and me in both size and personality. Scared as I was it never occurred to me to resist. So I changed into my pyjamas with a heavy heart and readied myself for a repeat of a few weeks before. And this time, this time, it would be different. I ran my hands down my pyjamas, registering their thinness, and then passed my hands over my behind. It had just about recovered its normal state. I knew that because only a couple of days previously I had risked all by peering at it in a mirror on the first floor landing whilst all others were in the garden. It was a rare and quick opportunity. I was amazed at the lack of any signs. Strain the eyes and gossamer faint lines were there, but only if you knew and looked for them. As I ran my hands around my thinly covered bottom I idly wondered if Alexandra’s bottom had recovered so well. It was then that I made the only weak smile I was to raise that evening. Given the resolve of the avenging Broomsticks I was about to find out.

 

‘We will start with you Harry. Boys first I think. And it will make things a little easier on you both if you bend over the table before I lower your pyjamas.

I looked across at Alexandra. She was standing impassively beside me, small tears running down her cheeks, and this attempt at subtle dignity for our persons did not impress. Miss Broomstick snorted and Parson Broomstick, hesitantly, repeated his instruction and told me to undo the string on my pyjamas. He was holding the same cane he had used on me before and his manner was as vague and detached as that first time. But I was not fooled. That had been a serious caning and I was under no illusions about this one. And they had gone to some trouble before calling us. The table had been taken from their kitchen especially for this purpose. It was small and square and stood about three feet from the ground. On it a large soft cushion had been placed, presumably for our comfort. I approached it and, untying my pyjama string, dutifully bent over, my feet just about touching the ground. I was breathing heavily and my eyes were already beginning to water. I looked straight ahead of me at their dull, over flowery, wallpaper and gripped the far edge of the table with sweating hands. For a few moments only silence filled the room and then the Parson spoke. His voice was trembling slightly and I sensed that he would much prefer a more private chastisement. But it mattered not a jot. He told me to be still and then I felt the sensation of my pyjama bottoms being pulled down to my knees and my top being lifted up to my waist. I sensed both my naked shame and the slight gasp from Alexandra. The Parson then placed his hand on my head, almost in blessing, and told me I was to be given six strokes. By him, he added, as if he needed to. And then I sensed him stepping back and the next thing I knew was that cane lashing into my naked backside. As the fire hit me I released an involuntary howl and as it subsided the cane landed again. I struggled but held tight to the table as two more strokes connected with my bottom. I squealed and then issued a pitiful plea. He was caning me much quicker than before but it was just as hard. The quick combination of the burning lines evaporated all control. I jumped up and rubbed my bottom, tears falling down my face, and pleaded that I was sorry. But all was to no avail. The determined look on his face said that. Six he had said, six I was going to get. But something must have registered. Pyjamas and dignity adrift at my feet I was sent back over the table and given the two final strokes to my burning backside. These were slower and almost gentle, at least by the standards of the first four. I absorbed both stings to my cheeks with little difficulty and, glad as I was that it was all over for now, it had become almost bearable. The Parson pulled up my trouser bottoms and, bidding me to rise, led me back to where I first stood. I was crying but the tears were controlled. I took a glance at Alexandra as I tied my pyjama string. She was standing still and looking straight ahead, small tears trickling down her cheeks. Perhaps she had not looked when I was caned, perhaps she had closed her eyes. But if she had watched, seen the pain that was still throbbing agony in my bottom, she would also have seen all of me when I had jumped up from the table. I cared not for my shameful display when searing fire burnt my bottom flesh. Now I did and my only hope, as she was called forward, was that her own chastisement would dim the memory.

I still think to this day that the Parson was much gentler with Alexandra than he was with me. As she bent over the table he pulled her pyjama bottoms down as far as he did mine and he lifted her short top to her waist. But he did not cane her as hard as he caned me and, even though she wriggled, she did not cry out very loud. I had howled and last time she had screamed. But these six strokes produced little more than whimpers and the occasional gasp. But I did not mind. I watched in boyish fascination as her pale white bottom gathered six pinkish lines across the only naked girl cheeks I had ever seen. Part of me did not want it to stop, even though the last stroke, a little harder than the previous five produced the only real sign of distress. He stopped and bid her to rise, allowing her to pull up her own trouser bottoms. As Alexandra walked back to me the Parson put down the cane and, surprisingly, left the room. Miss Gravestock, the Broomstick, the witch, the woman who had remained virtually silent throughout picked it up and looked at us both. Me still silently tearful in my pain and Alexandra rubbing a bottom that had, in my opinion, little more than gentle touches.

‘I do not intend to be as considerate as my brother. He is not used to such matters. I am. You have shamed this family and you both deserve to be severely punished. Take off your pyjama bottoms, both of you, I want nothing to interfere with what I intend to do.’

We both stood there silent and transfixed. I reckon I had already been severely caned but, seeing the grim set face, was not prepared to argue. This may be cruel and unnecessary; a subtle twist in our punishment, but it was going to be done. Miss Gravestock, retired headmistress, was determined to shame us as much as she considered that we had shamed her and her brother. I can’t help wondering now how many others, in the past, had suffered like this at her hands. I nervously fumbled for my pyjama string but my response was not as quick as Alexandra who was already divesting herself of her elasticised lower garment.

‘Come along boy, you heard me. You have already displayed yourself once this evening. It should not be difficult. And you both deserve to be shamed as much as possible.’

My pyjama bottoms quickly followed Alexandra’s to the floor and we stood motionlessly waiting her bidding. Both of us naked from just below our waists, showing everything we had. I was blushing furiously but could not resist a quick look across at Alexandra. Her tear filled eyes were closed.

‘Bend over the table Harry. I will deal with you first. And Alexandra, open your eyes. I want you both to witness the others distress. Harry.’

It was a sharp summons. I looked at this lanky woman, eyes cold and staring, and then at the cane in her hand. It had already seared my backside six times and I feared that this next six would be worse. She may be a woman but, unlike her brother, she was a woman rich in experience of thrashing bottoms. Of that I was in no doubt. I stepped out of my fallen pyjama bottoms and walked to the table and bent over. Never have I been so conscious of my nakedness. She made me lean right over and, legs slightly spread, arch my bottom into the air. Do not move Harry she said, do not get up or struggle. Or I shall start again from the beginning. So set Alexandra an example. I waited conscious only of an exposed form that I could not see and two females I could slightly hear. The one, quietly sobbing, to watch and the other, breathing heavily, to cane. And how she caned. The six evenly spread strokes of her cane printed a sting on my upturned bottom that I have never forgotten. Each slash with the cane, accurate and true, produced a burning and violent ache in my backside and urgency for gasping breath in my being. But much as I struggled and squirmed I held on to the table determined, in front of Alexandra, that I would not cry off my punishment. Never had I suffered so much pain in my behind. My tears flowed, my gasps of anguish grew louder, and my legs never remained still. All of me was exposed in shame and chastisement. But I held on, steeling all of my body and mind, as the relentless cane unerringly found the centre of its wanted target. My bottom, high and arched and naked. Lacerated with spinsterish venom. Eventually she stopped and my body relaxed. Exhausted and beaten I allowed my backside to absorb the incessant throbbing and my mind to absorb the wonder of blessed relief. Ten silent seconds passed before I was bid to rise. I did as told, slowly and carefully, and made no attempt to cover myself as I turned around to my tormentor. The hands that had tightly gripped the table were clasped against my bottom, rubbing, soothing, easing, as I walked towards Alexandra. I cared naught that a girl, only a year older than me, could see my boy’s appendage. Shame would return as the throbbing pain subsided.

She did not let me put on my pyjamas whilst she caned Alexandra. I had to stand there, naked from the waist down, as she did to her what she did to me. She made her bend full over the table, as I had done, and as I had done she made her arch her back and slightly spread her legs. It made the bottom firm and ready and correctly placed for the cane. She said this as she pushed up the small pyjama top. By now Alexandra was crying profusely. But she did not struggle. Like me she was resigned to the pain to come. And that pain did come. Miss Broomstick hit Alexandra as hard, if not harder, than me and each stroke created a livid red weal on cheeks already tinged with the strokes of the brother’s more considerate lacerations. And it was a lovely bottom. I had seen it once before this day when Alexandra had cheekily lowered her knickers in the garden. I was fascinated then, I was fascinated now. It was small and beckoning and the twin cheeks were plumper and whiter than mine and it had a delicate smoothness which begged to be touched. Lacing it with savage strokes of a cane was both violating and compelling. And now, arched and stretched as she was, I had my first view of the mystery of girls. I did not respond, too young, too innocent, too much subsumed by my own pain and exposure. But I registered the experience almost as much as I registered Alexandra’s final chastisement. Alexandra’s screams were as loud as they had ever been as the cane reached its target. Her flesh wobbled as it struck into her and I winced in her distress. But I was fascinated by the fiery lines which etched the firm orbs of the loveliest behind a boy had ever seen. There was a part of me that did not want it to stop. There is a part of me that still feels a shameful guilt.

 

Part Seven

The next couple of days in the cottage were passed in virtual silence. No one seemed to have any wish to speak. ‘Shoes-Hubert’ spent as much time as he could in the garden and Miss Broomstick busied herself with many summer tasks she had delayed because of our unexpected arrival. She insisted we help her on a morning two days after we had been caned but she didn’t issue her command with her usual vigour. She was packing some books for a charity function and wished them to be catalogued first. Alexandra agreed, monosyllabically, to help and I just shrugged my shoulders and allowed her to draw her own interpretation of my response. This would not have mattered if Alexandra and I had been able to talk to each other but our experience had stilled both our tongues. She spent most of her free time in her room and I, as is said of young teenagers, just moped around the place. I still had a desire to see the results of the Gravestock’s handiwork but did not wish to risk a repeat of bathroom calamities. I knew I had serious weals. I could feel them. But I could not see them nor even, in compensation, show them to Alexandra. The only time I tentatively raised the subject she snapped that she had seen me getting them. And that was enough. I reckon I recovered my normal demeanour quicker than anyone in that house. Boys are so resilient and, besides, we are used to being caned. Had it at school and would no doubt get it again when I went back, and once on my bare behind. So it was not a new experience. Except that I had never been caned by a woman and in the presence of a girl. Took me a while to shake that off. But, as I say, boys are resilient. Not so Hubert, our Parson. He was clearly troubled. He finally said so and, in a strange role reversal, I had to comfort him. Our conversation, on a warm late summer evening, is one of the few things I remember with some pride. Most of my experiences in that cottage are recalled with guilty pleasure or disturbing pain. Assuaging his obvious concern counted as some sort of result in my book. I think it was then that I realised I was growing up.

‘You are going home next week Harry. Looking forward to it?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Not enjoyed it here?’

‘No sir.’

‘Not any of it?’

‘No sir.’

I relented, thinking back.

‘The theatre trip was nice. And I don’t mind weeding the garden with you.’

‘But you would rather be home?’

‘Yes sir.’

We had been weeding the garden for about an hour or so and had stopped for some light refreshment. The Parson lit his pipe and, in doing so, made it clear that garden chores were finished for the day. It was about a week after Alexandra and I had received what we sincerely hoped was a final caning. She had started talking to me again.

‘Why is that? Other than the fact that home is the best place for all of us.’

‘I miss my friends, sir.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes sir, should there be anything else?’

‘No. Not really. But you have not enjoyed it here? At all?’

‘I like Alexandra. She is fun.’

‘A nice girl.’

‘And the cottage is nice.’

‘But a bit stuffy for your tastes?’

‘Yes sir.’

I became bolder as the conversation developed.

‘And you are a bit strict. For us I mean. Especially your sister, Miss Broomstick.’

‘Miss Gravestock.’

I am sure he almost smiled.

‘Yes sir. Sorry. Miss Gravestock.’

‘You don’t like our rules and regulations?’

‘No sir.’

He rose and walked around the garden and relit a pipe that seemed forever to go out. Eventually he came back to me.

‘And the fact the we caned you? ‘

‘No sir, I didn’t like that.’

‘It is not a task I enjoyed undertaking. My sister has more experience in such matters.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I’m sorry. We only did it for your own good.’

‘Yes sir.’

I could see he was troubled. He was saying it but I sensed his concern. Suddenly I felt I could help him.

‘But you have to wipe the slate clean, sir?’

He smiled and sat down beside me.

‘You mock me, Harry.’

‘Sorry sir.’

‘It troubles me. I do not like inflicting pain.’

‘I shouldn’t worry sir.’

‘No?’

‘All boys need a cane across their backsides every now and then. That’s what my housemaster says. And he should know.’

‘Does he?’

‘Keeps us in line he says.’

‘So you don’t resent me for what I did to you?’

I looked at him. He seemed desperate for absolution and it unnerved me a bit. I had to convey to him that it was no big deal even if some aspects of it always would be.

‘No sir. You only caned me twice and I deserved it both times. Even the second time when you took my pyjamas down. That’s happened at school so I am used to it. But I would have been happier if it had been only you. In private.’

‘My sister, you mean.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘She means well, Harry. Just a bit strict and old fashioned.’

He put his hand on my shoulder. I was going to say that she was more than a bit strict and her final caning of me and Alexandra was excessively painful and embarrassing. But it was nothing to do with him and would not help matters. He continued in much the same vein.

‘She takes the old maxim of sparing the rod and spoiling the child to excessive lengths sometimes. I see that.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘But you bear no ill will towards me?’

‘No sir. Should I?’

‘I don’t know.’

I looked at him seriously. I looked at the man who had twice caned my bottom with a cane, once with my pants down, and reduced me to howling tears. I looked at him and told him the truth.

‘If I told my father, sir, or my housemaster, they would both say that I deserved whatever you gave me. And I agree with them.’

‘Thank you, Harry.’

‘But it bloody hurt at the time.’

He smiled at me and, tapping me on the shoulder, made his way to the cottage and said thank you again. At the door he turned and smiled for a second time.

‘I wouldn’t let Miss Broomstick hear you use such words. You still have a week to go.’

It had taken a long time but I was beginning to quite like the Parson.

On the day before we left the cottage for the last time I related this conversation to Alexandra. Looking back it seemed very strange. Was the old Parson ashamed or did he fear that my parents might not react as I had said? He was clearly influenced by his sister and Alexandra confirmed that. She had overheard them talking in the garden on the day he first caned me. If you don’t do it I shall. And I shall take his trousers down and give him twelve with my cane, he deserves it. Do you want that, Hubert? He’s a boy and it is your responsibility. Alexandra did not hear what Hubert said in reply, he spoke so quietly, but given her response he had clearly registered a small victory. You always were soft Hubert but I suppose it is better than nothing. But whatever you do make his bottom smart. If ever a boy needed a good caning, he does.

‘Didn’t really have much choice did he?’

‘Explains why he let me keep my trousers on. At least that time.’

‘Because he didn’t want to do it but knew his sister would if he didn’t?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘She’s a bitch. I still don’t speak to her. Unless I have to.’

We had finished our packing and sitting in the kitchen. The Gravestocks had gone into the village to undertake some legal business. Surprisingly they had allowed us to stay in the cottage on our own. Partly because it was raining and partly because, as Miss Broomstick stressed, they would be no more than an hour. Possibly less. And we had lots to keep us occupied. As she said this I realised something that made our uncomfortable stay make some sort of sense. She didn’t trust us, she had never trusted us. To her we weren’t just children, albeit getting close to adulthood, we were dangerous children. Something akin to aliens. She neither understood nor liked us. She probably only agreed to us staying with them for the financial compensation. It was all pretty obvious really and it explained a lot. I reckon, on reflection, that the Parson did like us, especially me. But his headmistress sister, conditioned by a life of controlling authority, saw us as something to be feared and tamed. I looked at Alexandra, greedily finishing off a large bar of chocolate she had been saving for a rainy day.

‘Will you tell your parents, Alexandra?’

‘No. Will you?’

‘No. I don’t see the point.’

‘Besides, you saw that letter from my mother. Didn’t bother her that I got caned. Our parents knew it might happen anyway.’

I blushed, thinking back to the evening in the Gravestock’s lounge, dressed only in our pyjamas.

‘Would they approve of us getting caned together, like we did?’

Alexandra thought for a moment before responding. When she did her answer surprised me.

‘No, not that. But only because I am a girl and you are a boy. But I think it was only that, you and me together, that made it bearable. At least afterwards.’

She paused and then continued.

‘So I don’t think we should tell them. Ever.’

And we never did, or at least I didn’t. Partly because I did not want to cause trouble and partly because I felt ashamed. Not for the canings, got enough of them at school both before and afterwards. But because of my reactions to them, especially to Alexandra’s. I have never forgotten. Standing in that cottage lounge as a fourteen year old boy, naked from the waist down and nursing a very sore backside. Watching Alexandra. Watching Alexandra, bent over and being caned on her bare bottom. Being caned on a bare bottom that was as wonderful as it was pure. I hated what was happening to us but part of me did not want her caning to stop. She has seen this recollection of these events and, smiling, told me she has always thought I was a bit kinky. And then she said something else. She felt the same, she said, when I was getting mine. Especially the last six when she sensed my determination not to give in to the pain. It troubled her for a long time afterwards. And that is why, we both agreed, that the Gravestocks should have caned us separately. As they did on the first occasions. You can never be sure what demons you may release. But it has one compensation, never dimmed in all the years that have followed. I shall always be Harry and she will always be Alexandra. Harry and Alexandra. And even though our lives have taken different paths the distant memory of the Gravestocks, His Grimship and Miss Broomstick, constantly bind us together. We never talk about that summer to anyone else, but we have never forgotten it.

 

Alfred Roy (c) 2013