Body Swop
We all need things to do in lockdown and I have often hankered to write a Victorian birching story. So not before time and inspired by pics found on the excellent CORPUN site here is my attempt. Pure fantasy, as if that needs saying given the narrative. Alfred Roy
I
can’t be hearing this. Who is this man? Where am I? Who am I? He is saying
something. I need to lean closer. I am in a dock. I know that. A burly
policeman with big walrus moustaches is standing by me. He puts his hand on my
shoulder as I lean closer to hear what the man is saying. He looks like my old
headmaster, or at least like the Victorian photograph of his grandfather which
hung prominently in the school hall. And the expression on his face is even
grimmer and sterner. And he is speaking. Speaking to me. I lean closer still,
taking in the unfamiliar fusty brown surroundings. I am in a dock and this is a
court, a court not unlike the reproductions that have been cropping up in our
town. But they are shiny, new, glorified cafes. This is real, musty, dark, and
threatening. And I am in the dock and, listening to the dry tones of the florid
faced man, I realise that I am being sentenced. And I do not like, no I am
fearful of what I hear.
It
was that ragamuffin I met at the fair. The strange fair that turned up in our
town one day and was gone the next. He looked like a gypsy. About the same age
as me, twelve going on thirteen, but thin and wiry and, frankly, unhealthy. A
sickly pallor whereas I had the glowing healthy skin of a well fed and cared
for youngster. But he mesmerised. His eyes glowed and he had a funny, old
fashioned way of talking. He said methinks a lot. He asked me my name. David I
said. I am Wilbert he said. I work here with my dad. We sell potions. Wanna try
one? I declined and then he did something very strange. He took a bottle of
liquid from his pocket, took a sip, and disappeared. I was stunned, shocked,
puzzled. And then he turned up again, behind me, and laughed mischievously.
It’s magic, he said, but I only took a sip. Take a big swig and there is no
saying what happens. And he laughed again. It was almost malevolent. No it was.
Malevolent.
The
dry tones of the florid faced man are continuing. I have done something.
Something bad. The court takes a dim view of such behaviour, especially one old
enough to know better. That’s what he said. I strained forward even more and
the burly policeman gripped my shoulder even more. You need a harsh lesson
which, hopefully, will curb you of your heinous ways and act as a deterrent to
others. I sentence you to eight strokes of the birch. To be administered in the
usual manner and under the usual procedure. Take him down. And then he stood up
and bowed to the court and left. I was transfixed. Had I heard right? Eight
strokes of the birch. He must have been talking to someone else. And then the
burly policeman spoke, the first time I had heard his voice. Come on he said,
come on Wilbert, let’s get this over with. Can’t be the first time you will
have had your bum smacked. I left in a daze. He had called me Wilbert.
The
strange boy had laughed at me again and told me to take a sip. Go on Davy, he
said, it’s magic. I was tempted but again refused. Frankly I was both intrigued
and scared. It won’t hurt you he said, my dad is a genius. And he took another
sip and disappeared again only to return behind me some two minutes later. It’s
a lovely feeling he said, try it. So I did. But I must have sipped a little
more than him because the next thing I remember I was standing behind him and I
was wearing his clothes and he was wearing mine. That’s never happened before,
he said. You disappeared and then I must have passed out. Well don’t I look
grand, he said, and laughed uproariously. His clothes felt rough, baggy trousers
and a rough, laced, shirt and large leathery boots. We should change back I
said and he agreed and so we both sipped a little more. And I found myself in
this dock being sentenced to eight strokes of the birch. In the usual manner.
I
am not stupid. I know what that meant. I have read my history books. Boys who
were birched got it on the bare buttocks. The bare behind. That is what the
books said. I don’t know the details but I was shortly to find out. Unless I
could conjure up the real Wilbert or convince the policeman that they had got
the wrong boy. I was thinking this when he stopped at a cell door. This is
where the doctor will examine you, he said. Make sure you are fit for your
birching. He grinned, but not unpleasantly. Don’t look so worried lad, he said,
it will soon be over. We never like to delay too long, not fair. The doc will
be along in a minute and if satisfied, as he will be, you will be taken to that
room at the end of the corridor. He pointed to a large wooden door about twenty
feet away. I shall be there with our inspector to see fair play, as will the
doctor, and the colleague who is a specialist in these matters. So just the
four of us, no need to be embarrassed. Just do as you’re told, he said, and it
will be over in five or ten minutes. I won’t pretend, you will feel it, Sgt
Colefax is very good with the birch and he takes no prisoners. Just tell
yourself that you deserve it. Makes it easier to take, in my opinion. But I
don’t deserve it, I said, I have not done anything, and I felt myself start to
cry. They all say that lad, doesn’t do any good, he said. But I haven’t, I
said, I don’t belong here. I have come from the future.
The
burly policeman looked at me quizzically, almost fatherly. Look lad, he said,
you are going to be taken into that room in a few minutes and your trousers and
pants are going to be taken down, you are going to be strapped to the birching
horse, and Sgt Colefax is going to whack your bare arse with his birch eight
times. And nothing you say is going to change that. Take my advice and
co-operate and take your punishment like a brave boy. Tell Colefax what you
have told me and he will cut you in half. There is nothing he hates more than a
lad who tries to wriggle out of what he knows he deserves. Now in you go and
strip off. Doc will be here in a minute.
‘Pants
off young man, and your top. This won’t take long.’
‘I
haven’t done anything.’
‘That
is what you all say. The prospect of the birch on the bare bottom turns you all
into angels, in my experience.’
‘But
I haven’t.’
‘Pants
off, I said.’
‘I
don’t belong here.’
‘You
all say that. Anything to avoid the birch.’
‘But
it’s true. I don’t belong here. I come from 1969.’
‘Well,
that’s a new one I must say. Now strip. I haven’t got all day.’
‘I’m
not Wilbert, you must believe me.’
I
had started to cry again and the doctor, a man as equally burly as the
policeman and with equally imposing moustaches, changed a friendly demeanour to
a more serious one. As he spoke he whipped down my pants and looked me firmly
in the face. We’ll have these pants off and the top if you please. I need to
ascertain your fitness for your birching, though you look a fine healthy young
man to me. Well able to take what is coming. Now come along and don’t waste my
time or I’ll have you before the magistrate again. And that could mean your
eight strokes being increased. Do you want that? As he said all this he pulled
my trousers off, I had already removed the heavy and unfamiliar boots, and then
roughly lifted the shirt over my head. I was naked and shamefully tearful. This
was a situation I had never experienced or imagined. And I could see no way of
avoiding what was to come. I closed my eyes as the doctor conducted his minute
examination. I reckon every bit of me was prodded and tugged and scrutinised,
especially my bottom and genitals. After what seemed an age he muttered
something under his breath, a satisfactory sigh I thought, and told me to get
dressed again. Just the trousers and shirt, no need for anything else, he said,
putting on underclothes just prolongs things in my experience. He put his
stethoscope away in a very officious looking black bag and made to leave.
‘What
year is this sir?’
‘What?’
‘What
year is it?’
‘I
wouldn’t start that again, young man, I am a busy man.’
‘I’m
sorry, but I need to know.’
‘You
know damn well what year it is.’
‘I
don’t. I don’t know.’
‘Just
take what is coming to you and get it over with.’
‘I
will sir. I will. I see I have no choice.’
‘That’s
better.’
‘Just
tell me what year it is. Please.’
The
doctor eyed the boy. He seemed in deadly earnest. The doctor wasn’t sure
whether this was a ruse to try and get out of his birching, not the done thing
to birch lunatics generally, or merely to delay it. Irritation vied with
interest. The boy seemed normal, intelligent even, not the usual type who got
birched. And his body, minutely examined, was clearly well fed and cared for.
Soft and healthy skin and well filled plump and creamy buttocks. Not scrawny or
splotched as many who end up here. And he was composing himself at last. The
tears had eased and his voice had lost some of its tremble. He seemed resigned
to his fate, resolved even to take what was coming. That was good. A birching
taken well, however unpleasant, was welcomed by all involved. Screaming and
fighting lads still got their deserts, often harder from Sgt Colefax, but it
left a poor taste. Justice was much better served by an acquiescence and
acceptance. And this boy now knew his fate was inevitable. So he told him.
1898. And then he left.
I
think the next half an hour or so passed with me in a dream. There was an
unreality about everything that was happening. The date the doctor had said was
buzzing around my head. It did not make sense, nothing made sense, except I now
knew that I was going to be birched. There was no escape unless, miraculously,
Wilbert somehow reversed the spell. And in my heart I knew that was not going
to happen. So I resigned myself to my ordeal and tried to hold back the tears
that seemed forever waiting to swell. I had never in my life been beaten and
now I was to be. In the most painful and humiliating manner imaginable. The
usual manner the magistrate had said. Except I could not imagine it. Did not
want to imagine it. It was beyond my experience. But I was thirteen, nearly,
not yet a man but neither a little boy. I would submit, I had no choice, but if
tears flowed they would be tears caused by pain and distress not by fear. I
closed my eyes and held my breath and waited.
I
did not wait long. After a few minutes the door opened and the burly policeman
re-entered. He nodded to me and I meekly followed him. The impassive look on
his face told me that this was it. I had done as I was told. I was wearing
Wilbert’s rough baggy trousers and laced trimmed cotton shirt, equally large.
Nothing else. As I walked the twenty or so feet along the corridor to the
imposing wooden door earlier indicated I was conscious of the rough trouser
material rubbing against my naked skin. My naked bottom. Soon to be revealed
and birched behind that frightening door. I had little time to think. The burly
policeman, strangely almost the only friend I had in my dilemma, opened the
door and stood aside. In you go lad, he said, soon be over. The birch stings
and you will no doubt howl but it won’t kill you. And if you keep telling
yourself it is deserved it will go more quickly. And he then smiled, as if
encouraging me to take what I knew I did not deserve, and ushered me in. The
room was dimly lit and small. It registered little. A small window high in the
opposite wall and in front of it a strange looking curved leather contraption
with a variety of straps. Even to my confused dreamlike state it registered as
the place of my execution. I gulped. This was clearly it, the moment of no
going back. And then I saw him. Standing to the left of the doctor in the
furthest corner of the room. Another burly policeman, uniform jacket discarded
and white right shirt sleeve rolled up. And in the hand of that shirt sleeve
rolled up arm it held a frightening implement. Long and thin with what seemed
an enormous number of intertwined twigs, all held together at the handle by
intricate binding. It must have been at least three or four feet long and
spanned a good eight inches at its tip. It looked as if it could do a great
deal of damage. I blinked and looked at the man holding it. His face held no
expression but the eyes studied me disconcertingly. This was Sgt Colefax and
the eyes told me, shouted at me, that the thing in his hand, the dreaded birch,
was shortly to be introduced to my behind. And beyond the impassive eyes I
sensed the slightest glimpse of a smile of anticipation, a hint of relish. As
the other policeman closed the door I sensed myself beginning to cry again.
It
was then I registered the fourth man. He was standing to the right of the door
and was carrying a clipboard with papers. This must be the inspector referred
to. He looked officious, thin and tall and serious, and clearing his throat
looked at me and spoke. Wilbert Jenkins, you have been sentenced to eight
strokes of the birch for wilful damage to property of the crown. That sentence
will now be carried out. Prepare him Constable Wainwright. In my confusion I
could hardly take in the words. They were dry and impersonal but filled with
menace. Wilful damage to property. A birching offence. Constable Wainwright, so
I now knew his name, took my left arm and eased me gently to the bench. I know
it was gentle because I moved forward willingly if not eagerly. The
contraption, the birching bench, was old brown leather with the distinct smell
of age and wear. Narrow at the base it widened at the top as it curved its six
feet length to a height of about four feet. The further end was supported by
wooden legs and the whole device was raised on a wooden block base. It was well
designed, an ideal shape for someone to be bent along it for a beating. Stand
on the base lad, Constable Wainwright said, with your legs either side and then
lean over and stretch your arms. Soon be over. There was softness in his voice
but I sensed, rather than knew, that if I resisted a different Wainwright would
emerge. Once in this room you were not going to leave unscathed. I did as he
bid, stood on the platform base and put my legs either side of the leather
contraption. Over you go, he said, stretch your arms out. As I did so I felt
the cold leather press against my crotch and with my face touching the widened
top of the bench I smelt its aroma. I was now in the desired prone position
but, fleetingly I thought, if I wished I could still get up. And then something
strange happened. I was in this vulnerable position, enclosed by menacing
leather, four unseen players of the drama behind me waiting to play their part
and I could also see it all. As if by magic I could see what they could see.
Another part of me seemed to be in the doorway watching it all take place. I
was starring in this film of a Victorian drama and I was also watching its
replay.
The
constable took my arms and leaned so close to me I could smell his garlic
breath. He placed my wrists in straps fixed to the supporting legs of the
bench. I sensed my breathing become more shallow and urgent. Relax lad, he
said, won’t be long. Just need to make you secure. And then I felt, and saw, a
thick leather strap being pulled across my waist and tightened and fixed. I
sensed, frighteningly, the helpless feeling of being trapped. Held in a
position I did not desire and with no way to escape any ensuing onslaught. I
started to cry. I cursed to myself at the incipient tears but fear at what was
close was engulfing me. None of these manoeuvres took more than a minute or so
and then I again felt, and saw, Constable Wainwright lift the baggy shirt and
tuck the ends of it into the strap around my waist. I knew and sensed what was
coming next. Hands were around my waist untying the string of the trousers and
then quickly and efficiently, almost with undue haste, the trousers were pulled
down to my knees and I was bare, naked, and ready. A cool breeze brushed my
bottom cheeks and conscious of their pronounced position I tried in vain to
shrink the size. The tears welled even more and I screwed up my eyes and prayed
all would soon be over. And yet in the doorway I seemed also to be watching my
fate. My potion induced fate.
Ready
sir, said Constable Wainwright, his voice seeming thicker and more nervous than
hitherto. Thank you constable, the dry voice of the inspector responded. All
yours Sgt Colefax. Do your duty. Eight strokes and lay them on, this wretch
deserves it. And you have a nice plump and creamy arse to work on. I flinched,
Sgt Colefax gave a slight deferential laugh, the constable and the doctor
remained silent. I suspected they did not approve of the comment. And then the
doctor spoke. Not the shape of the usual miscreants we get, he said, if I did
not know I would say he came from a good and caring family. Be that as it may,
the inspector said, but he is here to be birched. When you are ready Sgt
Colefax.
There
was a silence and then I sensed him step towards me. And then I knew, the twigs
of the birch rested on my exposed bottom right across the centre. Sgt Colefax
was measuring his aim. Everything in the room stood still, nothing and no one
moved. The only sound was my whimpering and the heavy breathing of the
onlookers. Sgt Colefax, expression grim, tapped the spraying birch on my
backside, raised his arm to a seemingly impossible height and lashed the twigs
across my naked cheeks. For a moment I was stunned. The impact seemed to take
all the breath from my body and then, after a second, the stinging fire
engulfed my behind. I wriggled and tried to shift my position and clenched my
teeth determined to slow the spread of any more tears. And then the birch
lashed into me again, harder this time, but still central across both of my
raised orbs. A plump and creamy arse they had said. A plump and creamy arse
well raised, an easy target for an expert. Now scratched and wealed from a
deadly implement. And the sting and the pain was starting to spread. And then
the third stroke hit me, slightly lower this time, and I screamed. The pain was
becoming unbearable. And when the fourth stroke lashed into my naked rear,
higher up my cheeks, I knew I could no longer hold back. I cried and howled and
begged to be let off. Constable Wainwright, standing near my head, brushed my
hair and said, hold on lad, hold on, only four more to go. I merely wailed. The
pain and throbbing in my behind, my sore and lacerated behind, was engulfing my
whole being. Burning wires drilled into my naked flesh and he says hold on.
Only four more to go. I do not remember much of the rest, of those four
strokes. I know they stung and fired into my behind in ten seconds intervals. I
know that Sgt Colefax put his full force into them, almost as if my howling and
pleading had fired him to even greater lashes. I know that I screamed
unmercifully when those avenging twigs savagely connected with my upturned
cheeks. And I know that I wet myself, my bladder becoming uncontrollable as the
pain consumed my backside. But I do not remember much more. I did not see those
last four strokes. It was as if a mist had descended to try and shut out the excruciating
pain in my rear.
‘Feeling
any better lad?’
‘A
bit. Still very sore. Still throbs.’
‘Hardly
surprising. It’s only been an hour. Did the doc’s ministrations help?’
‘You
mean the cream?’
‘Yes.’
‘A
bit. Told me it was to stop infections.’
‘It
does. Won’t stop you being unable to sit down for awhile though. You’ll have
those birch scars for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more.’
‘He
told me that Sgt Colefax really laid it on, especially the last four. Hadn’t
seen him whack anyone that hard for months.’
‘It’s
your arse lad. He doesn’t often see one as good as yours.’
‘That’s
what the doc said. Said a plump and creamy bottom like mine almost begged for
the birch. Made me blush. He also said something else.’
‘Go
on.’
‘He
said I was too well fed to be a gypsy. In too good a condition. Don’t feel it
at the moment though.’
‘You’ll
recover.’
‘Before
I go home. I will go home won’t I?’
‘Depends
where home is lad. I mean, after all, you weren’t given a custodial.’
‘I
have told you. I have come from the future.’
The
burly Constable Wainwright gave me that quizzical look he gave me when I first
said that. Before I was birched. He looked displeased then, but less so now. I
had grown to like him, in spite of the strange circumstances. This large man
had strapped me down in the birching cell and pulled down my pants and bared my
bottom for Sgt Colefax’s dreaded birch. I should hate him. But I couldn’t. He
had stroked my hair and gently talked me through the last four strokes. He had
helped me dress and did not mention my bladder disgrace. And after the doc had
inspected me he had come to chat and see how I was. I think he saw it all as
his duty. He approved of my being birched, approved of me having eight savage
cuts delivered to my raised bare behind. I reckon he would have done it himself
if directed. Boys, lads, needed a lesson, and a sharp birch across their bare
arses, their bare and plump and creamy arses, is the best way of teaching it
when they stray. And in his eyes I had strayed. But, I told myself, Constable
Wainwright cares for boys, lads, even if he does not care for their behinds. He
looked at me sternly, but not unfriendly. I could get Sgt Colefax back to give
you another four or six for that comment, he said, or even do it myself. And
then he grinned. You are a strange lad he said, far more intelligent than most
we get here; I hope we don’t see you back. And he didn’t. I fell asleep in the
holding cell shortly after he left and when I woke up I was standing in a
deserted field. In my own pristine clean school clothes. And the real Wilbert
was nowhere to be seen.
This
was where the strange fair was, the fair that appeared suddenly and, so I was
later told, disappeared in the same manner. Now it was just a deserted field
and the only indication of what had happened was a small purple bottle
discarded on the ground. The potion. I resisted an impulse to pick it up and
decided to make my way home. I would not explain to anyone where I had been or
what I had suffered. Who would believe it anyway. 1969 boys do not get birched,
and certainly not in the manner considered usual in the days of 1898. On my way
home I met no one but the following day I went back to school and, puzzled, I
was summoned to the headmaster’s office on arrival. I will not bore you with
the details but the summation was that he was unhappy. I had insulted a new
master at the school, totally out of character apparently, and the headmaster
was concerned. What had provoked it? I
had no idea and offered, lamely, that I had been feeling ill the day before.
Well you certainly would be after he dealt with you, he said. Most
disconcerting. He seems a bit of an authoritarian. Insisted you must be caned.
Most rare in these days. I, reluctantly, agreed, I hope you have recovered.
Very few boys get six of the best in these times. The headmaster smiled at me,
clearly concerned, and hoped that I had recovered from both my illness and my
caning. Most uncharacteristic David. Spitting at a new master and kicking him
in a private place, most uncharacteristic, I had to sanction your punishment.
You do understand? I did. That is what this interview was all about. The
unexpected caning of a, normally, well behaved boy. It was Wilbert, I was sure
of it. I asked the headmaster the name of the new teacher, just out of
curiosity. A Mr Colefax, he said, very much a disciplinarian. I think you boys
need to be careful. After he gave you your six of the best he said to me, he
said to me, headmaster, in the old days I would have taken his pants down and
those six would have been on his bare backside. These days’ youngsters get it
so easy.
So
Wilbert had been caned whilst I had been birched. Made me feel a little better
even if I knew that in his case dignity had been retained. But it had happened.
When I returned, in that desolated field, I had doubted it. But when I arrived
home I went to my room and dropped my pants. In the mirror, reflecting back at
me, my bottom showed the many lacerations of a serious birching. A birching
that I could never show my mother. Or her new man. A very nice chap, very
fatherly and attentive. His name is Wainwright. I sometimes wonder when I have
heard that name before. I think it lies in a bottle in a desolated field
waiting for the return of Wilbert.
Alfred Roy