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Thursday, 9 May 2019

The Burtonwood College Chronicles – Part 1

By Rebecca Walker and Charles Langford from Roué 41
GAIL MONTCRIEFF, HEAD GIRL: (medium height, slender build, blonde, pretty — in a cool insolent sort of way. Slightly sadistic. Hobbies: prick-teasing and getting the other girls into trouble…)
Burtonwood College for Young Ladies combines the finest academic preparation with the very best pastoral care. Dedicated staff ensure that while curriculum studies are of paramount importance, considerable attention is paid towards training pupils in the social graces — in short to help them become happy and fulfilled young women…
That’s what the prospectus tells you, and if you believe that you’ll believe anything! Frankly I’m surprised that there hasn’t been a scandal about this place and a newspaper investigation by now, but nobody seems to know or want to tell — except me.
I announce that I, Gail Montcrieff, Head Girl of Burtonwood, am about to expose the establishment for what it really is, hoping that my position will grant me some immunity, like political asylum, from distinctly nasty repercussions. I’ll go into those later.
Burtonwood College is a sham, a bloody sham. I ought to know because I’ve been here long enough while my Mummy and Daddy lap up the sun in Libya. I was sent here when I was thirteen, and because I’m pretty, artistic and clever and know how to find favour with the staff, I’ve done very well for myself. I was House Captain in my first year, Prefect and Senior Prefect in subsequent years and now at nineteen I’m Head Girl at last. This is a great honour which I feel I’ve deserved — particularly as it hasn’t always been easy to find really disobedient girls to… er… send to the Headmaster.
I have a good relationship with Mr Royce (or ‘Rolls’ Royce as we call him), the Headmaster. (He likes to be known as Principal really, I mustn’t forget that). I know how to pander to his fussy nature, you see, and so far it’s kept me out of trouble. Recently, however, relations between us have been somewhat strained because of the school uniform dispute, which I am unfortunately involved with.
Rolls Royce has always had a ‘thing’ about school uniform, it’s his preoccupying obsession. I’ll give you an example to illustrate how ridiculous this state of affairs can get.
Last year at the carol concert he personally supervised all the uniforms in meticulous detail. Right down to bras and pants. Or knickers, as I should say, because he has a peculiar salacious fondness for rolling that word off his tongue. He made groups of girls visit him in his study where he inspected the ‘important basics of uniform’ saying that no school blouse or skirt etc was going to sit nicely on the figure if the bra underneath was too small or knickers too tight. (Thank God I was exempted from this humiliating examination. But then he has to play ball with me…)
I must admit it was a teeny bit embarrassing to stand in the study with half-a-dozen girls stripped down to their bras and knickers, clutching their blouses and skirts to their fronts and waiting to get fully dressed. I had to ignore their imploring looks and appear rather detached from the proceedings as if it had nothing to do with me. I listened to him sermonising about tight clothing and how important it was to be ‘free from restrictions’ whilst singing. This meant that as he stopped in front of each girl to treat her to his hawk-eyed scrutiny, he suddenly slipped his fingers under the hems of their knickers and tested the tightness of the elastic around their thighs. I thought this was a bit unnecessary, especially as he took so long about it, but it was rather amusing to see each girl squirm and wiggle as his fingers (accidentally of course) probed certain areas. I suppose I did manage a look of pity for them then, poor things.
When he’d completed his inspection he then insisted that the girls be graduated in rows according to their eight for the concert. This was to ensure that all the knots on their ties were level. Cynthia Bradden was actually rejected and told she couldn’t take part because the poor girl was too short to fit in any row without spoiling the symmetry, and everyone knows that she has the most delightful soprano. As I recall, Rolls Royce found a greasy blob on her precious tie and that entailed a visit to his study during prep.
Back to our uniform protest. The sixth form have signed a petition which I had to endorse because I’m in the sixth and I’m Head Girl. The fact that I agree with the sentiments whole-heartedly must not become common knowledge to Mr Royce. We don’t want to wear school uniform any more but we naturally feel it should continue for the Juniors. At seventeen and eighteen one is much too old not to be allowed to express ones individuality.
We would like to be able to choose longer skirts of our own, for one thing. Imagine girls of our age wearing green pleated affairs that are so short we must remember to walk with our bottoms well tucked in, for fear of showing our stocking tops! Skirts which end halfway up our thighs — it’s disgraceful, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s not so bad for the Juniors because they have to wear long green socks, but when it comes to the sixth years, the wearing of stockings is oddly compulsory. I privately think that this has a lot to do with Mr Renshaw, Deputy Principal, who has such eagle eyes for a crooked seam. (I remember once, when I wore a pair of black seamed stockings because I’d run out of ordinary ones, he walked into a half-open door and got a nasty bruise because he wasn’t looking where he was going).
We are lucky (or unlucky) enough to have school uniform outfitters actually in the school, therefore it’s all available for the pupils to try on and for Mr Royce to make sure it fits before purchase. We have white cotton blouses, which I think are poor quality considering the amount we have to pay for them. They are, to put it bluntly, too thin. Several of the girls are quite well-developed in the sixth, and if they don’t wear a thick ugly padded bra then the male teachers invariably get an eyeful!… How many girls do you know who like to wear clothes like that? My bras are all Italian lace, with thin embroidered net cups. I’m not wearing horrid bulgy things for anyone.
Ties are of course compulsory and are a discreet green and navy stripe. We used to have a choice between botany wool cardigans and V-necked jumpers, but because Rolls Royce is so nutty about neat, identical uniforms we are not allowed to wear the jumpers anymore. Green blazers for summer and belted gabardine macs for winter. As regards the matter of underwear — I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, go into detail — probably because I find it rather embarrassing. I am, you see, not exempt from wearing the regulation school knickers — not officially at least. Mr Royce takes special pains over Burtonwood school knickers; he has a special bulk purchase discount deal with a clothing manufacturer. We are not allowed to buy knickers from anywhere else, other than school. ‘No baggy knickers here’ is Rolls maxim, and to enforce it Matron and Miss Patterson, the PE mistress, give us all frequent checks. The Headmaster has some odd view about knickers. He says that baggy oversized pairs are ‘vulgar and disgusting’, and any girl found doing PE with loose leg hems is simply asking for a trip to this study during prep.
I don’t understand how tight, bottom-hugging knickers can possibly match anyone’s standards of decency, but they are what we have to wear.
Everyone hates the colour — bottle green — and the way the colour fades after several washings. They are really thick and unflattering, so we think, and for girls in the sixth year to have to wear them is just too much. How can girls of my age feel grown up and feminine in knickers that were meant for primary school children? (There are occasions, however, when a girl needs the protection of the thick cotton. I’m coming to that in a minute).
I want to tell you about the staff and their methods of discipline — but before that I’d like to describe Burtonwood just a little.
The college is definitely not in sympatico with its rural surroundings; it sticks out like a huge gaunt thumb. I’m told it was built in Tudor times when it was the house of someone wealthy. There is supposed to be a Tudor ghost — a man with no hands — who wanders about on the attic floor in the middle of the night, seeking to importune innocent females. Apparently he lost his hands for stealing someone’s wife.
If the ghost exists I don’t believe he is handless, oh no! When I sneaked up there with a bottle of gin from the staff party last year the hands that groped me in the dark and tried to pull my knickers down were alive all right. Those hot masculine fingers belonged to Mr Raoul, Art master, who tells us he is ‘seething with Spanish blood’. So that’s his excuse!
The main building is shaped rather like the letter ‘E’ with the middle bit missing. Long stone steps run up to the main door, flanked by urns where Mr Royce likes to grow his geraniums and petunias. There is a lot of fancy stonework around the arched porch and above it, and the windows are enormous. The kitchens are tucked away at the back of the building and so are the labs.
It’s not a particularly noteworthy building really, and, since Lettice Thompson of Lower 5th tried to climb out of her window, the massive ivy which used to climb all over the building has been cut down.
The entrance hall inside is as unpretentious as the outside is unremarkable. There are lots of busts of Greek philosophers with no arms leaning over at precarious angles. Old bulbous-eyed Socrates often sports a rather plebeian cloth cap, purloined from the gardener, just to liven things up a bit. The walls are hung with fat shiny shields and the most disgustingly flashy one is inscribed with the school motto: Per Ardua ad Astra. (Rolls Royce was an ex-Air Force man, you see). We girls have another translation of that little epithet, but it has more to do with seeing stars than reaching them!
The floor in the entrance hall is a lake of parquet, so shiny you can slip up if you’re not very careful, and reveal to all and sundry your knickers and/or the state of your bottom and upper thighs. I wonder if the Headmaster gives the cleaners special orders to keep it so shiny?
When I came to Burtonwood I used to wonder why all the male staff walked about their business staring so hard at the floor. Now I know why. The floor is like a mirror and if a girl stands still and a master happens to look at the floor in front of her feet then he can look right up her skirt.
Behind all this heraldry lies the assembly hall which again reflects the absurd dedication of the floor polishers. We all have to stand here every morning at 9.10am for Rolls Royce to deliver yet another uninspired toneless monologue. I’m lucky because I sit on the little rostrum with the staff while they all have to remain mute and unmoving for thirty minutes.
On some mornings when the light streams through the windows in a certain way, the floor at the front becomes very shiny and reflective. When I hear Rolls Royce falter in his sermon and the male staff are breathing louder than usual and clearing their throats, then I know that the girls in the front row are providing these lecherous sods with some unexpected revelations. It’s true that if you stare at the floor from the stage you can get a worm’s eye view right up the skirt of every girl.
In the interests of female propriety I have developed a signalling technique with my eyebrows, combined with two fingers in a ‘V’ pushed casually through my hair several times. This is to tell the girls that they ought to immediately cross their legs, tucking their green skirts in between their thighs as they go. But sometimes I choose not to let the girls know in order to observe the reactions of the staff around me. (It’s easy to notice Mr Raoul’s because he wears a body-hugging tracksuit).
Now, in my notebook I have recorded some impressions of the staff. I’ll begin with the Principal, Mr Reginald Royce.
Mr Royce. Rolls Royce: Big man with square shoulders and a military walk. Wears glasses which are always getting steamed up. Has a nicotined moustache. Never needs an excuse to do anything. Motto: A stitch (or something like that) in time saves nine. Very fond of strict disciplinary methods at which he gets plenty of practice. An absolute stickler for neat and tidy uniforms, dormitories, exercise books etc. Has a video and a piano in his study. Favourite instrument: the cane.
Patterson. PE mistress: Late forties. Small and dumpy with massive breasts. Looks top-heavy. Very fond of tucking girls up in bed, especially the older ones. Spends long hours with Mr Royce in his study watching the latest ‘school instructional video’. Always insists that the girls have showers after games — even the spectators — while she ‘supervises’ from the doorway. Is reasonably well liked by the pupils except when she encourages the netball side with a stiff leather belt on the bare thighs — if they don’t jump for goal.
Mr Renshaw. Deputy Principal: Early fifties. Hands constantly shaking and repulsively clammy to touch. In charge of ‘pastoral care’ and always offering to help with any problems after lessons, in his room. Never seems to ‘get in on the action’ — the Headmaster’s door is always closed to him during punishment periods. Has a rather lean, hungry look. Is most solicitous when punished girls visit him, crying and upset. Has a special pot of cream which he gently applies to affected areas… Hobby: photography. His room is always like a well-prepared studio — in case a photogenic subject should present itself.
Mr Raoul. Art master: All the girls have a crush on him. Early thirties, dark and handsome. Favours wearing tracksuits which show off his manly physique. A bottom pincher — but profusely apologetic afterwards. Always on the lookout for models in the sixth year to capture ‘that certain something’; that elusive part of you which you never see (unless you look in the mirror afterwards) for posterior-ity. A spontaneous and generous man; gave two girls who HAD to leave last term enormous boxes of Swiss chocolates. Prefers night duty and is always mindful of those girls who have to sleep on their tummies.
Matron: A thin, rather unmatronly figure with distinct preference for wearing leather. Anxious and sympathetic, but can be traitorous at times. Mr Royce regards her as his ‘right hand man’. Seems to hate giving injections — winces as if it’s hurting her. Think she has a liaison with the Head. Always looks as though she’s in pain — or has been in pain — and we girls wonder why she walks so stiffly after she’s been seen with the Head.
Mr Macpherson. Maths teacher: Late fifties. We all hate him. He’s always threatening to send disobedient girls to the Head unless we agree to be dealt with by him. Lecherous and horrible with a face like a gargoyle. Uses a pair of school gym knickers as a blackboard duster and makes extremely bad taste jokes (mostly about bottoms) during lessons. Is always full of praise for the shiny floors, and appears very scholarly.
There, now I’ve mentioned the more prominent members of staff, so I’ll list the others briefly.
Mr Pardoe — English master. (Fancies himself as an RSC actor).
Mr Williamson — Assistant English master.
M. LeBrun — French. Sort of part-time really as he also teaches at the boys’ college a couple of miles away.
Mr Forbes-Winchester — History and Latin. Fond of showing us pictures of rude Mayan and Aztec stone carvings portraying, as he always says, ‘the innocent naivety of the ancient’. (There’s nothing of the innocent about those pictures, I can assure you. I call them downright disgusting!).
Miss E. Flitchett. The ‘E’ stands for Emily — Geography and General Studies. Very straight.
Oooh! I mustn’t forget to include Mr Matthias, the RE teacher. We girls have a sneaking suspicion that he’s really a defrocked cleric. Very OTT and relishes hellfire and all that stuff. We have quite a bit of fun with him and never get sent to the Head because although he talks quite a lot about punishment for our sins etc he says he is not qualified to ‘pass judgement’— that, of course, being the prerogative of the Higher Power. We know why. He has been seen to come out of Matron’s quarters looking very sheepish and sorry for himself…
Now, you’ll probably wonder why such a collection of scholarly persons are all gathered together at Burtonwood. My answer is simple: they were all subjected to a rigorous selection process by Rolls Royce to make sure that they would ‘fit in’ (i.e. keep their mouths shut) and furthermore he shouldn’t have been spoilt for choice because all teachers are like that, aren’t they?
School Discipline. I’ve underlined that in my little expose because it’s very important. I would go so far as to say that the discipline meted out at Burtonwood is unique. I’m sure no other educational establishment would survive five minutes if it followed the Burtonwood College Punishment System (Conceived and probably worth patenting by Mr Reginald Royce himself).
Would you like a list of the things to be found in the Headmaster’s locked walnut cupboard? Here it is:
Two dozen rattan canes of varying thickness and suppleness. Some are three feet long (the standard ones) and some are longer (the extra effective models). He also has a couple of very small (about 18 inches long) pocket-sized ones which slide nicely up his sleeve when required. These short ones are called his ‘little ticklers’ and are generally used for on-the-spot punishments — either three strokes across the palms or several whippy stingers on the bare thighs.
Every cane is used in rotation and are hung on hooks inside the cupboard graded for thickness. There are six large brass hooks in all and the canes are divided up between them. I know where they all are blindfolded by now: the thin nasty whippy ones are on the left of the cupboard and the thick ones, up to half an inch in diameter, are hung up on the right.
The Headmaster does have his particular favourites though but he does not like to depart from his meticulous system of rotating them all. So what happens in practice is that any girl who is due for punishment with one of his favourite canes simply gets more strokes with it because, as Mr Royce so aptly says, ‘it’s a joy to use this one again.’
Each cane is varnished its entire length but there is an area about nine inches long at the bottom of the cane, some four inches from the end, where the varnish has worn away and the pithy rattan is exposed. This isn’t solely due to cane meeting its target. Once, in summer, I wandered by the French windows of Rolls Royce’s study and heard the all too familiar Whack! Whack! noise coming from within. Mildly curious I had a peep and saw the Headmaster raise the cane he was holding high above his head and then bring it down onto a small cushion positioned on the edge of his desk He was, I suppose, perfecting his aim, or he couldn’t find anyone to punish.
Besides the cane collection in the cupboard he also has a number of other curiosities too. From time to time we girls notice him prowling about the school grounds looking with great interest at clumps of bamboo or bracken, and showing particular excitement at all the long-stemmed plants about the estate. Then, when he thinks he’s unobserved, he cuts a few ‘botanical specimens’ and brings them surreptitiously back to his study. He then strips the stems of all their foliage and cuts them into appropriate lengths. Then he ‘tests’ them on the Dummy, which is the small cushion I told you about earlier — a tough horsehair bolster filled with sawdust.
The following day his wastepaper basket is always full of mangled plant bits and Mr Royce is usually in a foul mood. He is hoping, you see, to pioneer an instrument suitable for the discipline of Young Ladies — in place of the cane — but as yet he hasn’t met with any success. So it’s then back to the trusty cane — with a vengeance.
‘May the punishment fit the crime’ is not one of the Headmaster’s maxims — there is only one punishment for every crime — and that’s always carried out on the bottom. He does, however, show some sympathy to pupils who come from a different part of the country or abroad. From Scotland comes an excuse to use the leather tawse; one American student from the ‘backwoods’ is sympathetically treated to a dose of a leather paddle and for Olga Smorgen, a Danish girl in my form, there’s always a speciality. The birch.
Mr Royce is very careful to select and prepare his birch rods, soaking them well to increase their suppleness and make them last longer. He’s always anxious that every girl should feel at home…
Beside all these instruments, on a little shelf in the cupboard is kept the Punishment Record Book. It’s a weighty affair with a black embossed cover, about the size of a Visitor’s Book that one finds in a church (in fact I think it is a church copy. Perhaps Mr Matthias obtained it for him).
In this book is a detailed record of every formal punishment he has administered to the girls over the years. It makes quite juicy reading, I can tell you!
Anyway, have to go now, can’t stand here jawing forever — I’ve told you too much as it is! It’s always been my policy to keep my nose clean at Burtonwood and if it ever gets out that I’ve been telling you all these things — phew!!
It’s about time I went on the prowl and collared a couple of misbehaving girls for Rolls to cane (he likes them in pairs!) otherwise it’ll be my bum that gets it — and, fingers crossed, that’s never ever happened… nor is it going to. If you want any more info on Burtonwood concentration camp for girls why don’t you go and chat up old Rolls? There’s nothing he likes better than talking about himself — unless it’s talking about the girls whose bums he’s laid into!
See you around.
REGINALD ROYCE, M.A. (Cantab): Well yes, it’s like one big happy family here! The girls absolutely love it. No, we never have any complaints — I don’t allow any of that Bolshie sort of stuff here anyway.
I believe in keeping a very tight ship, don’t you know… everything spick and span down to the last detail… I’m a bit of a stickler for that kind of thing and I will not tolerate girls who dress sloppily.
Knicker Inspections: I’m 100% in favour of ‘em… not surprising really, since I initiated them. I find they’re an excellent way of maintaining standards — used to hold them every Monday morning after prayers, until I carried out a spot check on the lower fifth one Thursday afternoon and discovered nearly half the girls in disgustingly indecent skimpy nylon concoctions that barely covered their… er… private regions — ahem!
What did I do? What any right-minded headmaster would have done in the circumstances: confiscated the offending garments — in fact they should still be in here somewhere… (rummages around in bottom drawer of desk and produces an assortment of colourful and frilly underwear: French knickers, miniscule panties etc) … and caned the lot of ‘em lined them up in a row, told them to touch their toes, and gave them six strokes apiece on their bare bottoms. Fancy knickers indeed! They couldn’t wait to wriggle back into their bottle-greens after I’d finished with them!
Stockings and suspenders? Ah, glad you mentioned that — I’ll put you in the picture. The sixth form objected to wearing knee-socks — said they were babyish. They asked me if I’d let them wear tights instead, to which I gave a categorical ‘no!’. You see, I’ve done a lot of research on the matter… in fact you could say it’s one of my favourite hobby-horses.
Tights are highly unsuitable on medical grounds. They don’t allow the air to get to the girls’… er… the girls’… (he gesticulates vaguely, searching for the appropriate word) … the girls’ — ahem — nether quarters. Stockings, on the other hand, since they end half-way up the thigh, are much better for the health and well-being of seventeen to eighteen-year-old girls. More aesthetic too, I tend to think — don’t you agree?
So that’s it in a nutshell. The sixth form now wear, as part of their school uniform, dark tan stockings held up by plain white cotton suspender belts. I gather they’re now objecting to the shortness of their school skirts — some idiotic complaint about being embarrassed at showing their stocking tops. Lot of silly fuss about nothing, if you ask me! I can see I’ll have to come down on them like a ton of bricks — cane the whole lot of them, prefects included… wonder which grade of cane I should use for the job? (peers at his well-stocked cane cupboard with an air of eager anticipation).
The Punishment Book? Well, you see that’s standard procedure as laid down by the local education authority, although fortunately, as we’re an independent school, those nosey bureaucratic busy-bodies down at the Town Hall never get a chance to inspect it. Just as well, perhaps — ahem!
Actually, ours is a rather more detailed type of Punishment Book than is used in state schools — my idea, of course. In fact it makes quite interesting reading — certainly the Board of Governors seem to think so… there’s more than one member who makes a bee-line for it whenever we hold a committee meeting in my study…
The book is divided into four main sections: Misdemeanour, Punishment, Pupils’ Attitude to Punishment, and Pupils’ Remarks. For some reason it’s the latter two sections everyone seems to be most interested in — especially Pupils’ Remarks. As far as I’m concerned there are no hard feelings between me and a girl after I’ve caned her — the caning cleans the slate, as it were. So I actively encourage the girls to record in the book their intimate feelings about being caned — helps them to let off steam, if you see what I mean… and I can tell you some of the things they write are pretty uninhibited! (Licks his lips and takes off horn-rimmed glasses to wipe the lenses which have clouded over).
I find another advantage of this system is that the culprits get so worked up about their sore stinging bottom that they succumb to the temptation to ‘grass’ on someone whom they feel ought to have been punished instead.
For example… (opens the heavily-embossed black leather-bound book and flicks through the neatly inked pages until he finds what he wants) … Here are the entries for last Tuesday — just look at what Josephine Gardener has to say about Gail Montcrieff, our Head Girl… bless me, quite a revelation, that! So little Miss Goody Two-Shoes Montcrieff isn’t quite the paragon of virtue she makes out to be after all! I shall be looking into this matter quite shortly, you can rest assured…
‘Yes,’ (‘Rolls’ Royce mutters darkly, flexing his favourite cane) ‘our Head Girl had better watch her step from now on… I’m keeping my eye on her…’
MAURICE BEAUCHAMPS: School Photographer. Eccentrically flamboyant (wears a black velvet cape and sports a goatee beard). In his early 50’s. Born in Paris, now domiciled in England. Runs a ‘photographic salon’ in nearby town of Bottingley.
Evidently his great passion in life is nude — or failing that, semi-nude — photography. Linda Mason, lower sixth, once started a malicious rumour to the effect that ‘Old Bumshots’, to use the nickname the girls have given him, used to be a porn photographer in Paris before the laws of that land forced him to take early retirement and obliged him to seek the safe anonymity of rural life in Angleterre. The rumour quickly spread throughout the school and Royce had to quickly stamp it out — by means of a cane crisply applied to Linda Mason’s bottom (see later on).
Monsieur Beauchamps certainly displays unbridled enthusiasm for the unadorned female form and, what with one thing and another, the Headmaster calls upon his trusty professional services frequently…
BEAUCHAMPS: Zee girls at Burtonwood are, commes vous dites, vairee naughtee? Mechantes enfantes, oui! (When excited, Monsieur Beauchamps tends to lapse into his native tongue) Why I say zat is because always zay are being punished! And always on zare preety leetle derrieres! Ah, le vice Anglais!…
Every summer term, ven I do take zee official school photograph, always Meester Royce he vant zat I take another, not quite so official school photo, you know? To do zis, he make zem all line up on the school steps, zen he make them pull up zee school skirts and, how you say, bend over with zare bottoms all facing zee camera.
Zee girls, zay don’t like it, no no! Zay say it is vulgaire and degoutant (disgusting) but zat man Royce, he is so vairee streect wiz zem, he make zem do eet!
Me, I sink zee Headmaster he like their bottoms more than he do their faces! Mais, c’est la vie, he pay me well and, zut alors, those girlies — zay are so preety!
GAIL MONTCRIEFF: Old Bumshots? He’s the dirtiest devil around — even worse than Mr MacPherson, and that’s saying something! He’s always grabbing our tits and squeezing our bums whenever he can get near enough to do it. He absolutely drools over us — especially us sixth formers ‘cos I reckon he’s got a big thing about stockings and suspenders. They probably remind him of his misspent youth… he loves standing at the bottom of the stairs and looking up our short skirts as we go up. It’s too disgusting for words really — I think Linda Mason was right about him being into porn, but Rolls Royce didn’t half lay into her for spreading the story… caned her on the bare bum so hard she couldn’t sit down properly for a week afterwards!
And that’s not all either! Rolls Royce is obsessed with having photos taken of us all — especially ‘candid poses’, as he calls them which really means leg and bum shots! So he’s always inviting that old French pervert over for the day so he can snap us in our vests and knickers doing P.T., or naked in the showers afterwards. Or even worse!…
And wait till you hear this! Once Rolls fixed it so that he had nearly a dozen girls up for the cane… on a day when Old Bumshots just happened to be there lurking with his Pentax! I wouldn’t swear to it in court, but it’s my guess that old froggie kink was hiding behind the study curtains with his camera, taking sly disgusting pictures of Rolls Royce whacking away at each bare, bent-over bottom in turn…
I questioned the girls afterwards and they said they hadn’t seen anything strange or unusual (mind you, they were too busy yelling and blubbering their eyes out to notice anything!) but Sandra Baxter swore she kept hearing funny clicking noises going on while she was having her bum attended to…
Funny business, all that. Wonder where Rolls keeps those photos? I’d do anything to get my hands on them…!
MR ROYCE: Beauchamps? Absolute treasure — even if he is a foreigner! Don’t know what I’d do without him, really… What I particularly admire about him is that he’s an entrepreneur: bags of initiative.
Take last Easter, when the school fund was running perilously low. That Beauchamp chap came up with a highly ingenious idea of how to drum up some capital for us. Said we had ‘disposable assets’… or at least I think he said ‘assets’…
He took what were in my opinion some charming and very tasteful… er… candid photographs of the girls romping around doing all sorts of — ahem! — interesting things. Then he took them up to London to a business associate friend of his — I think he said the address was in Old Compton Street, wherever that is — who promptly offered him £500 for them. I’m still not quite clear what publication the photos appeared in, but apparently it was one which specialised in articles about girls’ schools — perhaps it was The Times Educational Supplement? Anyway, Beauchamps got his £100 commission and the school fund was £400 in credit!
At the present moment Beauchamps is assisting me in another interesting little project I’ve dreamed up. Educationally, I suppose one would call it ‘Visual Aids’. It’s a sort of… er… punishment picture book.
(Unlocks a drawer and fishes out a large photographic album with a plain maroon cover. Each page has a girl’s name at the top, cross-referenced to the relevant page number in the ‘official’ Punishment Book, so that the reader is able to look up all the necessary details about the various canings and spankings — satisfy his curiosity as to what actually transpired during the punishments.
The photos, four to a page, are in colour and are of excellent quality. Beauchamps is certainly skilled at his trade. All shots have been taken from the rear presumably for two reasons: firstly, so that the girls being corporally punished were not aware that their painful humiliations were being faithfully recorded on Kodachrome; secondly, because it is only the rear views of the girls that are relevant — more specifically their bottoms and the tops of their thighs.
So far only twelve pages have been filled But Mr Royce’s ‘interesting little project’ has only just begun. It is his ambition to cane and spank his way, in this remarkable fashion, through the entire roll of 120 girls.
The first page is devoted to unveiling the nubile charms of Linda Mason (lower sixth) flaxen-haired and darkly beautiful in a sort of Spanish way. Her misdemeanour: spreading slanderous rumours about Monsieur Beauchamps. It was indeed poetic justice that the excitable Frenchman was there to witness and to record her severe punishment. Let the pictures tell their own story…)
PICTURE 1: Well endowed, bottom-wise, she’s splendidly surprised by the camera, tugging down her green pleated school skirt from around her almost womanly hips… bottle-green knickers tightly moulding the rich curves of her buttocks, dark-tan stockings accentuating her long legs…
PICTURE 2: Now her skirt is off, tidily folded over the back of Royce’s chair. Reluctantly she’s caught in the act of pulling down her school knickers. Superb division of bottom-cheeks disclosed. Royce is seen standing by his desk, grade 2 cane in hand. He looks extremely angry! Linda must be nearly wetting herself with fright…
PICTURE 3: A stunning snap-shot, taken from a low angle. Linda is now submissively bent over Royce’s desk, her knickers hanging round her knees. Thoughtfully, Royce has placed a green velvet cushion in between the desk top and Linda’s tummy, thus pushing out her firm plump bottom even more provocatively towards the camera. She appears to be hiding her face in her hands… evidently the caning is about to begin…
PICTURE 4: Nemesis! Linda is still in position over the desk, but her knickers have slid right down to her shoes — indicating that a great deal of indecorous bum wriggling and leg scissoring must have taken place. Her stockinged legs are splayed immodestly apart, so that she’s blatantly revealing a lot more than she’s probably aware of… in any case she’s undoubtedly more concerned at the moment with those twelve vivid ruby cane weals cruelly latticing her nakedly defenceless buttocks… Her left arm is raised in a frantic gesture of total submission and defeat. No doubt she’s weeping copiously. Mr Royce — or at least his profile — appears on the right hand side of the picture, complacently surveying the fearfully chastised bottom of the pretty teenage rumour-monger.
From the unremitting severity of her ordeal it’s patently obvious that Linda Mason will never ever spread malicious gossip again…
Burtonwood Chronicles is fully intended to be an ongoing series. Readers’ contributions in the form of ideas, special requests, illustrations, and stories will be welcomed by the editor.

Extract from Punishment Book:
Punishment Administered
Pupil’s Attitude to Punishment
Pupil’s Remarks
Lower VI A
Found with alcohol in dormitory.
Beverage confiscated to my study. 12 strokes of Medium cane — 6 over knickers; 6 with the garment lowered.
Resentful at first when I confiscated the bottle of best Remy Martin to my cocktail cabinet (father in the liquor business, so more where that came from. Vociferously protested during first 6 over knickers — bawled loudly on their removal.
‘Must try and kick the habit. This type of punishment isn’t worth a tot — of anything!’
PETERS, Roberta.
Lower VI A
Caught ‘canoodling’ with boy behind the tennis courts during Prep. Clothing in considerable disarray.
Examination by Matron in my study — involving the removal of girl’s’ knickers and lying across my desk with legs wide apart. Punished by hand spanking over my knee (preceded by 5 minute spanking by Matron for time wasting). 6 mins by self for salutary effect.
Suitably fearful of Matron’s steely gaze and very embarrassed at having to take her skirt and knickers off in front of Matron and myself. Had to be forcibly restrained while I administered a sound spanking to her bare bottom. After 6 mins both buttocks as red as my geraniums. What a pretty sight!
‘Being spanked like a junior — up-ended over Head’s knee — was so mortifying! Hated the way he squeezed each cheek after smacking it. Resolution: to cultivate a clean and moral life and become a nun.’
HODGES, Vanessa.
del ORTO, Maria.
PATEL, Neema.
Lower VI B
All five girls found by Mr Raoul having a ‘midnight feast’ in the attic. Mr Macpherson intervened as they had woken him up. One girl was naked and obviously the worse for drink. Mr Raoul strongly denies encouraging her.
Girls presented themselves in my study at 9.30 prompt. Knicker inspection. (Brooker found to be wearing baggy ones as usual). All lined up over my desk, skirts removed. Five wriggling elevated young bottoms upturned and ready to be caned. Chose extra-long thin grade in hope of dealing with five nubile wobbling bottoms at once.
Each girl in tears at the sheer humiliation of being punished in front of her friends. Brooker somewhat cheeky in venturing the opinion that her bottom had grown smaller hence the baggy knickers. Singled her out for demonstration of the selected grades of cane. Responded best to Thin no.1 grade.

BROOKER, Lucy: ‘Ooh, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut about the size of my bottom. I’ve learned more today about what the different thicknesses of canes can do to a poor girl’s bare bum than all the rest of the lessons put together! Mr Royce began with grade 5, then worked his way, all over my burning bottom, down to the horrid grade 1’
FAY, Julia.
Upper V B
Out of bounds. Caught sneaking over the Staff Recreation Area.
Half a dozen no-nonsense strokes of Medium cane over seat of knickers. Pupil bent to correct angle over chair.
The girl went a deathly shade of pale when I began swishing the cane about in the air, then promptly burst into tears when I instructed her to bend over chair. Wept and blubbered abjectly throughout punishment.
‘Ow! Ouch! Sniffle sniffle. I hate this beastly school, I hate the cane. Ouch! Ooooh!’
BRADDEN, Cynthia.
Upper V A
Sloppily dressed as usual. Child just cannot knot her tie satisfactorily.
One hour’s tie practice with me. Used pocket cane to correct her mistakes, of which there were many. Several stinging ‘prompters’ on her thighs to speed up progress.
Cynthia Bradden is so diminutive I always mistake her for a third-former. Because of this I made her stand on a chair while she fiddled self-consciously with her tie, her skirt pinned up at the back. Grandstand view of her pert little btm!
‘Being caned on the thighs is even more humiliating than on the bum ‘cos my skirt’s so short it barely covers up the marks. Oh! God, I’ve got old Renshaw later — it’ll make his day!’
GARDENER, Josephine.
Upper V A
Smoking during Prep. Cigarettes found in her room together with evidence that she has indulged in this filthy habit for some time. Status: Prefect, which merits severe punishment. Brought to my attention by Montcrieff, the Head Girl.
Serious lecture on the dangers of smoking — carried out after P.E. when culprit was wearing green gym knickers, white top and P.E. socks. Severity of offence merited bare-bottomed punishment even though the girl is 17. Hand spanking over chair-back, followed by 24 strokes of Medium cane.
I felt fully justified in taking an exceptionally hard line with the girl, in view of the seriousness of the misdemeanour. Also in view of the fact that she has an extremely well-developed posterior — architecturally quite a masterpiece, ahem! Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The sound spanking proved admirably efficacious in inducing contrition in the sinful child. The 24 stroke caning — administered with the best of my strength — left her howling heartily. Obviously smoking has not affected her lungs!
‘Sob Sob! Boo-hoo! Christ! my bum’s so wealed it feels like corrugated cardboard! I’ll never be able to sit down for a month after this! It’s all Gail Montcrieff’s fault, the sadistic bitch! I’ll fix her alright — I know jolly well what she and Mr Raoul get up to in the art room after lessons. I’ll cook her goose, you see if I don’t!’

1 comment:

  1. Takes me back to my schooldays I was in the first Exclusion unit as a child