Appointment with Miss Harding
At St Cuthbert’s, discipline was rarely administered, but never forgotten. When Tom Allardyce, a model prefect in his final year, makes one reckless mistake, he finds himself summoned to a place he never imagined he’d be. In the hands of his formidable Housemistress, justice is swift, solemn, and strictly by the book. But behind the ritual of punishment lies something more enduring: a lesson in humility, trust, and the quiet beginning of self-discovery. A story of regret, resolve, and the sting of becoming the man you're meant to be.
There was less than a month to go before the end of term. Devastated, Tom Allardyce found himself outside Miss Harding's private study. St Cuthbert's was a progressive boarding school, but he had committed a cardinal sin.
Corporal punishment was rare, remaining on the books for only a few offences. Smoking, drinking, theft, bullying. He knew this as well as anyone. He'd reached his final year of the upper-sixth and had never faced that awful sanction.
The expression of disappointment on his Housemistress's face still haunted him. A model pupil, she had said, and now this? He felt a lump in his throat as he gave his apologies. She hadn’t needed to raise her voice. The silence alone had said everything. But, the matter was not over.
He’d once overheard her tell another teacher he was a “quiet credit to the house.” That sentence had meant more to him than he’d admitted. And now, he’d ruined it over two bottles of cheap cider.
She would speak to the Headmaster, she had told him yesterday. Explore her options. But her tone had been plain. Don't raise your hopes.
“Tomorrow morning,” she told him, “be outside my office at 8:45. Before morning chapel. We will proceed from there.”
And so here he was, after a tormented and sleepless night. Five minutes early and waiting for the summons while the morning routine went on around him. Running, laughter, the banging of lockers and scraping of bags. The school was oblivious to his inner turmoil.
He avoided looking at his watch, having already checked it three times. The summons, he knew, would come at any moment now.
Miss Harding was St. Cuthbert's first Housemistress, and some had made the perilous mistake of underestimating her resolve. Whispers of her first caning, two sixth-formers caught smoking, had silenced any doubters. After three years in the post, her reputation was formidable. Her use of the cane might be sparing, but those who experienced it never forgot.
Tom's mind drifted back to the present, and he had to face the reality he had brought upon himself. Might there yet be a reprieve? Unlikely. And if there were, did he deserve it?
“Allardyce.”
The single word made his heart skip a beat. His knees felt weak as he reached for the door handle, cold rough brass, and turned it. He stepped into the room, his senses dulled by a sense of detachment.
Miss Harding was seated behind her desk, her dark, elegant bob framing her face with an edge of severity. Her grey suit had the cut of quiet authority. Neat, precise, uncompromising. The room stretched ahead as he approached the desk, eyes downcast. The silence was deafening. And, he waited.
“There can be no flexibility,” she explained, her voice steady and unyielding. “That was the Headmaster's final word. Bringing alcohol onto school property warrants six strokes. No exceptions.” Even hearing the words spoken aloud, it still didn't seem quite real. Yet, he knew it would feel real soon enough.
“We will not drag this out, Allardyce,” she told him. “Miss Winslow will join us in a couple of minutes to act as witness.”
So, the school secretary had already been briefed. His wait outside, hoping for a reprieve, had been entirely in vain. The decision had already been made. It was real. Doubts collapsed into certainty. His breath became shallow. The silence pressed in.
There was a formality to address, Miss Harding said. An administrative matter. She opened a wide, ledger-style book, its page marked by a plain leather bookmark. So this was The Punishment Book. He had heard its name, and thankfully, had never been part of it. Until now.
He took the pen she offered, his fingers trembling as he tried to control his handwriting.
“Just your initials,” she instructed, gesturing to the line. “There.”
She must have noticed his shaking hand, but if she did, she gave no indication. Grateful for her silence, he laid down the pen and waited once more. The words across the ledger were cold and stark, containing only the date, his name, and a single phrase:
“Alcohol, 6 strokes to seat.”
The unreal detachment he had felt before dissolved the instant he saw his name and read the words. With an unconscious wince, the line echoed back through his mind: “Alcohol, 6 strokes to seat.”
The knock came and the door opened almost in the same breath. He resisted the urge to turn, choosing instead to keep his eyes lowered. Every shift in the room seemed magnified. A nod from Miss Harding, the soft rustle of Miss Winslow taking her place. She stood beside the window, a silent sentinel to the proceedings.
“I don't know what you have heard from your peers,” Miss Harding began, “so I will make the procedure clear to avoid any doubt. Your offence, namely bringing alcohol into school, carries a mandatory punishment. I will not dwell on your actions. You already know how disappointed I am.”
Tom nodded, his voice too shaky to speak. He was glad that he mainly had to listen.
“When I tell you to assume the position, you will stand in the middle of the office,” she continued. “Place your feet shoulder-width apart. Bend forward, hands on your shins, no lower and no higher. You will not deviate or move from that position until I instruct you to do so.”
“Yes, Miss,” he heard himself saying, his voice barely above a whisper.
When Miss Harding retrieved her cane from its discreet hook behind the bookcase, out of sight from most visitors, there were no theatrics. No posed flexing, no final dramatic speech. She moved with a quiet efficiency that sent a shiver down Tom's spine.
“Now, Allardyce,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “Two paces back, please. Remove your blazer and bend, exactly as I told you.”
Uncertain but obedient, Tom stepped back and carefully folded his blazer, placing it on the carpet beside his feet. With a final glance at Miss Harding behind her desk and Miss Winslow standing detached and impassive by the window, Tom bent forward. He felt the tightness through his calves as his hands slid lower down his legs. The angle left him feeling horribly exposed.
To his left, a pair of legs in skin-tone tights and black leather court shoes stood squarely facing him. Miss Harding's words were simultaneous with the first light contact of the rattan rod across his trouser seat.
“What is this, Allardyce?”
Tom felt a light prod from the tip of the cane, near the centre of his right buttock.
“Miss?” he questioned, not grasping her meaning.
“Your pocket. What is in it?”
He cringed, uncertain if he should stand. “I'm sorry, Miss,” he stammered. “I think it's my wallet.”
“I advise you not to test my patience. Put it with your blazer, and take out anything else that's in there.”
With a show of double-checking both rear pockets, Tom dropped his wallet onto his blazer and was prompt to resume the position. The tactile process had served to remind him the thin fabric would offer no protection from that whippy rattan cane.
“Good. Now we'll begin,” Miss Harding stated. Cold, factual, no discussion.
Feeling his jaw tighten, Tom tried to brace himself. But, this was far beyond his experience and he had no point of reference.
The first thwack of Miss Harding's cane landed with a vicious bite. The initial sting was crisp and fiery at the surface, but the pain quickly morphed into a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to resonate through his entire body. He bit his lip to suppress a yelp as waves of stinging heat radiated out from the point of impact.
He thought again of his actions, of the dare he had accepted. The hushed plans for a secret party, the thrill of smuggling alcohol into school. He was over eighteen and could legally purchase it. He hadn’t broken the law, but he had broken something else, something more sacred here: trust. Nobody would ever find out, he had thought. But now, the consequences of his actions were starkly clear.
Again, there were no theatrics. No counting, no announcements. Just a soft tap-tap upon his seat as she gathered her aim.
Then the second thwack. The sound was identical to the first, but the impact across his already smarting behind was sudden and intense. The pain felt sharper, piercing and prickling. He gasped, his breath catching in his throat.
As the cane withdrew, his mind also pulled back, retreating from the immediate waves of pain.
He remembered the hushed whispers, the knowing glances. The knowledge of his fall from grace which has spread through the school. A prefect was supposed to be a role model, and he had failed in that regard. How many friends had he let down? The weight of his actions pressed down on him, amplifying the smarting sting.
Another thwack, this time lower, a slice of heat almost across the tops of his thighs. He let out an audible “Ouch!” but rigidly held the position, his body trembling with the effort to maintain composure.
While he was disappointed to have let down the school and his friends, it was nothing compared to the feeling of letting down his House, and especially Miss Harding, whose quiet confidence in him had always mattered more than he’d admitted, even to himself. He would never forget the look of silent disappointment on her face when his actions had come to light.
The cycle repeated. Again, the aiming tap-tap. A pause. The feeling of the flexible rattan cane drawing back. Then the whoosh and thwack, and another stroke cut across his seat.
The heat was building now, a relentless, pulsating sting. There was no one else to blame. It had been his decision — careless, thoughtless — but entirely his. And now, this was how he learned. He knew his offence and he knew the risk. It had been a miscalculation, an out-of-character misstep. But the responsibility was his, and his alone.
Tap-tap.
Pause.
Thwack.
Through a fog of stinging pain, Tom tried to focus on a sense of closure. He had betrayed a trust, but he would learn from it. He would move on.
This time, the pause seemed longer, or perhaps time itself was drawing out. There was the anticipated tap-tap as Miss Harding took aim. Then a pause. Then another tap, perhaps measuring, checking her aim or distance. He felt himself flinch, bracing for the inevitable.
“Steady, Allardyce,” Miss Harding's voice was unwavering. “Last one.”
And finally, another thwack and a lick of flame across his rear. The same penetrating flash spread in echoes throughout his stinging bottom. It burned like a final reflection of his mistakes. But at least it was over.
He had not deviated from the position and remained stationary now, his body trembling slightly. The pain buzzed with a strange intensity, but he accepted it. He knew it was deserved, and now the process of repairing the trust could begin.
Tom stayed in position, silent and obedient, until Miss Harding spoke. Her feet had disappeared from his eyeline, and he heard rustling and movement around her desk.
“Stand up, Tom,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “Put your blazer back on.”
He complied, careful not to show the wince as the wallet replaced in his rear pocket settled against his tender seat. Miss Winslow hadn’t moved, still watching with quiet detachment.
Miss Harding was already seated at her desk by the time he had straightened his blazer. The cane lay silent now, diagonal across her desk blotter. So simple, so pure of purpose.
“I trust you will learn from this, Tom,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “Learn, and improve.”
“Yes, Miss,” he assured her, his voice steady despite the throbbing in his bottom. He would not dream of trying to massage the sting in her presence, and besides, it felt earned.
“You have five minutes until Chapel. I suggest you hurry.”
With a nod, he turned to leave. As he reached the door, he paused and looked back at Miss Harding. “Thank you, Miss,” he said softly, before stepping out into the hallway.
He was sore, but wiser too. He stepped forward with a clearer sense of humility, and the quiet weight of responsibility.
Epilogue
The pool was empty.
Light slanted through the high windows, stripes of gold leading into the cool water. The smell of chlorine brought familiarity, crisp and clean. Tom stood at the water’s edge, bare feet on cold ceramic, the cool air lifting the hairs on his arms.
He dipped a toe in, then stepped down the ladder, one rung at a time. The water accepted him without judgement.
As he pushed off and began to swim — long strokes, steady and smooth — the ache across his backside faded into the background. Not gone, not forgotten. But quieter. Cooler.
He counted the laps in his head. Not to race. Not to punish himself. Just to move. Just to feel everything settle into place again.
Stroke after stroke, he let the thoughts come. The sting. Miss Harding’s words. The ledger. His foolishness. Her disappointment.
And then, her trust. If he hadn't re-earned it yet, at least the process had begun.
At the far end of the pool, he turned, gliding. Perhaps this wasn’t a turning point, exactly. But it felt like the beginning of something better.
Tom climbed out, water streaming from his arms, the chill of the air bracing but welcome. He dried off slowly, methodically, at times gingerly, as though each movement brought him further back into himself.
Outside, the sun had crept higher over the quad, gilding the rooftops in pale gold. He dressed, gathered his kit, and stepped into the morning. Sore, but steady. Ready, at last, to begin again.