Confessions of Clementine: Part 3
The final instalment of Clementine’s misadventures sees an attempted double prank spiral into damp disgrace, thorough hay bale justice, and a very itchy finale. A soggy tale of sabotage, sisterhood, and shared regrets.
Just Desserts
Clementine writes from the heart to confess a failed act of vengeance, and a lesson learned the damp way.
Dear Aunt Agatha,
I write today from the comfort of an extra-soft cushion, clutching a moist handkerchief, and nursing a wounded sense of dignity. I'm reporting what I hope shall be the final chapter in this regrettable saga of vengeance, miscalculation, and aggravated posteriors.
It began — as these stories so often do — with an anonymous note.
With my most sincere apologies for not heeding your previous advice, I began to suspect Poppy was up to something. No doubt her pride (and bottom) were still feeling injured after I lured her to an embarrassing confrontation with a hairbrush whilst dressed in only her birthday suit.
They do say that attack is the best form of defence, and so I concocted a plan to rig a bag of flour above the pantry door and then lure her to a powdery fate. Little did I know that Poppy had concocted a remarkably similar plan involving a can of highly scented talcum powder rigged above the music room door. A very immature plan, and certainly not on par with mine.
We each left notes under the others door. Foolproof, we must have thought. But a meddling housemaid found them and passed both of them to Mrs Poppet.
We now know, of course, that both notes were altered. And, I must grudgingly admit, they were improved upon — with malicious glee — by the joint efforts of Rose and Mrs Poppet, who have apparently formed an unholy alliance bound by aprons, sensible shoes, and a shared vendetta against adolescent nonsense.
The note I received suggested a private rendezvous via the East door of the stables, with the alluring promise of “something that would do me the world of good.” Poppy had received an almost identical note. Hers invited her to come via the West door of the stables and, I am told, it made reference to “something you've needed for a very, very long time.”
With hindsight, both notes proved painfully accurate.
At precisely 4:15, Poppy and I approached our respective stable door destinations from opposite sides.
The result, Aunt Agatha, was that we were simultaneously drenched by identical water-bucket traps, expertly hung from the beams above. I squealed like a tea-kettle and Poppy shrieked like a soprano on a rolling ship. It was undignified in the extreme. My curls dripped, my dress clung to my knees, and I could hear Poppy spluttering indignantly from the other side of the hay cart.
We met — soaking, bedraggled, and blinking — in the stable courtyard like duellists whose pistols had just exploded in their hands.
I accused her, then she accused me, but before we could even dry our noses, we were each seized by the ear: I by Rose, who looked far too cheerful, and Poppy by Mrs Poppet, who uttered the chilling phrase, “I think we both know exactly where this is heading.”
And so we were marched — yes, marched! — to a pair of hay bales which had been strategically placed side by side, like some sort of punitive picnic arrangement. The implication was clear. This was going to be no ordinary punishment.
I was unceremoniously deposited across one bale, Poppy across the other. Face to face, we locked eyes, a mix of defiance and dread in our gazes. We were damp, doomed, and about to be thoroughly discomfited.
With a swift and practised motion, they hiked up our skirts, exposing our cotton bloomers to the cool stable air. The first spanks landed with resounding smacks that echoed through the rafters, and I could feel the blushes on my face almost as much as on my posterior. The indignation was mortifying, but their plan had a sting in the tail... and I don't just mean the spanking.
The sounds were unforgettable. A duet of mutual outrage. Slap, squeal, slap, squeak, like some terribly rustic percussion ensemble. Rose’s palm must have been well hardened by garden duty and proved alarmingly efficient, each strike landing with a precision that suggested she'd done this before. Mrs Poppet, as you may recall, has a swinging arm that could qualify her for the Olympic discus.
To make matters worse, they commentated throughout — Rose with dry wit (“You’ll bloom nicely after this”), and Mrs Poppet with her usual baking metaphors (“Ten more and she’ll be properly risen”).
I tried to look dignified, but without much success. The only silver lining is that we did accept the hand of friendship – and holding hands at least helped us maintain our balance, if not our dignity.
By the time it ended, we were pink, humbled, and squelching faintly. And then came the final insult. It began at supper, as soon as we were starting to dry out. Both of us attempted to sit, flinched, and immediately stood again.
And we itched. Oh, and Agatha, how we itched!
Rose and Mrs Poppet, it seems, had taken the opportunity when we were otherwise distracted, and slipped some sort of itching powder into our bloomers. That was their final flourish to our downfall. I have since learned it was labelled “garden-friendly chafing deterrent.” My sympathy to the carrots.
As I write this, Poppy and I are at something of a truce. She brought me a trifle with a little umbrella in it. I gave her a cushion embroidered with the words We Had It Coming.
We are not quite ready to forgive, but we are, at least, able to sit at the same tea table again. Very gently.
Please tell me, Aunt Agatha, is there a recognised method of surrender among female mischief-makers? Some discreet social signal that means, “Let’s never do that again, unless absolutely provoked”?
Yours in scolded sisterhood,
Clementine Beaufort-Smythe
P.S. I cannot prove that Rose named that new tomato cultivar Cherished Pink as a sly little tribute — but she did wink when I asked.
Aunt Agatha offers firm words and faint sympathy — while suggesting a far safer use for tomatoes.
Dear Clementine,
It is perhaps fortunate that I was already seated when I read your latest missive, as the image of you and Poppy, dripping wet and draped over adjacent hay bales like two well-chastised scarecrows, might have caused me to drop the tea tray.
Let me begin by offering a few faint, waterlogged congratulations. First, on your admirable honesty, dampened though it may be by smugness. And second, on your evident progress in diplomacy. Sharing a trifle and a cushion may not constitute full reconciliation, but it is a start. Particularly if said trifle was handed to you gently, and not launched at you through the air.
That said, Clementine, I must once again raise an eyebrow at your approach to interpersonal resolution. If only your judgement was at the level of your devilish creativity!
I do sympathise, of course, with your itchy conclusion. That Rose and Mrs Poppet should coordinate such havoc is impressive. I would advise against antagonising either of them again, especially as they appear to have mastered both synchronised discipline and slapstick engineering.
Regarding your query: yes, there is a recognised signal of surrender among female mischief-makers. It is called adulthood. You may wish to consider dabbling in it, now and then.
But for now — do extend an olive branch to Poppy, and perhaps a tub of anti-itch cold cream.
With affection, and the mildest of smirks,
Aunt Agatha
P.S. A ‘Cherished Pink’ tomato, you say? How charming. If it proves as resilient and full of cheek as its namesake, I daresay it will be an excellent companion to the Blush Clementine rose. Though heaven help the garden if they ever cross-pollinate.
Reprinted from The Little Dithering Gazette, under strict embargo from the Duchess of Larkswood’s personal archive.