Custodian of the Cane
In the hushed atmosphere of a provincial museum, Evelyn is drawn to a display that seems to pulse with an unspoken invitation. In a meticulously preserved 1950s classroom, the ominous presence of a crook handled cane hints at discipline long past, yet somehow still alive. Custodian of the Cane is a tale of curiosity awakened and boundaries tested. For Evelyn, this encounter with history will reveal desires she never thought she could admit.
Echoes of Discipline
The Living Museum of Yesteryear was a tapestry, each exhibit a thread woven with meticulous care to transport visitors to another time. These whispers and echoes of the past were not merely remembered, but breathed and lived. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faintest must of relics, as if the walls held memories of generations.
Evelyn wandered through the corridors, her tummy fluttering with a mix of curiosity and something else, something closer to anticipation. A miner’s cottage, a bathtub before a coal fire, a butcher’s shop with an apple-cheeked actor behind the counter. Each of these scenes provoked only passing smiles. But then she turned a corner and stopped.
Before her stood a doorway that seemed to pulse with a silent, charged energy. The plain and simple sign read 1950s Classroom, and Evelyn felt a surge of history pressing against her, drawing her inexorably closer. The sight of the door triggered a cascade of secretive desires, each one sparking a jolt of anxious excitement that coursed through her veins like a live wire.
Inside, the room was a time capsule. Neat rows of desks, their surfaces scarred with the initials of long-forgotten pupils. A blackboard stretched across the far wall, faint white ghosts of old equations still visible. And, upon the teacher’s desk, resting with casual authority, a crook handled school cane.
At the sight of it, Evelyn froze. A long-suppressed desire surged within her, catching her off guard in the hushed silence of the phantom classroom. Her knees trembled slightly, her pulse racing. A sense of foreboding and longing raced through her mind, tinged with a peculiar exhilaration. She had to force herself to look away.
Her gaze shifted to the figure standing at the front of the room. A young woman dressed in a prim, tailored skirt suit, her hair swept into a severe bun that accentuated her high cheekbones. Not a classical beauty, but possessing a striking prettiness that was only enhanced by the starkness of her attire. There was an air of quiet confidence about her, a deliberate posture that suggested she was commanding a room of thirty invisible girls, not merely standing alone in a quiet diorama. Evelyn felt an unexpected thrill as she took in the teacher's composed demeanour.
“Please keep your voice down when you are in the classroom,” the woman said crisply, her voice snapping like chalk on slate. “And raise your hand if you have a question.”
Evelyn’s mouth went dry. That one moment of command sent a shiver down her spine. The teacher's words, delivered with such confidence and poise, left Evelyn breathless, her imagination racing with possibilities.
The woman’s expression softened, as if sensing Evelyn's thoughts. “Don’t take me too seriously,” she added with a faint smile that lingered a moment longer than necessary. “It’s all part of the act. If you have any questions, anything at all, I’d love to help.”
There was a long silence. Evelyn shifted slightly, feeling oddly like she was waiting to be called to the front of the room.
“I suppose,” Evelyn ventured cautiously, “I was just wondering… do you ever — I mean, do you always stay in character?”
“Not for everyone,” the woman said, her eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. “But, some visitors seem to enjoy it. I suppose it adds to the experience.”
“Right. Yes. I think it’s…” Evelyn hesitated, unsure of her own thoughts. “Effective. At least, it's effective for me.”
The woman smiled faintly, watching her with a quiet steadiness. Evelyn stiffened. Can she sense what I’m thinking? Something that I’d never dare to ask out loud?
“We close at four,” Miss Hartley said, her voice smooth. “But I’ll be around for a while after that. Perhaps some aspect of the classroom might be sparking some further questions? Maybe you'd like time to think about them?”
Evelyn’s cheeks flushed. She nodded — grateful, nervous, uncertain — and stepped back.
She tried to tell herself she would continue through the other exhibits. But already, her mind was racing, the rest of the museum fading into a soft, background blur. As she walked away, she sensed Miss Hartley's gaze following her out of the room, adding an extra frisson to her already heightened emotions.
Crossing the Threshold
By the time she returned at four, the museum was hushed, the lights dimmed in the side galleries, a faint scent of floor polish hanging in the air. Evelyn’s palms were moist. She could barely believe she’d come back. And yet, here she was, at the threshold of the schoolroom. She knew it wasn't real and yet, in this moment, it became more real than she had ever dared to hope.
Miss Hartley stood by the teacher’s desk, tidying a stack of visitor pamphlets. She glanced up, her mouth twitching into the barest smile, a flicker of amusement and something more. Something that made Evelyn’s pulse race.
“Somehow, I knew you'd be back,” Miss Hartley said softly.
Evelyn gave a nervous smile. “I’m not entirely sure why, to be honest.”
“Perhaps there’s a part of you that does know,” Miss Hartley replied, her voice gentle and understanding. “Maybe you’re curious about something you haven’t quite explored yet.”
Evelyn paused, her heart beginning to beat a little faster. The air between them felt charged with a subtle, unspoken connection.
“I don’t want anything unusual,” Evelyn blurted, eager to get the confession out. Her voice remained steady, despite the slight flush in her cheeks. “It's just… I’ve always wondered what it would be like. To stand there, to experience that moment of discipline.”
Miss Hartley’s gaze remained steady and reassuring. “This isn’t fantasy role-play. I can’t offer you that. But I can offer you a genuine experience. A glimpse into the past, if that’s truly what you’re looking for.”
Evelyn nodded, her throat feeling dry. “Yes, I think that’s what I've always wanted. Authenticity.”
Miss Hartley reached for a ring of small keys on her belt. “If you’d like, there’s a props room. We keep old uniforms for educational tours. You’re welcome to try one on, if you want to fully immerse yourself in the experience. Then... you can decide.”
Decide? That was the word that Evelyn pondered, feeling her breath quicken. She was feeling an impossible flutter of anticipation. Her mind filled with vivid, half-formed images: the scratch of wool against skin, the stiffness of a collar, the weight of a time when rules were clear and consequences certain.
This is happening, she realised, a little dizzy. She was about to step into re-enactment, not fantasy. Miss Hartley’s eyes flicked over her, assessing without judgement. Then she gestured, calm and assured.
“Come with me,” she said, her voice a quiet blend of authority and invitation.
Evelyn took a deep breath and followed. As the door of the prop room clicked shut behind them, she caught the faint scent of old wool and lavender starch. Her skin prickled. She made a decision then, as she stood with Miss Hartley. She would place herself fully in this woman’s hands.
The Weight of Cloth
The prop room was cool and musty, its walls lined with racks of carefully preserved garments, each tagged and folded with curatorial precision. Evelyn stood, tense, as Miss Hartley unlocked a tall wardrobe and drew out the pieces of a uniform: a grey woollen pinafore dress, a crisp white blouse with a pointed collar, a striped school tie, and — folded discreetly beneath — grey gym knickers, black stockings, and polished leather shoes.
“These were standard issue,” Miss Hartley explained, her voice calm and clinical. “Girls wore these every day, regardless of weather or mood. It was part of the discipline. The formality of the uniform mattered almost as much as the lessons.”
Evelyn’s hands trembled as she accepted the neatly folded bundle. There was a full-length mirror beside the wardrobe, and Miss Hartley turned her eyes away, but her presence was a palpable weight. She was not watching, but she would certainly be aware.
Evelyn experienced a feeling of stepping backwards through time, the fabric of history unspooling around her.
Piece by piece, Evelyn undressed. Each layer of modern clothing slipped away like a skin shed, the years peeled back. As she took off her jeans and sweater, she caught a glimpse of herself in the dusty mirror. Her bra and light briefs, so soft and delicate, were about to be replaced with stiff formality.
With a self-conscious glance towards Miss Hartley, Evelyn removed these too. In that moment before the mirror, bare and unguarded, she sensed her modern defences swept away. The realisation of a desire to step back, to reset, was overwhelming. A secret longing, laid bare.
It was difficult to know why these thoughts of archaic discipline had resonated with her, forming and strengthening through the years. She remembered novels and films she had sought out, to make her dreams feel closer. For a breathless moment, she saw herself not as Evelyn, twenty-first-century woman, but as someone borrowed. It was as if her face had been reclaimed by another era, her body slipping into its silhouette.
The undergarments came first: thick cotton gym knickers, strange and snug as she tugged them over her hips. Then the scratch of woollen stockings and the starched blouse, stiff against her skin and buttoned to the neck. Each item seemed heavier, more consequential than she expected. The uniform was more than a costume. A binding that immersed her deeper into her role.
The grey pinafore dress came next, settling over her shoulders, its weight pressing her towards a history she had only dared imagine. Her fingers, slightly clumsy, tied the striped school tie, the knot unfamiliar after years of soft, casual fashions. She stepped into the polished black shoes, the tap of the leather soles grounding her in this new — or old — self.
She paused for a final reflection in the mirror. This was like stepping into a dream she’d carried for years. Vague, half-formed, something she’d never dared put into words. A girl out of time, a figure she’d imagined in stories or old films, now suddenly reflected back at her.
Miss Hartley gave the barest nod, her eyes flicking briefly over her, taking in the transformation.
“Well done,” she murmured. “You certainly look the part.”
Evelyn sensed her cheeks blushing. The words were intended to reassure, but they also reminded her of what they were about to do.
Six of the Best
Together they crossed back through the darkened gallery into the classroom. The fading afternoon light fell in long, solemn stripes across the rows of wooden desks. Evelyn’s shoes tapped on the old boards as Miss Hartley gestured to sit.
“Before we begin,” Miss Hartley said, folding her hands neatly on the teacher’s desk, “you should understand exactly what would have happened in a punishment like this.”
Evelyn sat stiffly in her front-row desk, feeling the press of the wool at her shoulders, the faint grip of the waistband at her middle. Her pulse quickened. It's as though history is folding in around me.
Miss Hartley’s voice was steady, cool. “A girl receiving six of the best would be called to the front. She would be told precisely why and there would be a moment to compose herself, but no opportunity to delay. She would see the cane taken from its place, heightening the anxiety of what was about to follow. The strokes would be firm, measured, and counted aloud. Then she would return to her seat, expected to sit quietly, reflect, and continue with her lessons as if nothing had happened.”
Evelyn swallowed hard, her mouth dry, her mind a churn of nerves and anticipation. She experienced a strange pull of the moment. There was a thrill of apprehension as the sharp edge of reality met her long-imagined curiosity. She tried to imagine the sting. How would it feel, and could she bear it.
For a heartbeat, she questioned if she was mad to have come back here. But then Miss Hartley rose, smoothing the skirt of her navy suit with deliberate grace, and her voice, quiet and sure, pulled Evelyn forward.
“Come here, Evelyn,” Miss Hartley said. “It’s time.”
That firm voice cut through her nervousness and it sparked something she hadn’t known she longed for: to be seen, noticed, called out by name. Not as Evelyn from the present, but as the girl she might have been, in another life, under another set of rules.
Her knees were uncertain, her breath caught somewhere high in her chest. She tried to keep her eyes lowered as she walked, aware of the creak of the old floorboards, the unfamiliar press of the uniform against her shoulders.
Miss Hartley stood at the front, composed, her expression unreadable. To Evelyn, she looked like quiet authority embodied — cool, unshaken, practised — and it helped, a little, to steady her nerves. She knows what she’s doing, Evelyn told herself, clinging to that thought like a lifeline. I can trust her.
Evelyn bent forward as instructed, her forearms pressed flat against the teacher’s desk, the starch of the blouse rough against her skin. She shut her eyes, feeling the air shift behind her as Miss Hartley took her place.
In that moment, bent over, Evelyn felt suspended. It was as though history itself was coiling around her, wrapping her tight in its invisible arms. She was no longer quite herself, and yet had never been more so. What will I be when I stand up again? Will I be a little changed?
And then came the moment when her skirt was lifted, gently but firmly, a cold waft of air passing over the cotton gym knickers, and a surge of fear prickled along her spine. Why am I doing this? she wondered again.
It was not only fear of the physical sting, but a deeper, more profound fear of what this meant, of how exposed she was. She was no longer a visitor in a museum. She had become a participant in a ritual that spanned decades.
The first stroke landed with a sharp thwack that ignited a piercing line of fire across the seat of her knickers. Evelyn gasped, her eyes flying open. The sensation was more intense, more exacting than she’d ever imagined. It was a stark reminder of a time when discipline was not a mere concept, but a tangible, physical truth.
“One,” she heard Miss Hartley announce in a cold, level voice.
She had given herself over to this moment, and could wait, steady now. It was a ritual as old as the room itself.
Evelyn’s fingers gripped the edge of the desk tightly as the remaining strokes followed in measured succession. Each carried a searing bite of pain, but it was the ritual, the order, the unyielding discipline that truly gripped her. She could feel the weight of the past pressing down on her, the echoes of countless girls who had found themselves in this position.
Miss Hartley's voice continued to count out the strokes. As the smarting sting amplified and throbbed throughout Evelyn's bottom, each increment served as a reminder of the discipline and order of a bygone era. When “Six” was called, and it was finally over, Evelyn heard Miss Hartley's impassive voice, calm and commanding once again.
“You may stand.”
She rose slowly, blinking back unexpected tears, feeling shaky but determined. For a moment, she hesitated, her mind in a spin of emotion. Then, by instinct, she said, “Thank you, Miss Hartley.”
It slipped out before she could stop it, a reflex born from something deeper than manners — a gratitude for being seen, for being given what she had long dreamt about.
Miss Hartley gave a quiet nod, her eyes more gentle now, her hands calmly setting the cane back across the front of the desk, where it lay still and silent once more.
Evelyn returned to her seat, lowering herself gingerly onto the hard wooden chair. She recalled an old memory. Just a few lines from a book she’d once read, and re-read. A theme she’d never forgotten. It had lived inside her through the years, a secret echo, waiting for this moment.
I did it. I was afraid, but I did it.
Somewhere deep inside, a long-held question, a quiet yearning, had been answered. She let the stillness settle around her, a strange, profound calm filling the space where her nerves had been.
This was not pretend, nor was it play. This was something sharper, older, truer — and it had left its mark, inside and out. The bruises would fade, in time, but the memory would last forever.
Two Sides of Courage
The little museum café was nearly empty at this hour, the staff wiping down tables and cashing-up the till in the background. Evelyn sat opposite Miss Hartley, hands wrapped around a mug of tea she hadn’t yet sipped. Her fingers trembled faintly, but not from fear now. More from the echo of everything that had happened.
Miss Hartley stirred her coffee slowly, eyes lowered, thoughtful. When she looked up, a soft smile played on her lips.
“I’m glad you stayed to talk,” she said, her voice gentle.
Evelyn gave a quick, nervous laugh and ran a hand through her hair. “I was so close to backing out earlier, you know. Even when you called me to the front, I almost froze.”
Miss Hartley’s eyes lifted, meeting hers. There was a flicker of surprise.
“I thought you were incredibly brave,” she said. “Once you stood, you seemed so… steady.”
Evelyn shook her head. “I was steadier once I reached your desk. It was before that — when I was sitting there, when you explained it all — that’s when I was terrified. But the second I gave myself over to it, to you, it was like…” she struggled for words, “like I could trust myself, for a moment.”
Miss Hartley gave a soft, almost rueful smile. “It's funny,” she murmured. “That was the moment when my nerves started.”
Evelyn blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I was calm while I was speaking. That part was easy. It was just me playing the teacher’s role, explaining history, reciting what would happen. But when you bent over the desk — when I was about to raise the cane, aim it at you — that’s when my heart leaped in my chest.”
She gave a small, tight laugh, her eyes never leaving Evelyn’s. “I kept thinking, what if I get this wrong? What if she changes her mind, and I’ve already crossed the line? When you trusted me enough to stay bent over… I realised I was holding something fragile. Not the cane, but you, and the faith you had in me.”
Suddenly, Evelyn saw her not as the untouchable figure at the front of the room, but as a young woman, not much older than herself, who had also crossed a line that afternoon — carefully, bravely, perhaps recklessly. And in that moment, something warm and unexpected bloomed between them. A shared vulnerability, and a spark of connection.
Evelyn gazed at Miss Hartley, astonished. “And I thought you were completely sure.”
“I wasn’t,” Miss Hartley admitted, her voice low. “I was as much in that moment as you were. As we both were.”
A quiet settled between them. For Evelyn, the last edge of tension seeped away, replaced by a strange, warm ache. It wasn't shame or regret, but the sense of having stepped across a threshold, together.
“It’s strange,” Evelyn said softly. “The idea of this moment’s been sitting in me for years. Ever since I read this old novel. It wasn’t a big scene, only a few lines, a schoolroom punishment, but it stayed with me. I always wondered what it would be like, to stand in that space, to take that punishment. Not as a game, or as something naughty, but as something… real.”
Miss Hartley watched her carefully, quietly. “It sounds like you wanted to carry the weight of that history, even for the briefest of moments.”
Evelyn nodded, her throat tightening unexpectedly. “Yes. Exactly.”
Miss Hartley reached across the table and covered Evelyn’s hand with her own. It was a small, simple gesture, but it felt electric. There was no performance, just an intimate moment of warmth.
“Thank you,” Miss Hartley said, her voice warm and a little raw. “For... trusting me with this. You were braver than you realise.”
Evelyn let out a slow, shaky sigh. “And thank you too, for being brave for me.”
They sat there a moment longer, sharing the quiet, the steam rising from their mugs, the sounds of chairs stacking faintly in the background. Two women, both slightly trembling, both processing the strange and delicate thing they had shared.
The Trace That Lingers
Evelyn walked back to her car, the evening air cool now against her skin. She could feel an ache where the cane strokes had landed. It was not so sharp now, but a warm prickling reminder beneath her clothes, a trace of something real. She placed a hand lightly over the seat of her jeans, part disbelief, part quiet satisfaction.
She paused by the car door, glancing at her reflection in the window glass. There was the same face as always — familiar, ordinary — and yet something about it seemed… altered.
She thought back to the mirror in the prop room, the way she had seen herself in the uniform: a different girl, a different time, carrying the weight of rules and consequences that had once been real.
And then she thought of the moment when she had walked up to the front of the classroom, heart racing, surrendering herself to the experience, trusting Miss Hartley, and trusting herself. She had been terrified, but brave. She had embraced the vulnerability. In the strangest, most unexpected way, she felt whole.
Evelyn smiled faintly, one hand still resting on the car door. She knew this was something she would carry quietly, privately, tucked away inside herself. Not as a fantasy, not as a performance, but as a truth she had dared to live.
She slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove off into the quiet dusk, feeling, for the first time in a long while, entirely and unapologetically herself.
Some rituals belong to history, and some we quietly carry forward, because they remind us of who we are, and who we might dare to become.