A story by Tomas.
A school somewhere in England 1974.
The girl looking out of the broken window, was a perfect example of a well turned out St Cuthbert's sixth former. Flat plain black shoes, cream tights, red knee length skirt, red v-neck jumper, and white blouse with the school red, and green tie.
Her dark brown curly hair reaching, and almost covering her blouse collar, her face though a little paler than usual, her hazel brown eyes, dewy almost tearful, her hands lain flat on the top of her head,fingers intertwined.
As she looks through the cracked window,across the quadrangle, she knows that anyone looking up from the playground, will see that there is a sixth former about to "get it", whether "it" is a belting across her hands, or the cane across her bottom, no one knows, not even the poor girl.
Most schools in the area, once the A-levels are finished, allow the pupils to leave. St Cuthbert's though if you want a good reference from the head, you are expected to stay till the end of term, and in these days of strikes, and three day weeks, a reference is badly needed, hence very bored eighteen year olds.
To break some of the monotony, a couple of the upper six pupils decided to revisit their youth, a game of tiggie-with-the-ball seemed like a good idea.
So as Paul went to get a ball the others ran out into the yard, Amy standing nearest to the door, as Paul burst through it, jokingly throwing a cricket ball, and shouting.
"Catch, Amy your on!"
Without even thinking, or letting the weight and hardness of the ball in her hand to register.
Amy flung the ball at her friend Maria. Luckily for Maria, Amy misjudged badly, sending the ball skyward, unluckily for Amy the ball went straight at the window of the small upstairs staffroom.
Just as Amy decided to leg it, she heard.
"Amelia Malone, don't you dare run off."
Amy turned to see her so called friend, Joan Corrigan standing there, on prefect duty. Amy was quickly marched upstairs, and left outside the staffroom door, as Joan entered.
After a couple of minutes, the door opened, and to her dismay, Mr Brook the deputy head ushered her into the room.
Mr Brook lectured Amy about playing ball games near windows, and told her what made it worse was that she had tried to run off.
Yes, Joan had really done a good job on her.
He than instructed Amy to stand by the window, while he went to get the "instrument of correction".
So Amy stood staring at the windows of the corridor by the chemistry labs, waiting,and watching for Brook's return.
It will be a belting she thought to herself, sixth formers don't get caned, which of course she knew was not quite true, it's just that in the two years that she had been in the sixth form no one had.
A belting though would be bad enough, she recalled the only time that she had got a belting.
It was about three years ago, she had sworn at the biology teacher.
Six whacks, three on each hand, then five hundred lines, she could almost feel the pain again of all that writing.
With her puffed up welted right hand, each word seeming to bring a fresh tear to her eye.
The idea of a belting here, in front of the seven or so teachers in the room filled her with dread, she also noticed that Joan was in no hurry to be anywhere else. At least standing there with her hand out would be less embarrassing than having to bend over for the cane.
Then of course there was the school legend, "sixth formers get it on the bare bum".
Of course there could be no truth to that, could there?
The idea of having to lift her skirt, then pull down her tights and knickers before bending over, it was mad.
Or then perhaps Mr Brook waits till you are touching your toes, then lifts the skirt himself, the idea of his bony nicotine fingers, pulling at the waistband of her little pale blue knickers, sends a shiver down her spine.
The idea of her, a young woman, old enough to vote, bent over, her bare bottom (and more, depending on where her audience is sitting.) on view to the whole room.
No it was just a legend.
It will be a belting that's all.
Then she sees Mr Brook, marching down the corridor, the yellow cane in his hand.
The first tear rolls down her cheek