Whip Hands (14 page)

‘Entertainment? I am to see it as well?'

‘No, Miss Kidd. You, I'm afraid, are it. For you the experience should be educational. See it as a challenging section of your research. Now, time is getting short. I would just like to have a brief dress rehearsal before the gents arrive.'

Her head spun in disbelief, her desire threatened to engulf her senses. She must concentrate. Was she really to be made to take part in some bizarre recreation of prison punishment in front of a bunch of slavering bank managers and solicitors?

She had tried not to respond to the fondling that was taking place under her pants. Her breath was coming in short gasps. He must realise she was aroused. She became aware that she was still standing with legs half-bent in order to take some of the strain off her thighs. It enabled him to reach easily to the very apex of her cleft, and her ability to escape his probing finger was severely limited. She tried to straighten up but it hurt her inner thighs. He squeezed her lips in a final gesture before withdrawing his hand.

Seconds later, Naomi jumped as he slapped the tawse on the top of the box beside her legs.

‘I think just half a dozen to give you a foretaste of what to expect,' he said. ‘Of course, the actual performance will be far more realistic.'

‘Realistic?'

‘Yes, realistic, Miss Kidd. But you are distracting me, probably hoping to delay the fateful hour. Prepare yourself for the six practice strokes.'

She heard the whistle just a fraction of a second before the leather bit into the soft flesh of her lower buttocks. The pain was sharp but bearable. She clenched her muscles for the second blow. It hit on almost exactly the same spot. This time there was a definite afterburn, and the following two strokes left her panting as she strove to master the pain. She struggled to see what was happening over her shoulder, but her hair obstructed her view.

The final strokes were delivered from above and the much hotter sensation on the upper side of her haunches made her squirm in a futile attempt to lessen the intensity of the sensation. She realised her struggles only served to chafe the insides of her thighs against the edges of the leg holes. She began to feel tearful. At the same time there was undeniable warmth around her thighs. Naomi became very aware of her vulnerability.

‘Congratulations, Miss Kidd. You are obviously made of sterner stuff than I had presupposed. However, I feel it is now only fair to enlighten you as to the format of our entertainment. The members will ask you some questions on social and political issues of the Victorian era.

‘Your punishment will reflect the correctness of your answers. They begin fairly simply, but you will find members cannot resist moving on to fairly arcane topics that have a particular fascination for them. It is most regrettable, but on previous entertainment evenings the researchers have not emerged entirely unscathed.'

In the distance the entrance buzzer was clearly audible. Naomi jumped involuntarily. She felt as if this was all a dream.

‘Can you not give me a clue as to the kind of questions I might be asked? Please help me, Mr Porteous.'

He paused for a second, and laid the tawse down thoughtfully on top of her clothes.

‘I don't think that would be fair on the members, do you? After all, Miss Kidd, they are paying good money towards the upkeep of the prison and they do expect a good night's entertainment.'

‘You sadistic bastard!' she spat.

‘Tut-tut, whatever happened to academic objectivity? Now save your energy for the intellectual rigours that lie ahead, Miss Kidd. You will find there are about a dozen members and they will stand around in a fairly tight circle. They will take it in turns to ask the questions, and the questioner punishes each wrong answer, as you might expect. Try not to get five wrong answers in a row if you can possibly avoid it.'

‘Why not?' She knew she should not have asked.

‘I'm afraid the members will demand that more flesh should be exposed to view. It's one of the rules that's evolved at these evenings. Strange, really, but if you know your stuff you needn't have any fears. There's usually no hard feelings, and if you have been a good sport you'll be invited to join the members for a glass of port afterwards.' The superintendent gathered up his jacket from the whipping frame and turned on his heel.

‘Sounds fantastic. And what happens if I refuse to answer?' Her defiance was returning.

‘Och, I forgot to mention that.' Mr Porteous poked his head round the archway with an almost seraphic smile. ‘If you are not such a good sport then a vote of members present is taken and you could find yourself transferred to the whipping frame. And I can promise you that quite a bit more flesh will be exposed. But you can console yourself that it's all for the cause of historical research.'

Naomi was left to ponder her situation with a racing pulse. She was close to panic. From above came the sound of jovial male voices greeting each other familiarly. Soon she heard them descending the steps and approaching in a convoy. She tugged once more at her wrists with no real conviction. Her wits, she realised, were to be put to the severest test yet in her short academic career.

 

 

 

Sebastian and I had always intended that Fiona should go private. The original plan was for a preparatory school but those were the years we had the expensive skiing holidays. They were essential for helping us to unwind, you understand. Then there was the au pair to pay for, too. These things all add up, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you.

What with one thing and another we decided to leave it until Fi was eleven and make sure she had extra tutoring, elocution and ballet lessons. And we insisted on French-speaking au pairs. That was, of course, Sebastian's idea.

It worked out according to plan because Sebastian was made a senior partner last year and I was given a substantial investment portfolio to manage at Trollope's with a performance-related premium. It was perfect. Little Fi was a bit upset at the idea of leaving the friends she had made at primary school. But life's like that, and it's never too soon to become aware of it. You have to be prepared to grab the opportunity when it presents itself, even if there is a personal cost.

And the opportunity of a place at Willowglen Ladies' College was not to be ignored - at any price!

We'd had Penny and Roger round for dinner a few weeks previously, and they were saying there was a three-year waiting list. That plus the five hundred refundable deposit. Talk about looking on education as an investment!

We had only just put Fi's name down. So we'd more or less given up on the idea and we were going to ask them to return our cheque and try somewhere else much inferior. Then we received a letter quite out of the blue from the college bursar saying a place had come up unexpectedly for next year.

How excited we all were! But first we must go for ‘a meeting' with Mrs Fowler the headmistress. Fi and me, that was. Willowglen didn't seem to be all that interested in what Fi's father was like. Just as well, since Sebastian was away most of that week at some international marketing junket.

Frankly, I was glad to see the back of him. His continual nit-picking over my shopping bills was beginning to get on my nerves. True, we had joint bank and credit card accounts, but I would also be earning on a major scale with the salary raise from Trollope's. I was expected to dine out with potential clients and charm them into letting us invest millions of pounds for them. Heavens, what was the price of a couple of designer frocks set against that sort of return? And, as I said to my stubborn hubby, a half-decent accountant would be able to get the cost of the clothes set against tax for sure.

On the other hand, he was almost certainly taking his secretary and normally these sales conferences lasted for two days at the most. This time he wasn't coming home until Friday evening. Suspicious, you must agree. But I wasn't going to give him the pleasure of seeing that I was the least bit curious.

Anyway, I digress. Our appointment with Mrs Fowler was for mid-afternoon. I don't know who was the more apprehensive, Fi or me, as we waited in the secretary's office. A green light winked beside the door into her study and in we went, like two errant pupils.

Mrs Fowler was reassuringly grey-haired and unassumingly dressed. She drew us into her cavernous study, all dark panelling and portraits of former headmistresses covering every inch of the walls. There was tea on offer in fine china. Fi handled it all with surprising confidence, not spilling a drop or a crumb. We were both doing ourselves proud, although I did notice Mrs Fowler shoot my slit skirt a second look.

Then it was time to have the school tour. It was to be conducted by Winona, presumably a star pupil. She had a shock of back-combed, dark hair and an engaging manner, even if she reminded me of one of the starlets from an Australian soap. Fi immediately took a shine to her and the two of them prattled away as we did the tour of the school facilities, strangely quiet since it was after four o'clock. After visiting the computer suite, the science block and the music school I was beginning to feel exhausted and fairly impatient. I had taken the afternoon off from Trollope's. How much longer? I wondered, furtively consulting my watch.

‘And here's the school gym,' Winona announced, with pride evident in her tone.

And there it was. One glance was enough to make me feel queasy. Before I had taken in the full extent of its floor area with wall-bars and protruding nets at regular intervals, my nostrils were already prickling. That animal smell compounded of musty leather, floor polish and the changing rooms, brought back with painful clarity. In my early years of womanhood I was not a natural athlete, being highly self-critical. My feet were on the large side, which made me a clumsy exponent of just about every game on the games mistress' syllabus.

I went no further than the door. I let Fi make a detailed inspection with her new friend. She appeared to find the equipment perfectly wonderful. Thank God she at least was blessed with some natural grace and agility. Frankly, the place intimidated me, bringing back suppressed memories of many humiliations. There were demons I preferred not to confront, now I was a successful fund manager.

Just then, a small door with clear panels at the top opened and a young woman stuck her head and upper torso around the edge of it. Her frown changed to a ready smile as she saw the girls.

‘Ah, Winona! I see you're showing round a new girl. Called...?'

Fi introduced herself with a blush of pleasure.

‘Pleased to meet you. I'm Miss Fairchild. I was just about to lock up, now that netball training is finished. I hope everyone has gone home. Perhaps the two of you would like to check the changing rooms for me and save me time.'

Winona was obviously delighted to do so. She and Fi scuttled off to the far end of the gym and disappeared.

The games mistress finally noticed me, cowering waif-like at the doorway.

‘You must be Fiona's mother,' she said slowly, observing me closely. Her smile became preoccupied. As I moved closer her expression turned to one of unmistakable recognition.

‘I thought so. You're Joyce Forsyth, aren't you?'

I was speechless, not a usual state of affairs for me as you will have realised. About my size and age, she wore a pale green tracksuit. Her fair hair was cut in a severe bob. She used my maiden name so she must have been a friend from school or college. But I just couldn't place her.

She quietly enjoyed my confusion, arms folded.

‘Of course, it must be Joyce Delahaigh now. I had heard that you married. Remarkably soon after leaving college, according to my source. And that you were pursuing a high-flying financial career. It's odd that our paths haven't crossed sooner. Although I suppose these days we live our lives on rather different planes. You in the City, me... well, here in the gym.'

My head was in a whirl. Realisation was breaking through, but subconsciously there was a block preventing me from finding her name. The hostility was the clue. Yes, it could only be Rhona. Rhona Fairchild, for God's sake. What a dreadful situation to find myself in! I would need to keep my wits about me. I swallowed my panic.

‘Of course, it's Rhona. I hadn't heard what - well, what had become of you.'

‘Probably because you didn't enquire very closely. Does Sebastian ever mention me, I wonder?'

‘Well, I suppose we have discussed you in the past, in the early years of our marriage. But not recently, no, to be frank. Anyway, how are you getting on? Have you married?'

Immediately I realised it was the wrong question. She was Miss, after all, by her own admission. She must have taken it as a veiled insult. Her eyes narrowed and my senses sharpened in anticipation of danger.

My mind scrolled back to that evening when Rhona had run screaming from the assembly room. That was the last time we had seen each other, almost fifteen years ago. Now I realised she must have known even then that it was me who had been responsible for her humiliation. And all the intervening years she had lived with it. Until now, I had put it to the back of my mind. You could say I had more important things to do with my life.