Saturday 3 October 2009

Matron Philips - The Netball Tournament


Part I

When Mayhew left the dorm and made his way through the corridors of the school, his mind was enveloped by the intense burning sensation in his palms and bottom. He held both hands awkwardly before him and occasionally drew them near to his mouth in a desperate attempt to placate the caustic stinging, using the moisture of his mouth to help soothe away a little of the agony. The lines of pure fire where Matron’s cane had scourged Mayhew’s bottom had exploded into a stinging symphony of pain that relentlessly chided his whole being. At one point, Mayhew could simply bare it no more. He stopped in the middle of the school corridor, leant against a wall and gave in to the terrible stinging sensation; boy after boy walked by the hunched figure, eyes closed and nursing its hands as it groaned pitiably and let the world pass it by on its way to the first of the afternoon’s lessons.

“Mayhew!” a prefect with laughter in his voice stooped over the pain ridden hunched third former and chanted his name a few more times. “Mayhew . . . Mayhew . . . Mayhew.” Still there was no response. “MAYHEW!” the prefect bellowed into the third former’s ear who, in turn, jumped to attention. “It’s time to get your pathetic stinging little arse to your next lesson, Mayhew,” said the prefect who then brought both hands up to his mouth and chuckled with glee as he mimicked the third former’s predicament by pretending to slaver his palms with his tongue. “I hear Matron Phil wasn’t too pleased with your troops, Mayhew. Never mind, I’m sure they’ll do better next time.”

“Yes, Pritchard,” was Mayhew’s only response to the 17-year old prefect whom he was obliged to respect.

Pritchard snorted down his nose, secretly disappointed at the third former’s lack of response.

“Listen here, Mayhew, you pathetic little tow rag. I’ve got a job for you to do for me. Get your puny little whipped arse over to
Marlborough senior dorm straight after prep this evening. If you’re not there, I’ll string you up by the fucking goolies; do you understand me, you little snot-nosed twerp?”

“Yes, Pritchard,” replied Mayhew with equal respect as the first time.

“Good!” stated the prefect. “Now get to your lesson, Mayhew.”

“Thank you, Pritchard.” And, at that, Mayhew made his way along the school corridor, hoping that his masters would allow him to stand throughout the lessons that afternoon.


Part II

As the afternoon lessons wore to a weary end for the day, the acute pain had turned itself into an uncomfortable warm glow that was bearable provided nothing touched his afflicted areas. After the lessons had finished, Mayhew met his young pack members who feted him as a hero, gasped with undiluted awe as he described the searing agonies of Matron Philips’s whiplash prep school cane and vowed sincerely to drill with absolute military precision during Friday afternoon cadet parade and to never ever let their captain down.

Bishop broke into song at one point, singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow” and ending what fast became a spontaneous group rendition with “Three cheers for Mayhew, hip hip hooray!”

Mayhew was genuinely touched by it all. He was now what Matron Philips had intended him to be; an officer and a gentleman, a leader of men, a man willing to sacrifice personal comfort for those who followed him. By the evening, the aftermath of the caning had lulled into a dull aching soar that now throbbed faintly in the back of his mind. Once prep was finished, Mayhew headed towards Marlborough senior dorm, he took a short cut which led around the edge of the large school playing field. As he walked towards the far end, where the old cricket pavilion stood, a gust of wind caused the end of his school tie to lift over his blazer lapels and flutter around his shoulders and dance freely in the evening air. As it furled and twisted and fluttered near to his face, Mayhew caught glimpses of the repeated school emblems and coloured stripes upon its surface. The young boy suddenly felt a deep sense of pride to be wearing it and remembered how Matron Philips had firmly secured its knot against the crisp white collar of his school shirt. As he walked on, Mayhew let his tie flutter in the wind and enjoyed the feeling it inspired in him; he felt as a knight at a jousting tournament who wears the colours of a beautiful lady.


Part III

Marlborough senior dorm had a decidedly different atmosphere to the one Mayhew was accustomed to in Wellington House. Pritchard and his band of sixth formers had no Matron Philips to watch out for and felt free to laugh, put feet on chairs and sit back as they pleased.

“Ah Mayhew!” Pritchard called out with mockery in his voice. “I thought you’d make it somehow.”

The young third former felt ill at ease within the world of the senior dorm and stood there frozen, only daring to move when a prefect ordered him to do so.

“This is Mayhew everyone!” Pritchard announced to the other older boys. “He’s come to do me a little job.”

“Good for you, Mayhew,” called out one of Pritchard’s friends who sat astride a wooden chair with his arms leaning on the top of its backrest. “Do you know what you’ve got to do?”

Mayhew returned a look of polite puzzlement. “See those shoes?” said Pritchard pointing to a long line of black school regulation shoes. “You’ll find the polish is already there along with an apron. Should be about your size, Mayhew, you are skinny little runt size, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Pritchard,” Mayhew answered without the merest sign of complaint in his voice just before removing his blazer, tying his apron and shining the first of many pairs. The older boys laughed a lot at Pritchard’s nasty joke and, as he polished his way through the older boys’ shoes, the small third former could not help but notice the way they seemed to giggle, sometimes quite uncontrollably, at what seemed to him, the merest of things. The boy astride the chair laughed the most and, after a while, Mayhew began to wonder why they found some things so hilariously funny. He listened sometimes with interest and sometimes with puzzlement as they mentioned the excellence of ‘doors’ and what seemed to be about ‘babies that come and light fires’.

Pritchard, however, was especially happy. He and a select few handpicked prefects were participating in what can only be best described as the most enviable event for any sixth form boy; travelling to Hamilton Towers Girls’ School and spectating the senior girls’ netball tournament. The scheme had been conceived a couple of years back by Mr Summers, a junior PE master who, wishing to ‘make his mark in the school’, actively sought to establish links with other schools. The link with Hamilton Towers soon became extraordinarily popular all round whereby girls travelled over to watch the boys play rugby who would later return the favour by enthusiastically cheering on their girl counterparts during their netball matches.

Of course, Pritchard crowed to the others and soon started to talk about a girl called Alison whom, from what Mayhew could gather, he sneaked off with to the back of the changing shed whilst everyone else’s attention was sharply focussed on the netball team in front.

“This time, I’m making damn sure she does it properly,” said Pritchard who raised his hand to his mouth and pretended to suck something in. “She just takes it a little bit down and nothing much happens.”

Mayhew found what he heard faintly disturbing, but carried on with his polishing uninterrupted until he had finished the very last pair. “Good work, Mayhew,” the senior boys commended him and looked genuinely pleased to see how well polished their shoes really were. “You can go, Mayhew,” said one of them. At that, Mayhew politely bid them good night and quietly left Marlborough senior dorm.


Part IV

The boys arrived early and found places to sit and relax on the newly mown grass which surrounded the netball court. Pritchard sat towards the back of the others and waited with thumping anticipation in his heart. Alison was a year older than him; she was in her last year of school and very determined to try out anything new that came her way in this life. His heart nearly skipped a beat when the first girls started to arrive in small groups, smiling and plainly happy to know the boys were there, yet mindful to not let this become too noticeable. Pritchard craned his neck to see behind them, to see around them and to see if she was amongst them; he soon grew anxious, frustrated, then bitter when she failed to show. A few minutes later, both netball teams assembled, took their positions and stood poised, motionless yet very ready, as they waited for their PE mistress’s whistle to finally blow. The whistle blew and, with it the match began; boys clapped and cheered, girls giggled and looked around. Meanwhile, Pritchard buried his face into his hands wondering why she hadn’t come.

“Pritchard!” hearing his name from behind, he instantly twisted himself around and, there above him stood Alison. The 18-year old looked pristinely feminine in a strictly girls’ school type of way in her sharply pleated grey skirt, knee length white socks and green school tie with its Hamilton Towers yellow stripes neatly worn against her clean white and very formal-looking blouse as per exact school regulation.

“Aren’t you even going to say hello to me, Pritchard!” she said with a strong hint of severity in her clear upper class English voice. “Well, Pritchard!” she said, this time placing both hands on her hips and frowning demonstrably.

“Hello, Alison,” the boy finally replied. Alison had little time for small talk and simply commanded the boy with a curt “Follow me” and led the way towards the changing shed behind which she sat down and invited Pritchard to sit beside her. “Good,” she said, “Nobody saw us. Did you bring it?”

“I might have done!” the boy said teasingly.

“Pritchard!” the girl called out with faked annoyance in her voice. She then clasped one hand behind the boy’s neck, pulled his face towards hers, “Kiss me, you rat bag!” she said to him before biting part of his lower lip and then joining her lips to his for as long as the boy could hold his breath.

“You get better every time, Pritchard!” she said after releasing him from her clutches. “Now where is it?”

Pritchard delved into the inside pocket of his schoolboy blazer and fished out a long, slender and not unskilfully made joint. He lit it and then drew in two or three long heavy dregs of blue aromatic smoke which he held in for as long as possible. “Now you must remember to always hold it in for as long as possible or else you won’t . . .”

“Good boy!” she exclaimed without letting him finish his sentence. “Now, give it to me!” Alison took the joint from out of his hand, lifted it towards her mouth, closed her lips around its end, but never drew it in. At that precise moment, the young girl slowly looked up and then focussed her eyes somewhere beyond Pritchard’s shoulder. This made the boy turn to see what it was. There standing before them was a young woman in a navy blue netball skirt and PE top. It was Miss Newman, one of Alison’s PE teachers.

“Stand up!” commanded Miss Newman who gathered the evidence from the ground and stubbed it out against the changing room shed. Both stood to attention and waited for Miss Newman to speak.

“Tuck your blouse in, girl.” Alison immediately did as she was told and quickly straightened her tie which was the automatic response of girls at
Hamilton Towers whenever confronted by a mistress’s authority. Right from her first day at school, she had been inculcated with the notion that a smart, tidy appearance equates to a smart, tidy mind and that very correct uniform would somehow placate those who held authority over her. She nudged Pritchard to do likewise; he did the same and quickly buttoned up his blazer in the same vain.

“That’s better!” remarked the PE teacher who then glared at the pair of them and literally marched them like soldiers towards the school building. “One, two . . . One, two . . . Left, right . . . Left, right,” barked Mrs Newman until they reached the school gym where they were left to stand in silence until ordered otherwise.


Part V

Matron Philips was bemused at first. Why had the headmaster chosen her, a non-teaching member of staff, a lowly house matron of just twenty years old to discuss such a profoundly serious crisis as drugs at the school? “We need someone young,” he had explained. “Someone to whom they might relate!”

Matron Philips nodded each time the headmaster spoke.

“A good school can always be rebuilt, but its good name is quite a different matter, Miss Philips.”

As he spoke, both shuddered at the alternative; sixth formers expelled, headlines in newspapers, anxious parents telephoning, benefactors withdrawing their sons along with their handsome cheques made out to princely sums.

“Precisely, Miss Philips. We must always think of what is good for our pupils and consider their needs first. The headmistress at the girls’ school agrees; both these youngsters have bright futures ahead of them; this is why silence is the word, my dear Miss Philips!”

Matron Philips was to make her way straight to Hamilton Towers and hold a ‘drugs awareness session’ with the boy and girl in question. “Make it such that neither would dare touch it again, Miss Philips,” explained the headmaster just before she left the Victorian style oak panelled study. “Aversion therapy, if you will, Miss Philips. Yes, exactly that. Aversion therapy is just what is needed here!”

Of course, Matron Philips was the ideal candidate for the job. Her presence at the school would be low key due to her position, being young herself would give her message more credibility and being a woman, she could deal with both the boy and the girl at the same time. She soon arrived at Hamilton Towers suitably dressed for the ‘drugs awareness session’. A few girls saw her walk by, but thought nothing of it. After all, everyone had seen a ‘nurse’ before.


Part VI

After marching them into the school gym, Mrs Newman saw to it that both boy and girl stood in absolute and total silence for a full hour before the door opened again. Pritchard blanched when Matron Philips walked through it. Alison could feel his horror and noted how very fearfully he surveyed the young woman in her nurse-like matron’s uniform, tightly tied back hair and sensible lace up shoes. Utter silence befell the hall. As Matron Philips walked up to them, Alison noted how Pritchard immediately stood yet more rigidly to attention and quickly lowered his eyes in total deference to the Matron who now stood before them. She walked past them, turned around and walked back again. With each step taken, her nylon stockings swished inaudibly against her impeccably well-pressed blue uniform. Finally, she walked behind the pair and, from there, began to speak to them.

“Pritchard!” she pronounced the boy’s surname with a clipped proficiency that could have cut the very finest of glassware. “Drugs kill. Did you know that, Pritchard?”

“Yes, Mam!”

“Good!” commended the house matron. “And who is this?”

“Alison Chatterton,” said the girl.

“Did I ask you to talk, girl?” snapped the boys’ school matron.

“No, Mam,” quickly replied Alison who now felt herself automatically jerk to attention every time the matron spoke.

“Then keep quiet until you’re spoken to, Chatterton.”

“Yes, Mam!” replied the schoolgirl.

Matron Philips fell silent for a moment, preferring to remain behind them for a few moments longer. For those few fleeting seconds, she was actually fazed. At eighteen, Alison was not so much younger than herself, a mere couple of years in fact; only their clothes distinguished who was what – change them over and roles would too easily be reversible. The young matron quickly banished these thoughts from her mind, feigned a sigh and started to speak.

“Chatterton,” she said with total authority in her voice. “Fetch me those two chairs and place back to back there in the middle of the gym.”

Alison snapped too it. She found two chairs in an adjacent back room and, one by one, set them as instructed. Once her job was done, she looked over to the matron and, suddenly, horror filled her eyes. Pritchard looked, silently gulped, then recoiled with the same abject horror. There, in both hands, Matron Philips was now holding her slender prep school cane which was bent into a definite arc. As she gently flexed the arc of the cane inwards and outwards, she looked at Alison and then began to speak. “Drugs kill!” she said with slow deliberation in her voice. “What do drugs do, Chatterton?”

Alison simply stared back. For a moment, she was transfixed, disbelieving; she thought of running, of begging, of fighting, of screaming. She even thought of dying there and then on the very spot in the middle of the school gym; she now suddenly realised why she had just been made to set up the chairs. “They kill, Mam!” she finally replied as a terrible trembling anguish gripped her body.

“Yes,” stated Matron Philips. “And they also ruin lives, people’s reputations and, most importantly of all, those of schools.” Alison nodded forlornly as the matron continued to speak. “Now sit down on that chair,” Matron Philips then gestured towards the chair and Alison quickly did as she was told and continued to listen. “In a few moments, young lady, you are going to hear the consequences of a rather stupid boy’s actions. He is going to be one of my boys from now on, under my command, living in my dorm and answering to me at all times until he leaves his school. You will hear him receiving his first lesson as one of my boys; you will hear him learning about consequences, you will hear him learning about the expectations and values of his new house matron. For him, it’s going to be a very hard and exacting lesson. However, you will see nothing and, most importantly of all, you will say nothing of what has happened today, not now, not tomorrow, not next year, not ever. Do you understand me, young lady?”

“Yes, Mam!” came the girl’s reply as she averted her gaze and looked outwards from her chair.

Matron Philips looked over to the boy, flexed her supple whiplash cane between her fingers and called him to take position at the other chair.

“Pritchard,” commanded his new house matron, “Trousers off!”


Part VII

These two words struck terror into the boy’s heart. They clearly stated Matron Philips intentions for him; to make the caning as painful as possible. Pritchard felt horribly vulnerable; his backside was now totally exposed (bar a pair of flimsy cotton underpants) to the full force of each burning swipe that his matron would choose to administer to him. In his mind, he searched for any way out. Yet, unsurprisingly, his search was in vain; all that he could find was utter helplessness and the hopeful notion that only through totally co-operating with the caning process might he persuade his new mistress to show at least some clemency in appreciation of this fact. With this in mind, Pritchard straightened both legs and made sure that his bottom was a perfect target for the matron. Matron Philips then locked onto her target and smited it with stinging proficiency.

Matron Philips’s first swipe created a resounding ‘crack’ that echoed throughout the gym and caused Alison to jolt in her chair. Pritchard released a tiny gasp which hugely underrated the sheer agony that he felt as it landed. Matron Philips waited a full fifteen or even twenty seconds between each swipe to allow the burning sensation to spread across the boy’s backside before compounding the pain with yet more pain. The caustic stinging raged across both buttocks and, after a couple more swipes, Pritchard was becoming conscious of two things – his new house matron and the searing agony that was her lesson to him.

During the early stages, Pritchard had held valiantly to his image of Alison. He resolved to do so no matter what, no matter how unbearable the pain was likely to become, it was always to be for her; a powerful token from boy to girl that could never be broken from within. But each of Matron’s swipes brought yet more pain than the last. Before long, Pritchard began to hear his own voice reverberating around the gym. The relentless stroke of his house matron’s thin whip-like cane brought the boy to the point where all inhibition was lost; he yelped, gasped plaintively, blubbered through tears of remorse and finally yielded to the power of his matron’s cane. He cried out for pity. At this point he had forsaken Alison’s image completely and, in his mind, he could only see the neat, primly dressed school matron who now had him completely at her command. Pritchard finally yielded. His lesson had been learnt and Matron Philips took one last well aimed swipe and stopped.

“Put your trousers on,” Matron Philips’s command was gentle compared to before and Pritchard gratefully did as he was told. He offered his hands to her which she smited with the tapered end of her cane. Its tip lashed against the surface of each palm and left a thin red line which stung atrociously. The boy hunched his back holding both hands beneath his armpits as he sobbed pitifully in front of his new house matron. In his mind, he vowed never to disappoint her again and to prove his obedience to her straight away.

“This is a boy who has learnt his lesson,” she announced, inviting Alison to turn around and behold the spectacle. “You see, Chatterton.” She continued with remarkable calm in her voice. “They all need the same thing; they need to know who is boss. In that way, they can be more easily instructed and guided in the right ways. All of my boys need to be reminded of this at one time or other.”

Then, as Alison watched on, Matron Philips went up to Pritchard and spoke to him softly, tutting and repeating his name gently, “Oh Pritchard, Pritchard, Pritchard. I’m sorry that it had to happen, but you only have yourself to blame, young man!” She then straightened his tie and attended to the lapels of his school blazer, stood back a pace and quickly admired how splendidly smart he now looked.

“Come on, Pritchard. It’s time to go.”

And, at that, Matron Philips left as her new boy followed quickly behind.

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