In Uncle Gascoigne’s Library
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
Harry slouched disconsolately in the
corner seat. The third-class carriage was empty, as was most of the train. A
Thursday afternoon in late November was not a popular time to travel. His
buttocks ached on the hard wooden seat. He hugged his arms around his body.
Miserably, he shivered. At this rate, he reflected, he’d end up in the hospital
with pneumonia.
It had been five hours earlier that the
porter at St. Tom’s had put him unceremoniously on the train. There was no word
of farewell; the brute hadn’t even carried his suitcase. That’s how they
treated a chap when he was sacked.
At last, the steam train chugged into
Weatherstone Halt. Journey’s End. Or, Harry supposed, New Journey Starts. What
did his future have in store? Who knew? The only certainty was that first he
must face Uncle Gascoigne.
He stepped from the train into a swirling
mist. It engulfed the small platform; he could barely see a hand in front of
his face. His feet slipped on the frost beneath his feet. An eerie silence
enveloped him. If Harry had been a reader, he might have likened it to a scene
from a Victorian ghost story. He stood, uncertain, suitcase by his side. How
was he to get to Weatherstone Manor? It was some distance off; too far to walk
with a heavy case.
“Hello Master Harry!” it was a croaking
voice. It seemed to come from nearby, but the mist was thickening and he
couldn’t see. “Over here!” As if by some magic the fog cleared and Harry saw an
old man wrapped in a heavy overcoat, a scarf and a big woollen hat. It was Tom,
his uncle’s Faithful Retainer.
The journey by pony and trap was short. A
biting wind tore through Harry. He wore only his school blazer and it was no
use against the cold. Nor did his grey trousers give protection from the wind.
Tom, drove in silence. He was a man of few words as was expected from a devoted
servant. He geed the pony and steered it along the narrow lanes to the Manor.
His was the only vehicle on the road. Harry hugged his own body with cold and
let the wintry countryside pass him by unnoticed.
The Manor loomed; an imposing Gothic pile.
Even on a summer’s day it looked unwelcoming. On this day and in these
circumstances it seemed especially hostile. Tom steadied the pony while Harry
climbed down. “I’ll take care of your case, Master Harry,” the Faithful
Retainer spoke with a hint of regret, “Your uncle says you are to go directly
to the library.” He studied his own hands intently.
“Oh,” Harry spoke softly. The summons had
not been unexpected, but he had hoped there might be some interval before he
faced Uncle Gascoigne. He trudged towards the door. The inside of the manor was
as ugly and imposing as the outside. The hallway could have been the entrance
to a municipal town hall. It might be large enough to house a cricket pitch.
Several doors of heavy dark oak ran into it. Harry was not concerned with
these. The room he sought was up the imposing spiral staircase on the first
floor. He trudged up it.
Harry was a boy of little imagination, so
as he made his journey he did not reflect on its similarity to St. Tom’s. He
had been summoned to the housemaster’s study countless times, each journey
requiring a long trek through School House, along a narrow passageway towards a
heavy wooden door. On the other side he would be confronted by a cane-wielding
master. What happened next can be safely left to the reader’s imagination.
Harry reached the library door and paused,
unsure how to proceed. Should he turn the handle, fling open the door wide and
burst into the room and offer Uncle Gascoigne a cheerful “Hello Uncle! I’m
home!” Perhaps not. Uncle Gascoigne was not by temperament a cheerful fellow
and was generally feared and respected in equal measure by his household and
the tenants of the estate he ruled over. He was dreaded by the petty villains
who appeared before him at the local magistrates’ bench. Harry tapped his
knuckles respectfully against the panelled door.
“Come!” the boomed command was self-important.
Uncle Gascoigne was a man who demanded obedience. And invariable received it.
With a quaking hand, Harry turned the handle and eased the door open, making
only enough space for him to squeeze into the room. He stood anxiously. Uncle
Gascoigne sat in a large, padded armchair, a cup and saucer held daintily in
his hands. “Close the door boy! Close the door! You’re letting the heat out!”
he barked.
Once this was done, Harry stood, hands
deferentially held behind his back. Uncle Gascoigne called the room his
“library” but in truth it was a drawing room with shelves of books. Harry had
never once troubled himself to handle any of the hundreds of volumes that
surrounded him. As well as an armchair the room contained a dining table,
matching chairs and an ancient Chesterfield-type couch.
Uncle Gascoigne returned his cup and
saucer to the table and stretched his arms wide. He was an imposing figure,
standing head and shoulders above Harry, who himself was no dwarf. He wore a
frockcoat, waistcoat and striped trousers. Harry did not know this but he had
recently returned from the Magistrates’ Court. Even as they spoke seven youths
were under the lash of the local police sergeant.
Uncle Gascoigne frowned. He gripped the
lapel of his coat and steadied himself. This was how he stood when making
speeches at the Tory Association. He had prepared some words. Harry did not
change his stance; hands behind back, head high. At St. Tom’s the form was
always to look at a master when he was jawing you.
“Since your parents passed on,” Uncle
Gascoigne droned, “I have taken care of you. I have paid for your education.” He
delivered a liturgy on his generosity. “So this is how you repay me.” He picked
up a letter from the table and (for dramatic effect) peered closely at it. It
was an unnecessary gesture since he knew its contents by heart. It was a letter
from the headmaster at St. Tom’s detailing Harry’s misdeeds leading to the
inevitable conclusion that the eighteen-year-old must leave the school
forthwith.
“You spend your time playing billiards in
some God-awful public house when you should be at your studies.”
Harry suppressed a smile. He did much more
at the Three Fishers than play billiards, but it was better that the headmaster
and Uncle Gascoigne did not hear about that.
“A disgrace!” Uncle Gascoigne had used
similar words to the louts at the court earlier that day. For it was true,
Harry was no better than they. For all his privileges, he was a wastrel. “We
shall have to consider your future at a later date,” Uncle Gascoigne said, his
puffy eyes narrowing, “For now …” he let the words trail away and glanced
across the room. Harry followed his gaze. His heartbeat skipped, standing in
the corner of the room was a large enamel bucket and soaking in water and
sticking from its top was a freshly-cut birch rod.
Silently, Uncle Gascoigne took hold of one
of the dining room chairs and moved it so that it was in front of Harry. His
beady eyes met those of his nephew. He hesitated, trying to read the mind of
the wayward teenager. Harry’s eyes were dull; unreadable. “Bah!” Uncle
Gascoigne ejaculated. “Take off your blazer, put it on the table. Lower your
trousers and underwear. Bend over the chair.” It was a simple set of commands,
sternly spoken. The boy would do as he was instructed, Uncle Gascoigne was in
no doubt.
While Harry climbed out of his school
blazer, Uncle Gascoigne stood over the enamel bucket and gripped the birch rod
by its handle. He swished it through the air allowing droplets of water to
dampen the solid wooden floor. He tested the rod in his hands, taking its
weight. Birch rods were made for purpose and each was unique. They could be
long or short; heavy or light. They might have six branches or dozens.
The one Uncle Gascoigne held was not in
fact strictly-speaking a birch rod, since it was constructed of hazel branches.
Hazel was more easily available in local woods and had the properties of both
suppleness and strength. It had been made at the local police station. It was
unheard of for Uncle Gascoigne to request them to make him personally a birch,
but they asked no questions when he did. Col. Trumpington-Smythe, his fellow
magistrate, often made such a demand.
The rod in Uncle Gascoigne’s hand had been
expertly constructed. There were fifteen twigs, each almost perfectly straight,
that were between twenty-six and thirty inches long. They had been clipped into
a conical shape. The ends and tips had been trimmed and a handle bound with
cord made. It tapered gracefully from handle to tip and felt comfortable and
balanced as he held it. He swished it through the air once more, it had been
soaked in water overnight and felt fresh and supple.
Harry watched aghast. His blazer was
safely laying on the table but his trousers and underwear were still in their
rightful position. “Quickly!” Uncle Gascoigne snapped. “Or do you want
additional strokes?” It was a question that needed no answer. Harry had no
doubt that his uncle was serious. He forced his hands to unfasten his trousers,
the weight of the heavy wool sent them hurtling to his knees. He wore
fashionable athletic underwear of the short variety. He hesitated until Uncle
Gascoigne’s heavy, impatient breath spurred him onwards. Soon he was bare from
the waist to his ankles.
“Bend over the chair,” Uncle Gascoigne
swiped the birch, “I assume you know the drill.” Indeed Harry did.
Schoolmasters had their own peculiarities when administering canings. One might
require a boy to present himself touching toes, knees straight; that was
probably the most “traditional” position known. It was, however, not the most
efficient method. The posterior was stretched and bent at such and angle that
the size of the target was diminished. Others would make a boy go over a chair.
How this was done depended on the furniture available. The back of an armchair
could be used, but so many of them were tall and a boy could not properly reach
over. Most studies had at least one hard wooden chair and this was perfect. A
boy faced the seat, gipped tightly on both sides, spread his legs, arched his
back and jutted his rear end out. A perfect target, offering up a generous expanse
of stretched bottom for the schoolmaster’s cane. Harry chose that latter
position.
Uncle Gascoigne was no expert at birching.
It was one of his roles in life to order others to perform such acts. He acted
on instinct. He supposed the general idea was to assault as great an area of
the naked buttocks now on show as possible. The posterior should end up raw and
tender, but there was no need to leave the boy bloodied and battered.
He took up position to Harry’s left. The cheeks
quivered in anticipation of the assault
to come. The other end of Harry appeared stoical. He held the seat cushion
tightly, his eyes focused on a small stain on its fabric. His breathing was
easy. Uncle Gascoigne rested the birch against his nephew’s bottom so that it
covered nearly every square inch.
Harry bit down on his lower
lip. He had long since been hardened to the ordeal of corporal punishment, but
the application of a well-made birch rod wielded by his angry uncle might prove
to be a torment of great proportions.
With the skill of a golfer, Uncle
Gascoigne turned his body, screeched, and then flogged the
birch across the eighteen-year-old’s bare bottom with startling speed. Harry’s
head rose, his mouth gaped and his face tightened, but he uttered no sound.
The birch struck again and the
delinquent schoolboy swayed noticeably. His face was now as scarlet as his
bottom. He shook his head from side to side, rather like a braying donkey. A
third cut slashed his once-pale buttocks, small cuts ranged from his
undercurves over the fleshiest part of his bottom. Already his bum was
beginning to resemble raw hamburger meat.
Harry gasped, drank in a
mouthful of air, then sighed long and loudly. He wriggled and writhed, but he
knew better than to try to stand. To do that in the middle of punishment always
meant extra strokes (it was an unwritten law). His heartrate sped as the agony
travelled through his body; his legs in particular ached terribly.
Uncle
Gascoigne slashed two more into the pulsating cheeks.
Whip-whip. The second swipe fell low, across the backs of Harry’s thighs. His almighty
screech bounced around the library. In the passageway outside, with his ear
close to the door, Old Tom the Faithful Retainer winced in sympathy.
“I think you are learning your
lesson,” Uncle
Gascoigne intoned.
“Yes,
Sir,” Harry croaked, feeling he was required to answer.
The birch flew through the air
applied with considerable beef one more time connecting with the battered and
bruised bottom higher. Harry convulsed. His legs marched up and down like a
demented sentry, his hips swayed from left to right and his cheeks rose and
fell. He wheezed heavily, sucked a throatful of vomit back down and sniffed
back the snot that was promising to drip from his nostrils.
Blood raced through his body,
his temples throbbed; his ears were about to explode. The agony was intense,
but it was over. “Get up.” Uncle Gascoigne, himself wheezing, returned
the birch to the enamel bucket. As it jangled against the side he noted how
sturdy the rod was. Very expertly made, he thought.
He
turned to see Harry struggling back into his underwear and trousers, the boy’s
face was drenched in tears. He stood unsteady, holding the back of the chair
for balance. His backside felt like he had been forced into a bathtub of
boiling water; he thought he would be unable to sit down for a week.
Uncle
Gascoigne pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed his brow and the
back of his neck. The flogging had taken more out of him than he had expected.
“You may go,” he grimaced, “And ask Old Tom outside to fetch me a glass of whisky.”
Picture credit: The
Magnet
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