Sir Ian had been on the point of saying that the little girl had called him ‘Daddy’, but then he thought better of it. After all, women were funny creatures and you never knew what they might think once they got an idea into their heads.
Lady Lavinia asked what the child was like.
“Oh, I don’t know. Those damnation workhouse uniforms make all children look alike. I know she had dark hair. That’s all I can say. But one thing I do know for certain: she was the only one to come up and say ‘thank you’ personally.”
Lady Lavinia smiled fondly at her husband. “It does her much credit,” she said, “and you can be sure of another thing: there is one little girl for whom this will be a day to remember.”
A DAY TO REMEMBER
Jane waited for nearly two hours in the punishment room. This was because the Master had to accompany Sir Ian to the boys’ section, after which many practical arrangements had to be sorted out. Then the Master wanted his supper, and a chance to discuss Jane’s wickedness with his wife.
Two hours is a long time for a small child to wait alone in a closed room (Jane was eight years old). She grew hungry and fidgety. She was not particularly worried or frightened, in fact her mind was still buoyant. Her daddy had cuddled her and called her “my child”.
She heard a key in the lock, and jumped up expectantly, smoothing out her apron and running her fingers through her curls, her face eager. The Master and a male officer entered. Her face fell.
“Where’s my daddy?” she asked in a little voice.
The Master was bent on vengeance, and her question only added fuel to his fury. He took two steps across the room and hit her full in the face. She fell against the wall.
“You wicked girl. I’ll knock that nonsense out of you.” But Jane was a girl of spirit, and now that she had her protector, she wasn’t afraid of anyone. Her eyes gleaming, she faced the Master.
“I’ll tell my daddy on you,” she shouted.
The Master hit her again, harder this time. “Sir Ian Astor-Smaleigh is not your father. Do you understand? Now say it after me: ‘Sir Ian Astor-Smaleigh is not my father.’ Say it.”
Now at this point a very curious thing happened. Curious to an adult, that is, but logical to the mind of a child. Children frequently hear something quite different from what has actually been said, particularly if it is something new and unrelated to anything else in their experience. (For example, throughout her childhood, my daughter thought our telephone number was “fried potato”. She had heard us say “53280”.)
Jane thought the Master had said: “See a nasty smelly is not my father.” It didn’t make sense. She stared at him in sullen amazement.
“Say it, say it,” shouted the Master.
She didn’t say a word, but just looked at him.
The Master repeated the whole sentence, and demanded she say it, his hand raised threateningly.
The child continued to stare at him in amazement. “A nasty smelly?” she exclaimed, her tone raised enquiringly.
“You insolent little bastard,” the man roared. “First you insult Sir Ian, and now you insult me.”
To the officer: “Undress her.”
The officer grabbed her and started to undo the buttons of her dress. At this Jane really became alarmed and tried to pull away.
“Stop it, let me go. I’ll tell my daddy on you, I will.”
“Oh, the wickedness! Has she no shame?” muttered the officer, and continued to undress Jane until she stood naked before them. She was crying and frightened now, but still she resisted as much as her puny strength would allow.
“Hold her hands tight and turn her around,” ordered the Master, selecting the leather-thonged whip from the wall. Jane saw him take it down, and screamed.
“No! No! Don’t! Let me go! Da—”
The first lash fell across her back, knocking all the breath out of her. Pain like fire shot through her body, and the second stroke fell before she had time to breathe. When the third fell, with excruciating pain, Jane realised what was happening. She gathered all her strength and pulled hard at the hands holding her screaming, “No, stop it. Daddy, Da—”
The fourth lash fell with added force. The three lead pellets at the end of the thongs cut into her back.
The pain was like nothing we can imagine. A flogging across the back and shoulders causes indescribable agony because the bones, which are a mass of sensitive nerve endings, are only just beneath the skin surface, and there is very little soft tissue to protect them. The leather thongs were hard and cut the skin, exposing the bones to further pain and injury. The lead pellets struck in random places, tearing the flesh.
By the fifth lash, Jane began to lose consciousness. All her weight fell on to the arms of the officer who held her, and she vomited down his trousers.
“Dirty little thing,” he exclaimed, and jerked his knee upwards, catching her in the mouth. Her teeth clamped together over her tongue, which was lolling forward, and blood trickled out of her mouth.
Still the Master continued his self-appointed task. He had intended twenty lashes of the whip, but his wife had cautioned him, saying, “You don’t want to kill her. Questions might be asked. Ten lashes will be enough to teach the girl the lesson she deserves.”
Jane felt no more pain. She was only conscious of a terrible jolt to her body each time the lash fell. She could hear and see nothing beyond a red mist that swam all around her.
Eight . . . nine . . . ten. The Master brought down the last stroke with satisfaction. The officer let go of Jane’s hands, and she fell to the floor. She had wet herself, and she slid into the urine that was mixed with vomit and blood.
“Get a couple of the women to take her to the dormitory. She is to come to my office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, before she goes to school.”
The Master issued the orders, hung the whip on the hook, and left the punishment room.
A nurse and a female officer came to collect Jane and take her up to the dormitory. The nurse was shocked with what she saw but the officer, who had seen it all before, was very blasé.
“She’ll get over it. A good beating never did a child any harm. ‘Spare the lash and spoil the child.’ Come on. Get up on your feet, you lazy girl, and put your dress on.”
The nurse was horrified. “You can’t put a dress on with her back like that. She needs lint and gauze and ointments.”
“Well she won’t get them,” said the female officer, with finality in her voice. “The Master would never stand for favouritism.”
The nurse took off her apron and wrapped the child in it. Jane could barely stand, let alone walk, so the nurse carried her upstairs to the dormitory. She laid her on the bed, face down, and fetched a bowl of cold water. She sat beside the bed for hours, bathing the girl’s back with cold water to reduce the blood flow and restrict the terminal capillaries, so reducing the inflammation.
In spite of the pain Jane fell asleep. The nurse continued to bathe her back and all the girls crept into the dormitory, subdued and silent. They slipped into bed, and only a few whispers were heard. One of their number, the brightest and liveliest, had been terribly flogged, and a wave of shock and horror united them in silence.
A little girl with blonde hair crept up to the nurse. She was crying piteously. She said her name was Peggy and she laid her fair hair against Jane’s dark curls, whispering to her, kissing her, and sobbing. She asked the nurse if she could help, and so she took a cold sponge and bathed Jane’s back just as the nurse showed her. Together, the stunned and silent nurse and the weeping little girl ministered to the stricken Jane, until Peggy was so tired that she too fell asleep.