The de-lliberalisation of Miss Smith part 1

Miss Smith was a new teacher when I started secondary school. She came from a dynasty of teachers — her father had been a headteacher. She was well liked. Blonde, pretty, perhaps 23. Energetic and engaged. Like all teachers in those late 70s, her only culturally acceptable response to high spirits or mischief was to give a belting.
The first time any of us saw her belt, she summoned me to the front for continuing a group discussion after she had requested silence. Her subject, Modern Studies — a kind of modern history and political science syllabus — required a lot of changing gears: text work, group discussions, and debates. As such, crowd control was vital.
It was a solemn moment. She said she regretted having to bring out her belt but I had brought it on myself. She asked for an apology. A 13-year-old version of me genuinely apologised. But we all knew that if she was to save face she would have to administer the strap. She went to her drawer and took out not the expected crisp new council-issued three-tail tawse but an older chalky brown strap. Thick, with tails darkened from the hands of a generation of pupils. Her father’s old headmaster’s belt.
Alarm bells went off in my head. I had already witnessed several severe beltings delivered to us newcomers. The staff room rhyme was “no soft smiles, only hard strokes till Christmas,” till they broke us into senior school behaviour.
I put out my hands and steeled myself for what was to come. The fear was almost absurd given I was facing a young, blonde, pretty teacher, 5 ft 4, wearing a floral dress, tiny white ankle socks, and white court shoes.
The strap descended twice. It did sting, but not enough to push the whole experience out of captivating into pure pain. She folded the strap in half in her left hand and put her right on my shoulder. Genuinely concerned: “Are you ok, Mike?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Good. I don’t want to have to punish you again. Please do as I ask when I ask.”
And so developed a pattern. Early in every lesson someone — 100% a boy — would slip up and be called out. It rotated between about six of us. She would administer between 2–4 strokes. Despite having a nuclear-grade tawse there was only shaking and blowing, never tears, never real distress. She always checked in to make sure you were ok. What can I say? It felt like a relationship. Like being seen by a young, beautiful woman.
Her class was popular and many chose her as an option and followed her through to Highers aged 16. She developed quite a following, with boys opening doors for her and stepping aside for her to pass etc.
By 16 the classes became set by ability rather than sex and the class became mixed. Several of the boys were retained in her class. The pattern continued, with each class featuring an early dose of the tawse. “Paul Parker, what am I going to do with you? This must be your sixth belting this year. I’m afraid it will have to be four. Hands up.” Four firm cracks with that heaviest of tawses. A spirited hand-shaking and blowing. “Will you be ok for the rest of the lesson?”
“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”
We all noticed as the girls joined that she had changed to a more mature dress sense. Blouses and pencil skirts. Tights and strappy sandals slowly ousted her softer prior look.
The girls were far more mature. They spotted this play for what it was and they didn’t like it.
Finally an opportunity came. Miss Smith was conducting a debate on the good and challenging aspects of modern school life. Moira — extremely mature, a lower school prefect, pristine in her uniform, now old enough to have discarded white socks and Mary Janes for hosiery and court shoes — said it.
“It makes me uncomfortable, Miss, the way the boys seek to be belted by you. I think you either need a new belt, to try harder, or send them to a male teacher.”
Our class was by far the most liberal we had, but the atmosphere turned to ice.
“Stand up, Moira, and come to the front right now. I will not tolerate such malicious nonsense in my class.”
Moira went to the front. “I thought you encouraged free discussion, Miss?”
“Silence! I do, but I won’t encourage your undermining of my authority. Have you been belted before, Moira?”
“No, Miss.”
“Well, you are going to be shocked how much it hurts. But you will change hands after every stroke. And you WILL take all six or I will have you suspended and stripped of your prefecture. Have I made myself clear?”
“…Yes… Miss.”
She went to her drawer and took out the tawse. It uncurled languidly in her hands as she freed the two thongs so they could land independently.
She stepped back. “Hands up, Moira. Now. Please.”
Moira looked dignified. She put her hands out determinedly, every inch the graceful young lady.
Kerrrrackkk! Owwww!
Hands changed quickly, one over the other.
KERRRrackk!
Moira’s eyes were open in shock. Never had she imagined that someone could want to hurt her like this — deliberately.
She didn’t notice her hands were now under her armpits.
“Get them up again. Don’t keep me waiting or I’ll add extra.”
Moira forced her hands up, crossed and presented at shoulder height.
Again the leather flew. Each strike doubled by the two thick, cruel tails, cured and hardened by Miss Smith’s father’s thousands of administrations.
Kerrrrrackkk!
Moira started to sob. This was continuing. She had no control.
Kerrrackkk!
She started to panic, crying, with no agency as someone deliberately punished her till she lost her dignity and poise. Why wouldn’t she stop? She couldn’t mean to be hurting this much. She couldn’t mean this.
Miss Smith didn’t say anything. She left the belt draped over her shoulder and forcefully pulled Moira’s hands out from under her armpits and robustly put them back in position.
KerrrrrraCKKKKK!
“Please Miss. No Miss please.”
There was no attempt to change hands.
So Miss Smith rained the sixth down on the same blistering palm. Kerrrackkkkkkkkk. Wrist flicking to drive home the tails.
There was nothing left of that poised, confident young lady. She was now a sobbing young girl under a far more senior woman’s spell.
“Get out of my class to the toilets. Wash and compose yourself. And straighten up your uniform. If you are a second over five minutes or if you further disturb my lesson I will belt you again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss,” a very little girl replied.
We had watched on rapt. All eyes on this theatre. Girls disturbed, frightened even. Boys fascinated and not a little exhilarated by this utterly unforeseen display of classroom dominance. The theatre was shocking but you just couldn’t take your eyes off it. We were all dis-equilibrated. We had no idea she was capable of such effective discipline. No idea why she had unleashed it on a normally exemplary girl and what it would mean for future class beltings. The latter would soon become clear but the prior has troubled me to this day. Perhaps the community could help unravel those motivations.