The Miller’s Mercy
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Mr Miller was unnecessarily cruel and a bad person
Mr Miller showed kindness and was a good person
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The Miller’s Mercy
or
Tawse Love Tales
Mr Miller, the deputy head, had become extremely concerned. He had reviewed the preliminary maths results for the top set and was shocked.
He arrived in class to find it chaotic. Mr Rawlings, who was leaving for another school, had checked out. Teaching, for him, consisted of telling us to open our textbooks, read them, and do the exercises while he read the paper. He even got us to mark each other’s papers, which of course we up-marked hugely. It worked for him. We thought it worked for us. But the exam-condition prelims had revealed the looming disaster.
Miller burst through the door. Everyone froze. He was both respected, liked, and feared. He delivered the boys’ assembly beltings. He excelled. Lessons were always learned; examples were always received loud and clear by the pupils who sat through the torture show.
He scanned the class. The four of us who were out of our seats were picked out.
“You, you, you and you!” His finger punctuated the pronouns. “Out front.”
Without any hesitation he reached into his academic gown and withdrew his XH three-tail tawse. No rigmarole. Two quite extraordinary strokes each. We were dancing a jig, shaking furiously. He even overlooked me exhorting “Jesus Christ!” But he stopped at two. Point made. We all heard. He had been lenient, if that word can ever be used in such terms.
“Get to your seats and God help the next boy I find not 100% concentrating on their chemistry exam… understood?”
Shaken out of our torpor we all replied brightly, “Yes, SIR!”
Rawlings, wide-eyed, still had The Scotsman paper in his hands.
“Deputy head…”
Miller cut him off. “Can I encourage you to go to the staffroom for a cup of tea? I hadn’t realised how exhausted you have clearly become.”
We never saw him again.
Over the next three months we grew to love Miller. He took our class personally, on top of all his other duties, and gave us five extra hours every week from 4 to 5. He repaired the neglect and brought us to the highest standards we could achieve. He never again had to reach for his terrible tawse. He led by example.
Then we saw it again.
Next door we had a maths teacher, Miss Docherty. She was very eccentric, wearing long 1920s-style skirts and jackets and ankle boots. Her hair was short and blue. Maybe fifty-five. She had no known partner. Every lesson we could hear her strap some unfortunate girl — first the shouting like a preliminary artillery barrage, then the cracks of the leather, then the squeals.
Miller would look up and shake his head. Yet he didn’t interfere. Or so we thought.
Then one lesson we heard the shouting and bawling next door. We knew what came next. But to our surprise silence ensued, and a sixth-year girl, Sophie, knocked on the door.
“Come!” came clearly from Miller. “Can I help?”
In came Sophie. Five-foot-four, a true young lady. White blouse, perfect tie knot, blue blazer, demure grey pleated skirt, and high-heeled court shoes with an ankle strap. Her ash-blonde hair was thick and plaited into a single thick tail hanging down her back with an absolutely fetching ribbon. She was just perfect.
“Miss Docherty has said you’ve asked to be referred the next belting from her class. She has asked me to come to you for six of your belt, sir.”
“Your offence, young lass?”
“Repeated uniform infractions, sir.” She pushed her left leg forward, showing a short view of black tights rather than tan. She was clearly nervous but trying to retain her eighteen-year-old new-found feminine poise.
“Hmm. Well, I did ask. Can’t say I noticed.”
“Forgive me, sir — Miss Docherty has instructed me to note that she will finish the six if you don’t… I’m sorry, sir.”
Her poise was slipping. She looked around this class of younger sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys and blushed red as her predicament struck her.
Miller looked reflective.
“Boys. I am going to ask for volunteers. I need four boys to each take one stroke for young Sophie here. And let’s keep this between ourselves.”
A dozen hands went up. Not mine, I have to say. I’d experienced that tawse already.
Miller pointed at the nearest four boys. “Well done, lads. Line up there.”
Sophie was confused but started smiling. She could not believe her luck. Mercy was in extremely short supply at our school.
Next he went to Sophie. “I’m sorry, lass, but you will have to join the line. That’s it — stand there at the end.”
Her fear returned. “I’m afraid you have broken uniform policy and I’ll think you’ll agree that two is the minimum I can give you. It will hurt. A lot. But Miss Docherty will check those hands and is too experienced to miss the difference between a well-belted and an unstrapped girl.”
“Change hands between the strokes. I don’t mind if you shake. Maybe a cry out will help the deceit?”
“Are you ready?”
The boys nodded. Each assumed the position: hands straight out and crossed over.
“Non-writing hands, boys! Be sensible! Are you ready, Sophie?”
She nodded, already teared up. She tried to copy the boys and it became clear she’d never taken the position before. Miller went to her and gently adjusted the height of her fingers.
“Keep the palms flat, girl, and hide the whole bottom palm with the upper. Concentrate when you change. You do not want the strap hitting your fingertips or slipping down onto the lower hand.”
The boys nodded at this technique advice.
“Now boys — no noise. We will be under surveillance!”
He walked to the start of the line. The only fumbly moment was when he tried to retrieve his thick strap from the false sleeve of his academic gown. The rest was flawless and rhythmic.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Each boy danced and shook on the spot, desperately keeping their yelps in.
I watched Sophie. She took a deep breath as though preparing for an impact on falling. She clenched her jaw and tried so hard to be determined. Her eyes screwed shut as she saw him start the downward stroke.
The three cruel thongs stung like three hornets into her palm and she let out a piercing squeal. She rammed her right hand between her thighs and crossed her left knee over her right.
Mr Miller beckoned her to raise her left hand.
She shook her head and looked up with her tear-stained face. “Please, sir, I can’t. It’s too awful.”
Mr Miller straightened. “Don’t spoil it, girl. I’ve been very lenient. The boys have saved you four strokes. You have broken uniform policy and been warned. You are going to take this second stroke whether you like it or not.”
Mark, the handsomest of us who’d volunteered, said, “I’ll take it, sir.”
“No you won’t, Mark. You’ve done your bit.”
Kinder again: “Come on, lass. It’ll be over in a second.”
Mark said, “You can do it, Sophie.”
Trembling, she slowly raised her other hand and took on the look of determination she had so lost. Hand trembling, she closed her eyes.
Kerrrackkkkkk!
She howled and danced up and down on the spot. Tears now running freely.
Miller took her by the shoulder.
“Breathe, lassie. In and out. That’s it. The agony passes quick, though you’ll know you’ve been belted for days.”
Sophie reached for her handkerchief.
“No, lass — don’t wipe. Show her those tears. It’s what she’s after. It’ll work better for you.”
We heard some muffled voices but no more strokes, so Miller’s ruse had worked.
Was it kindness or abuse? I think it’s a matter of perspective.
Sophie told Mark, whom she subsequently dated, that she was grateful for only two, but they were absurdly hard.
Mark said, “I know.”
Cue 🎶 We found love in the strangest place.
or
Tawse Love Tales
Mr Miller, the deputy head, had become extremely concerned. He had reviewed the preliminary maths results for the top set and was shocked.
He arrived in class to find it chaotic. Mr Rawlings, who was leaving for another school, had checked out. Teaching, for him, consisted of telling us to open our textbooks, read them, and do the exercises while he read the paper. He even got us to mark each other’s papers, which of course we up-marked hugely. It worked for him. We thought it worked for us. But the exam-condition prelims had revealed the looming disaster.
Miller burst through the door. Everyone froze. He was both respected, liked, and feared. He delivered the boys’ assembly beltings. He excelled. Lessons were always learned; examples were always received loud and clear by the pupils who sat through the torture show.
He scanned the class. The four of us who were out of our seats were picked out.
“You, you, you and you!” His finger punctuated the pronouns. “Out front.”
Without any hesitation he reached into his academic gown and withdrew his XH three-tail tawse. No rigmarole. Two quite extraordinary strokes each. We were dancing a jig, shaking furiously. He even overlooked me exhorting “Jesus Christ!” But he stopped at two. Point made. We all heard. He had been lenient, if that word can ever be used in such terms.
“Get to your seats and God help the next boy I find not 100% concentrating on their chemistry exam… understood?”
Shaken out of our torpor we all replied brightly, “Yes, SIR!”
Rawlings, wide-eyed, still had The Scotsman paper in his hands.
“Deputy head…”
Miller cut him off. “Can I encourage you to go to the staffroom for a cup of tea? I hadn’t realised how exhausted you have clearly become.”
We never saw him again.
Over the next three months we grew to love Miller. He took our class personally, on top of all his other duties, and gave us five extra hours every week from 4 to 5. He repaired the neglect and brought us to the highest standards we could achieve. He never again had to reach for his terrible tawse. He led by example.
Then we saw it again.
Next door we had a maths teacher, Miss Docherty. She was very eccentric, wearing long 1920s-style skirts and jackets and ankle boots. Her hair was short and blue. Maybe fifty-five. She had no known partner. Every lesson we could hear her strap some unfortunate girl — first the shouting like a preliminary artillery barrage, then the cracks of the leather, then the squeals.
Miller would look up and shake his head. Yet he didn’t interfere. Or so we thought.
Then one lesson we heard the shouting and bawling next door. We knew what came next. But to our surprise silence ensued, and a sixth-year girl, Sophie, knocked on the door.
“Come!” came clearly from Miller. “Can I help?”
In came Sophie. Five-foot-four, a true young lady. White blouse, perfect tie knot, blue blazer, demure grey pleated skirt, and high-heeled court shoes with an ankle strap. Her ash-blonde hair was thick and plaited into a single thick tail hanging down her back with an absolutely fetching ribbon. She was just perfect.
“Miss Docherty has said you’ve asked to be referred the next belting from her class. She has asked me to come to you for six of your belt, sir.”
“Your offence, young lass?”
“Repeated uniform infractions, sir.” She pushed her left leg forward, showing a short view of black tights rather than tan. She was clearly nervous but trying to retain her eighteen-year-old new-found feminine poise.
“Hmm. Well, I did ask. Can’t say I noticed.”
“Forgive me, sir — Miss Docherty has instructed me to note that she will finish the six if you don’t… I’m sorry, sir.”
Her poise was slipping. She looked around this class of younger sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys and blushed red as her predicament struck her.
Miller looked reflective.
“Boys. I am going to ask for volunteers. I need four boys to each take one stroke for young Sophie here. And let’s keep this between ourselves.”
A dozen hands went up. Not mine, I have to say. I’d experienced that tawse already.
Miller pointed at the nearest four boys. “Well done, lads. Line up there.”
Sophie was confused but started smiling. She could not believe her luck. Mercy was in extremely short supply at our school.
Next he went to Sophie. “I’m sorry, lass, but you will have to join the line. That’s it — stand there at the end.”
Her fear returned. “I’m afraid you have broken uniform policy and I’ll think you’ll agree that two is the minimum I can give you. It will hurt. A lot. But Miss Docherty will check those hands and is too experienced to miss the difference between a well-belted and an unstrapped girl.”
“Change hands between the strokes. I don’t mind if you shake. Maybe a cry out will help the deceit?”
“Are you ready?”
The boys nodded. Each assumed the position: hands straight out and crossed over.
“Non-writing hands, boys! Be sensible! Are you ready, Sophie?”
She nodded, already teared up. She tried to copy the boys and it became clear she’d never taken the position before. Miller went to her and gently adjusted the height of her fingers.
“Keep the palms flat, girl, and hide the whole bottom palm with the upper. Concentrate when you change. You do not want the strap hitting your fingertips or slipping down onto the lower hand.”
The boys nodded at this technique advice.
“Now boys — no noise. We will be under surveillance!”
He walked to the start of the line. The only fumbly moment was when he tried to retrieve his thick strap from the false sleeve of his academic gown. The rest was flawless and rhythmic.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Each boy danced and shook on the spot, desperately keeping their yelps in.
I watched Sophie. She took a deep breath as though preparing for an impact on falling. She clenched her jaw and tried so hard to be determined. Her eyes screwed shut as she saw him start the downward stroke.
The three cruel thongs stung like three hornets into her palm and she let out a piercing squeal. She rammed her right hand between her thighs and crossed her left knee over her right.
Mr Miller beckoned her to raise her left hand.
She shook her head and looked up with her tear-stained face. “Please, sir, I can’t. It’s too awful.”
Mr Miller straightened. “Don’t spoil it, girl. I’ve been very lenient. The boys have saved you four strokes. You have broken uniform policy and been warned. You are going to take this second stroke whether you like it or not.”
Mark, the handsomest of us who’d volunteered, said, “I’ll take it, sir.”
“No you won’t, Mark. You’ve done your bit.”
Kinder again: “Come on, lass. It’ll be over in a second.”
Mark said, “You can do it, Sophie.”
Trembling, she slowly raised her other hand and took on the look of determination she had so lost. Hand trembling, she closed her eyes.
Kerrrackkkkkk!
She howled and danced up and down on the spot. Tears now running freely.
Miller took her by the shoulder.
“Breathe, lassie. In and out. That’s it. The agony passes quick, though you’ll know you’ve been belted for days.”
Sophie reached for her handkerchief.
“No, lass — don’t wipe. Show her those tears. It’s what she’s after. It’ll work better for you.”
We heard some muffled voices but no more strokes, so Miller’s ruse had worked.
Was it kindness or abuse? I think it’s a matter of perspective.
Sophie told Mark, whom she subsequently dated, that she was grateful for only two, but they were absurdly hard.
Mark said, “I know.”
Cue 🎶 We found love in the strangest place.
