Miss Crawford and the physics of the tawse Trilogy part 2
Part 2 of Crawford Tales
Miss Crawford was slightly regretting the stance she had taken. For weeks she had been handing out two to four strokes of her classroom strap to the A-level physics class for either late assignment completion or her personal bugbear — getting the solution right but only providing the final answer. In the exam any error could be costly.
As a scientist she had spotted the pattern. The three boys and two girls attempting the maximum allowed six exams were persistent offenders. At first it was the boys, then the girls. All either 17 or 18 years of age, they were making a balanced, considered choice. They were accepting the strokes from her as “worth it.”
The final straw came when prefect Moira handed in a set of solutions that were numerically correct but showed no working.
She kept Moira’s punishment to the end — unusual, and eating into the entire class’s lunch break. She always punished before the class. The regulations insisted on this to engender learning from all witnesses. After all, the others had to learn from a strapping as well. That was classroom efficiency. How she’d been taught.
At 25 she felt her own days as a pupil under the regimen of the tawse, or even her early years of teaching uncertainty, were now well behind her. In all truth, to others, she was hardly the immediate embodiment of a strictly efficient senior teacher. She seemed gentle and kind in her cashmere cardigan, Marks & Spencer blouse, and long A-line skirt, with comfortable block-heeled loafers lending a few extra inches to her 5 ft 4 frame — all finished with demure American tan tights.
To the casual observer, only the uniform Moira wore — grey blazer with prefect’s badging, white blouse, tie (thick Windsor knot giving a coquettish short-tail look), pleated skirt, long above-knee grey socks (winter time), and black court-heeled shoes — would differentiate them. Uniform aside, both would simply look like generic young ladies to anyone not steeped in the hierarchy of education.
“Moira. You are going to receive one stroke for not displaying your required working for this assignment. If you submit the rest of the working by tomorrow we will just forgo the other three.”
Miss Crawford felt relief that she had got herself out of a tight situation. She had promised four strokes to the next pupil who ignored her express instructions. But she’d expected it to be one of the cock-sure lads. Not model Moira — an exemplar of a good pupil. She had no wish to hurt her. None at all. It was the boys who needed to be put in their place. To that end she had borrowed her HOD’s XH Lochgelly and had steeled herself to use it. They were literally shaking off her classroom tawse; she needed a way to make her will felt. She had gambled the XH would be that key.
But here was Moira. A lesson learned: don’t paint yourself into corners.
She made an immediate decision. The XH stayed in her bag and she opened her drawer where her standard black, education-authority-issued tawse lived — Sellotape roll within the coil and chalks to the side. She liked organisation.
Oh well. One with that strap wouldn’t distress Moira. Relief.
Moira spoke. She was so mature and thoughtful. A real advocate for good pupils and common sense. The head said he hoped one day she would join his staff as a teacher, so impressed was he with her conduct on the student council.
“Miss, I’m not being insolent. But I think I’m going to have to take the four of the belt. I just cannot do that amount of work. Several of us here are signed up for six certificate exams. The workload is undoable without compromise. If I choose this I won’t get it done and I’ll be in assembly getting six of the best. Let’s just get it done with. Other teachers are compromising, seeing the bigger picture — trusting us to self-manage our time and efforts.”
I could have stood up and applauded. We were all at our wits’ end. No laziness — just no spare capacity at all.
The class was utterly silent. Miss Crawford’s expression was one of disbelief.
She recovered quickly. “Outside the class now, Moira.”
They stepped outside.
Miss Crawford started immediately.
“Moira, for goodness’ sake, you are putting me in an impossible position. Be reasonable. Get in there, take your one stroke, and get me the working tomorrow. We will say no more about this.”
Moira teared up a bit. “Miss, I can’t. I just can’t. I’ll be getting belted tomorrow again for non-production, or belted by the other teachers I let down. Please trust me. I’m on the edge here. I’m exhausted. I’m a young adult. The school won’t let us share assignments — they punish us for ‘collusion’. It’s an impossible situation.”
Miss Crawford understood — she did. She too had taken on the six premier subjects. She remembered how hard it was. But her subject deserved respect. And she would be judged on how these top-tier sixth-years did. It was her first year entrusted at this level. She had to ensure her results were good. She began to convince herself that this was all for Moira’s good. But she was cursed with too much self-awareness.
“Moira, if we go through those doors I’m going to have to belt you hard. You realise this?”
“Miss, you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. You could simply march me in and tell me to sit down.”
“Moira, I think we both know that can’t happen. I will belt you severely… but I want you to be aware I have the departmental XH in my handbag. I’m not going to use it. I want you to reflect afterwards on the leniency I have displayed here. Decide, Moira. Now.”
Moira nodded and walked back into the classroom. She stood by the desk and put her hands out, one over the other.
Miss Crawford shook her head. She admired her spirit, but she had no choice. She opened her top left drawer and withdrew the black three-tail.
The class was watching.
This was bigger than the two of them. She had no choice but to maintain the school’s regimen of firm control through consistent but memorable corporal punishment. Moira had brought this on herself. She took a deep breath and calmed herself.
“Shall we begin, Moira?”
“Ye…ss, Miss,” Moira quavered.
“Class, please all observe what not doing your working will bring, without exception, henceforth.”
Kerrrrrrrackkkk.
Moira took the first crack with a grimace. Counter-intuitively the lighter strap made an incredible crack that made the watching class jump.
Again…
She changed hands. Miss Crawford snapped the strap across her palms again. This time she gasped and shook furiously, tears filling her eyes. She hated Crawford for going forward with this debacle.
Again…
She changed hands. This time Crawford put her all into it. Moira shouted out, gasping furiously, hands under her armpits.
“Please, Miss, no more. I’ll do my working, I promise.”
“I told you out there, Moira. You’ve made your bed — now lie on it.”
Again!!!!
Moira gritted her teeth and tried so very hard to hold her smarting left palm up.
Kerrackkk. She couldn’t help it — her hands dropped mid-stroke and the tails bit into her wrist and lower forearm. She yelped. Those mis-strikes hurt more than the official strokes, but there was only one reward.
“How dare you draw away. You are a senior girl. You know the punishment. Same hand. Up again. Now. Now!!”
Crawford took her hands and physically straightened the clawing fingers. She looked at the blistering welt on her forearm and felt real pity. She too had had to go through similar.
The final stroke was delivered at primary-school severity. Moira looked at her with near gratitude, arms folded across her chest and hands seeking whatever succour there was to be found in her armpits.
She was in tears but had retained most of her self-control and dignity. But she now knew that a teacher could easily strip it entirely if they chose. She hated Crawford for her medieval methods but was grateful for her restraint. Both things could be true at the same time.
“Sit down and don’t disturb the class. This was all your final warning. I’m serious, class.”
She opened her handbag and pulled out the far heavier brown XH Lochgelly tawse. It languidly unfolded on her desk.
“This is the last time I show leniency. It’s this Lochgelly next time, and I promise you — you won’t like it.”
As her anger and indignation calmed down, she felt nauseous.
Miss Crawford had just painted herself into another corner.
Miss Crawford was slightly regretting the stance she had taken. For weeks she had been handing out two to four strokes of her classroom strap to the A-level physics class for either late assignment completion or her personal bugbear — getting the solution right but only providing the final answer. In the exam any error could be costly.
As a scientist she had spotted the pattern. The three boys and two girls attempting the maximum allowed six exams were persistent offenders. At first it was the boys, then the girls. All either 17 or 18 years of age, they were making a balanced, considered choice. They were accepting the strokes from her as “worth it.”
The final straw came when prefect Moira handed in a set of solutions that were numerically correct but showed no working.
She kept Moira’s punishment to the end — unusual, and eating into the entire class’s lunch break. She always punished before the class. The regulations insisted on this to engender learning from all witnesses. After all, the others had to learn from a strapping as well. That was classroom efficiency. How she’d been taught.
At 25 she felt her own days as a pupil under the regimen of the tawse, or even her early years of teaching uncertainty, were now well behind her. In all truth, to others, she was hardly the immediate embodiment of a strictly efficient senior teacher. She seemed gentle and kind in her cashmere cardigan, Marks & Spencer blouse, and long A-line skirt, with comfortable block-heeled loafers lending a few extra inches to her 5 ft 4 frame — all finished with demure American tan tights.
To the casual observer, only the uniform Moira wore — grey blazer with prefect’s badging, white blouse, tie (thick Windsor knot giving a coquettish short-tail look), pleated skirt, long above-knee grey socks (winter time), and black court-heeled shoes — would differentiate them. Uniform aside, both would simply look like generic young ladies to anyone not steeped in the hierarchy of education.
“Moira. You are going to receive one stroke for not displaying your required working for this assignment. If you submit the rest of the working by tomorrow we will just forgo the other three.”
Miss Crawford felt relief that she had got herself out of a tight situation. She had promised four strokes to the next pupil who ignored her express instructions. But she’d expected it to be one of the cock-sure lads. Not model Moira — an exemplar of a good pupil. She had no wish to hurt her. None at all. It was the boys who needed to be put in their place. To that end she had borrowed her HOD’s XH Lochgelly and had steeled herself to use it. They were literally shaking off her classroom tawse; she needed a way to make her will felt. She had gambled the XH would be that key.
But here was Moira. A lesson learned: don’t paint yourself into corners.
She made an immediate decision. The XH stayed in her bag and she opened her drawer where her standard black, education-authority-issued tawse lived — Sellotape roll within the coil and chalks to the side. She liked organisation.
Oh well. One with that strap wouldn’t distress Moira. Relief.
Moira spoke. She was so mature and thoughtful. A real advocate for good pupils and common sense. The head said he hoped one day she would join his staff as a teacher, so impressed was he with her conduct on the student council.
“Miss, I’m not being insolent. But I think I’m going to have to take the four of the belt. I just cannot do that amount of work. Several of us here are signed up for six certificate exams. The workload is undoable without compromise. If I choose this I won’t get it done and I’ll be in assembly getting six of the best. Let’s just get it done with. Other teachers are compromising, seeing the bigger picture — trusting us to self-manage our time and efforts.”
I could have stood up and applauded. We were all at our wits’ end. No laziness — just no spare capacity at all.
The class was utterly silent. Miss Crawford’s expression was one of disbelief.
She recovered quickly. “Outside the class now, Moira.”
They stepped outside.
Miss Crawford started immediately.
“Moira, for goodness’ sake, you are putting me in an impossible position. Be reasonable. Get in there, take your one stroke, and get me the working tomorrow. We will say no more about this.”
Moira teared up a bit. “Miss, I can’t. I just can’t. I’ll be getting belted tomorrow again for non-production, or belted by the other teachers I let down. Please trust me. I’m on the edge here. I’m exhausted. I’m a young adult. The school won’t let us share assignments — they punish us for ‘collusion’. It’s an impossible situation.”
Miss Crawford understood — she did. She too had taken on the six premier subjects. She remembered how hard it was. But her subject deserved respect. And she would be judged on how these top-tier sixth-years did. It was her first year entrusted at this level. She had to ensure her results were good. She began to convince herself that this was all for Moira’s good. But she was cursed with too much self-awareness.
“Moira, if we go through those doors I’m going to have to belt you hard. You realise this?”
“Miss, you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. You could simply march me in and tell me to sit down.”
“Moira, I think we both know that can’t happen. I will belt you severely… but I want you to be aware I have the departmental XH in my handbag. I’m not going to use it. I want you to reflect afterwards on the leniency I have displayed here. Decide, Moira. Now.”
Moira nodded and walked back into the classroom. She stood by the desk and put her hands out, one over the other.
Miss Crawford shook her head. She admired her spirit, but she had no choice. She opened her top left drawer and withdrew the black three-tail.
The class was watching.
This was bigger than the two of them. She had no choice but to maintain the school’s regimen of firm control through consistent but memorable corporal punishment. Moira had brought this on herself. She took a deep breath and calmed herself.
“Shall we begin, Moira?”
“Ye…ss, Miss,” Moira quavered.
“Class, please all observe what not doing your working will bring, without exception, henceforth.”
Kerrrrrrrackkkk.
Moira took the first crack with a grimace. Counter-intuitively the lighter strap made an incredible crack that made the watching class jump.
Again…
She changed hands. Miss Crawford snapped the strap across her palms again. This time she gasped and shook furiously, tears filling her eyes. She hated Crawford for going forward with this debacle.
Again…
She changed hands. This time Crawford put her all into it. Moira shouted out, gasping furiously, hands under her armpits.
“Please, Miss, no more. I’ll do my working, I promise.”
“I told you out there, Moira. You’ve made your bed — now lie on it.”
Again!!!!
Moira gritted her teeth and tried so very hard to hold her smarting left palm up.
Kerrackkk. She couldn’t help it — her hands dropped mid-stroke and the tails bit into her wrist and lower forearm. She yelped. Those mis-strikes hurt more than the official strokes, but there was only one reward.
“How dare you draw away. You are a senior girl. You know the punishment. Same hand. Up again. Now. Now!!”
Crawford took her hands and physically straightened the clawing fingers. She looked at the blistering welt on her forearm and felt real pity. She too had had to go through similar.
The final stroke was delivered at primary-school severity. Moira looked at her with near gratitude, arms folded across her chest and hands seeking whatever succour there was to be found in her armpits.
She was in tears but had retained most of her self-control and dignity. But she now knew that a teacher could easily strip it entirely if they chose. She hated Crawford for her medieval methods but was grateful for her restraint. Both things could be true at the same time.
“Sit down and don’t disturb the class. This was all your final warning. I’m serious, class.”
She opened her handbag and pulled out the far heavier brown XH Lochgelly tawse. It languidly unfolded on her desk.
“This is the last time I show leniency. It’s this Lochgelly next time, and I promise you — you won’t like it.”
As her anger and indignation calmed down, she felt nauseous.
Miss Crawford had just painted herself into another corner.
