Having an elderly, cantankerous relative over to take tea, presents a unique set of challenges, that I am sure almost all of us will be able to relate to. There will be a tense period before she arrives, where you will make especially careful, and time-consuming preparations, in the hope that she will look upon the visit favourably. There will be some intense anxiety about the outcome of the encounter. Will Aunt Agatha be cutting or kind? Is it likely that she’ll be satisfied with what we offer, and will our manners be up to her elaborate and exacting standards?
Well, thankfully, I have no actual Aunt named Agatha, but instead, my Head of House has coined the expression, ‘Aunt Agatha will be coming to tea,’ in order to be able to inform me – whilst out and in polite company – that I’ll be getting a serious caning the very next time that we are in private. Agatha refers directly to our senior cane. It is a full centimetre thick, 92 centimetres long and seriously inflexible. Aunt Agatha is the heavy artillery. When we go abroad, she genuinely doesn’t fit into any of our suitcases, as she is too long, and simply will not bend enough to be safely added to our luggage. (There are pros and cons to this, actually!)
Thankfully, visits from Aunt Agatha are infrequent. If she deems it necessary to visit more than once per year, then something has gone seriously awry. There are, in fact, whole years where she doesn’t take tea with us at all, and that is just how I like it.
Agatha is reserved for the big stuff, the instances where I may have put myself or others in danger. She intervenes on only the most important of issues, such as dishonesty or instances of serious disrespect. Finally, her services may be required for examples of disobedience. In brief, her domain is that of the ‘Four D’s of Domestic Discipline’; Dishonesty, Disrespect, Disobedience and Danger. That’s not to say, that if I accidentally forget to address my HoH in the proper manner (i.e., forgetting to ‘sir’) that Aunt Agatha telephones ahead to make arrangements, as that would be an over-reaction. Yes, it might well be an example of disrespect, but it is a minor one, because it was – in this case - an accident, and even on the odd occasion where I may have withheld respect by deliberately failing to ‘sir’, it doesn’t necessarily warrant a session with Agatha.
The engagement of Aunt Agatha’s services is entirely at the discretion of my HoH, and he always thinks long and hard before deciding to invite her. To date, I’ve had the old witch take tea with us on just three occasions. Each one truly awful. If she never came to tea again, that would be perfectly fine by me. I can be pushed to do a great many things in order to avoid my formidable auntie from having to pay a visit. Aunt Agatha is a force to be reckoned with, and as much as she is a figure of my distinct displeasure, that is not to say that I am not in awe of the power she wields. Though I view her as my adversary, my opponent, I do not hate her. I respect and admire her as is appropriate for those with whom we play the game of life.
How did it come to pass, in this otherwise fairly innocuous year for discipline - where a decent slice of leniency was granted, due to the precarious nature of these times – that Aunt Agatha had to be sent for? I shake my head as I write, for I have no idea how it came to be. Most of my transgressions in 2020 were pretty minor. A bit of late homework here, some cheekiness there, and the odd smattering of casual, (and for the most part fairly inconsequential), lateness. For the most part.
Remember Al Capone? He got done for taxes, and this is very much how things went for me. I wasn’t actually caught, or even accused of, violating any of the ‘Four Ds’, but rather it was the accumulation of the same minor offence over a sustained period, that amounted to an eventual conviction. Lateness. Persistent lateness. Perennial lateness.
In an age where almost all meetings are online there is an indisputable, digital record of the exact time of attendance. The one or two minutes of arguable difference in this or that person’s wristwatch, or wall-mounted office clock, is no longer relevant. It is the computer’s in-built clock which is now the sole arbiter of time. I think back, longingly, to those days where we would put the odd minute late down to a difference in individual watches, and say no more about it!
However, the year is 2020 and Skype or Zoom is now the official, (or should I say officious?), timekeeper. There is no longer any wiggle room for the odd minute, and worse, the record is written. It sits in the online chat in black and white, neatly recording the time and duration of all calls. This was the beginning of the end for me and my lateness, all it took was my HoH’s request to see my work log, and I was doomed.
“Does this mean what I think it means, Jacqui?”
“Depends what you think it means, but probably ‘yes’, sir.”
“According to this, you’ve been late for five of the last seven meetings.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is not good enough, young lady.”
“No, sir.”
“I hate… I hate... lateness.”
“Yes, sir. I know. It’s-”
“Enough, it’s not good enough and I’m not having it, fetch the strap.”
“Sir, please!”
“I’m waiting.” He warned, sternly. I turned and headed for the bedroom, in order to retrieve the house strap. It’s almost 45 centimetres long, six and a half wide, and just over half a centimetre thick. It’s a coarse, tan-leather implement, and it is one of the ones I am most afraid of.
Returning to the office, I immediately noticed that Jem had cleared my desk, and dragged it into a new position. He now had plenty of room, and several good angles for a thrashing, and I looked up at him with what can only be described as pleading eyes.
“Sir, please,” I ventured, handing him the rough implement.
“Bend over the desk.” He replied, unmoved. I looked down and away, and then at the barren, jauntily angled desk. His father had built it by hand, and it was almost as though the old man had known what it would be needed for in the future. It fits me perfectly, and nothing fits me. Ever. I’m 5ft 2’, in heels, and what you would confidently describe as classically petite. I often have to have jackets, trousers and dresses tailored, so that I don’t look like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes.
As I bent over the surface of Jem’s father’s wooden creation, I observed how the desk’s edge fit snugly into the crease my hips made when I leant forwards. My torso fit fully across its smooth, varnished surface, chin able to rest close to its far edge, and my hands comfortably able to grasp the rim either side of my face. I haven’t ever actually bitten the desk’s far over-hang yet, but I often feel reassured by the fact that it is in range, and so I could… should it be needed.
“Have you anything to say?”
“Yes, sir. I was only one minute late for all of those five meetings; you can check
it on the call log. I wasn’t two or three or anything like that. Always just one, sir.”
“Late is late, Jacqui. Whether it’s one minute or one second, I don’t care. You are
either late or you are not.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“These are mutually exclusive events. You cannot both be late, and on time. It is
either one or it is the other. And in the future, for you, it will be the other.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you anything to add?”
I thought carefully as I lay there on the hard, immaculately polished desk, waiting to be strapped. My jeans were still up, so there was a possibility that this would be a ‘keep off the grass’ leathering. The kind where he would hurt me, but not too badly, a reminder to be on time in the future, rather than a full-blown disciplinary issue. On the other hand, he rarely thrashes me over any clothing. More likely that this was going to be a warm-up over my jeans, before he bared my bottom for the main event. So, do we keep quiet and hope for a minor warning, or should I highlight the fact that one of my lates was for my French lesson, and that I’ve already been caned for that? I’m not being funny, but I don’t fancy being punished twice for the same offence. Double-jeopardy is against the Fifth Amendment, of which I am most fond.
“Yes, sir. Just that I have already been punished for being late to French. That
was one of the five, sir.”
“Yes, Jacqui, I’m well aware of that. I was there.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“You will be. No need to count these ones, just make sure that your hands don’t
leave the desk. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.” I said, squeezing my eyes shut, and at the same time feeling everything south of my waist pull up into a tight ball of both fear and excitement. It was soon knocked right out of the park though, as lash after lash rained down across my seat. Jem was really going for it, free from any concerns about causing damage to my skin, he let loose over my black denims, and within seconds my rear was already ablaze. My jeans were providing enough protection to not lacerate the skin, but the rapid, hefty impacts were certainly building heat, and causing appropriate damage to the muscles.
He wasn’t at it for long, in real terms, but to me it was more than long enough. My arse cheeks felt like they were burning holes in my jeans. I was half-expecting smoke to be rising back there, and whilst I had managed to keep a firm grip of the desk throughout, I can’t say in good conscience, that I had remained as still as I ought to have.
“Get them down.” Jem instructed. I released my vice-like grip on the desk, vaguely observed that both of my palms had thick red lines down the centre of them. They looked like they’d been caned, but were merely from holding onto the desk so tightly. I pushed myself up from the surface using my forearms, and silently winced as I stood. I unbuttoned my jeans, yanked down the zip, and let them fall and then settle around my ankles.
“And those.” He scolded.
I knew full well that he wouldn’t permit me to keep my knickers up. I happened to be wearing my favourites at the time. White and black patterned, satin-feel full briefs that are both cute and comfortable. A rare and valuable find in the lingerie department. I quickly tugged them down and they fell as far as my knees.
“Back over,” he said, and I complied without delay. “You’ll count these ones out, and don’t forget to thank me.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, properly afraid now. I’m not as tolerant of the strap as I am with some of the other implements of correction. I reach the point of struggle super quickly, which means I am regularly taken beyond the pale, and boy do I hate being there.
I resumed my supremely submissive position back over the desk, and noticed how the grooves in my palms easily re-found their places. I shuddered, minutely, as I felt the cool, coarse leather line up against my heated cheeks. Then I remembered to pull in a long, slow breath, ready for release on or shortly after impact. I didn’t have long to wait.
“One, thank you, sir,” I gasped, as the first blow on the bare landed. The initial tingling gave way to an intense sting which I knew would shortly morph into a more generalised, burning sensation. Though I had acknowledged the lash, and thanked quickly, I was not at all ready for the next stroke – he let me have it anyway.
“Two, sir, thank you.” I hissed, trying to fill out my voice but failing, and emitting yet more breathy sound effects instead.
“Maintain your position, or it won’t count.” He warned me.
I genuinely didn’t know that I’d moved, I was far too busy trying to remember to breathe. Stay down, stay still, Jacqui, come on. I chided myself, as my HoH sent in the third right on cue.
“Th… three. Sir. Thank you.” I crunched out, between short emergency breaths.
“Four, sir. Thank you.” Happened before I had even fully registered the third. Please slow down, please slow down.
“Five, sir. Thank you.” I squeaked, unable to prevent the double-octave jump.
“Last one, Jacqui. Stay in position.”
“Yes, sir.” I said, hoping it would buy me a precious second to ready myself. No. Such. Luck.
“SIX! Sssssssix…, sir. Thank you.” I finished, hoping beyond hope that we really were done.
“Get up, get dressed and put this back where it belongs.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied on autopilot. Dumbly trying to pull up my knickers, and my jeans, whilst taking the strap from him, and making a horrible mess of both simple tasks.
“Now, Jacqui.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I want to see you back in here right away.”
“Yes, sir.” I said, buttoning and re-zipping my jeans, strap now safely tucked under my arm.
What does he want to see me about now? I pondered, as I returned the wicked implement to the chest at the end of our bed.
Once back in the office, I stood obediently with my hands clasped behind my back, stance narrow, and head fractionally bowed. Jeremy had taken residence in the office chair, and it was clear from his demeanour that this wasn’t going to be a pleasant exchange.
“I am fed up with your disrespectful attitude. Being late is a lack of respect. It’s a
lack of respect for the person you are meeting, for me, and for yourself. How
does it make me look as your HoH? How do you think I felt when you were late
for school earlier in the week? My young lady – my young lady – can’t turn up on
time. I’m not having it. I will not be embarrassed in front of another
disciplinarian. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Any instances of lateness between now and Christmas Break and I shall
invite Aunt Agatha to take tea with us.”
I couldn’t help it. My jaw simply dropped open. He’s never before gone for the nuclear option over a bit of casual lateness. Aunt Agatha is reserved for major offences, like lying or cheating or wilful disobedience. Getting Agathaed for lateness would be sacrilege.
“Close your mouth, I haven’t finished,” he rebuked, “you will report to me each
evening with the Skype log of your calls, and all of them will have been on time.
Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have two weeks. Two weeks until you finish for Christmas and you will be
on time for everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Everything, Jacqui.”
I closed my eyes and hung my head some more. How am I going to do this? I’ve probably got twenty meetings over the next two weeks…
“So we are crystal clear: if you are late even once, for any reason – for any reason – you will receive twelve strokes, on the bare, with Agatha. Crystal?”
I hate how he says ‘on the bare’, as if I’ve ever been caned any other way. In fairness, I did get six over my jeans with the junior once upon a time, but that was only because it was in public. I’m always caned on the bare, and usually butt naked in any case. I resisted the strong urge to roll my eyes at his excessive use of language. Indulgent swine. And instead, with a neutral face, delivered the obligatory:
“Yes, sir. Crystal.”
****
I spent quite a bit of time over the following weekend, figuring out how I would manage the next couple of weeks. I badly didn’t want Agatha over to take tea, not for as stupid a reason as one, one minute late. No way. Not happening. Twitter was a good source of ideas for getting more organised, and had some savvy tips on the setting of various alarms. I particularly liked the suggestion of a one-minute alarm. As, the person reasoned, ‘You won’t have time to do anything other than login and click call.’ This must have been from someone who completely understood my predicament. I hate to waste time. It’s a crime to me; the squandering of precious minutes. I love that line from Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’ which reads:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty-seconds’ worth of distance run
That’s me. That’s me to a tea. Time is the only truly finite resource. We all have it, and it is limited for everyone. There’s some true sense of equality for you! I’m of a mindset that I want to make the absolute most of it, so I run everything up to the very last minute. This sometimes causes me to be a minute late. Literally, one minute late. Never two or three or ten. Always, always just one minute. Chances are that I was finishing penning a sonnet or rounding off a witty tweet, but I get so engaged in what I am doing, that time ripples away from me.
So, the one-minute alarm became an integral part of my plan to be on time, for the 16 meetings I had in the two-week run-in to Christmas Break. Ten working days, 16 meetings, no lates – how hard could it be?
I blew it day two. Yeah, I said it. I messed up on day two. There’s no point reporting how many minutes late I was because late is late, of course, and you already know exactly how many minute(s) late I was, don’t you? I was stunned. Didn’t think for a moment that I’d last less than two days. I can remember glancing at my computer clock, it read:
18:00
I thought to myself, Phew, I’m not late. Then at some point during the meeting I checked the logged start time of the call, and it read:
18:01
What the actual fuck?! I honestly couldn’t believe it. Betrayal! Betrayal! I could barely concentrate for the rest of the meeting, as my mind ran through all of the possible reasons for this discrepancy. I knew that I hadn’t been mistaken. I’d read the time accurately as I’d hit ‘call’. I was certain of it.Indeed, I had been far more concerned about being on time for these meetings, than I was about the content of any of them. The reasons for the meets were out of the window - I had a caning to avoid - so for me, it was all about attending on time. How could this have happened?
I realised, a short while later, that although I had indeed hit ‘call’ on time, the recipient had answered the call after 18:01, hence the call officially began at 18:01, rather than at 18:00. An expensive administrative error, for sure.
I didn’t bother to explain the whys and wherefores to my HoH, whatever I may have come up with, in this situation it is only ever going to sound like you are making excuses. Because you are. Excuses = reasons and reasons = excuses. It’s merely a matter of perspective. You give me your reasons, I hear your excuses, and vice versa. I endeavour to hold this inconvenient fact, front and centre when I find myself, as I regularly do, owning up to misdemeanours. This was a lost case, in any event. I’d been repeatedly warned, and given a preliminary strapping for, the exact same offences. In short, building and presenting an argument would have been futile. I was guilty as charged and it was time to go and hear the sentence.
I didn’t delay in closing the office down, as it would have merely prolonged the agony. Much better to rip a plaster off than pick at it slowly – unless you like that kind of thing! I switched off the lights and found Jem in the sitting room, reading. He put down his book right away and pre-empted my confession.
“You haven’t?”
“Yes, sir. I have.”
“You haven’t fouled up, already?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Well, you will be.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, Friday afternoon at 16:30, we shall be taking tea with Aunt Agatha.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Do not be late. Do not be late for anything else.”
“No, sir, and I know what I did wrong.”
“Good, then get yourself off to bed.”
“Oh, but, sir, I was going to-”
“I’m sending you to bed, Jacqui. Now.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” I said, meekly leaving the sitting room and heading for an unscheduled early night. The intention was probably to leave me alone with my thoughts and fears, but in actual fact, I was so exhausted I fell asleep pretty much right away. It was close to the end of a very long term, and indeed a very long year.
****
Friday rolled around real quick, and I spent most of my spare time tweeting about time itself. This incident had turned me into the mythical White Rabbit, or perhaps Captain James Hook? Watches and clocks were giving me pangs of fear-injected excitement, and I was seeing them everywhere. Time is all around us, all of the time. Weird for something that is, essentially, a man-made construct. We no longer obey our internal circadian rhythms, or the rise and fall of the sun. We tend to run our lives by the precision of a central computer somewhere, and there are certainly plenty of gadgets and devices only too happy to continually remind us. School bells, church bells, calendar alerts, wristwatches, clocks, radio alarms, smart notifications, etc. etc. etc.
They all helped too, as I was 100 percent on time for the rest of the week. I wasn’t a single minute late for anything, and whilst I was really pleased about that fact, it didn’t alter the disciplinary situation that I now faced. I was stood outside the closed office door at 16:20 on a Friday afternoon, in my underwear, waiting for the senior cane. Thankfully, I hadn’t gotten in trouble at school earlier that day, so my backside was as clean as a whistle. It wouldn’t be for much longer. My HoH arrived around 16:25, he ignored me as I stood facing the wall with my hands neatly behind my back. I was waiting patiently, in only my white lace bra and bikini cut knickers, exactly as instructed. Sir went directly into the office, and I could hear him rearranging the furniture inside, before everything went still. I checked the time on my thin, SEKSY silver wristwatch, and waited a full 60 seconds before I could knock on the door at precisely 16:30.
“Come in!” He bellowed. Oh shit, we’re really doing this. I grasped the cool brass handle, tugged it right down, and pushed the door open.
“Corner. Hands on your head.”
I didn’t delay, and did exactly as I was told. Once in the corner, I took a moment to check that I was going to be able to maintain my position, properly, and for as long as required. I prayed that he wouldn’t leave me this way for too long, as I’d only recently been able to return to lifting weights in the gym. This meant that my arms, in particular, were already aching significantly as I went about my daily business. But, being required to hold them on the top of my head, for sustained periods, was going to be an altogether tougher challenge. I knew I’d need to save the strength in my arms for the actual caning. Supporting your weight, and forcing yourself to stay down in position whilst searing pain is added to your posterior, takes some upper body strength, and I was more than a little concerned that it would be in short supply.
He left me there long enough for my arms to begin throbbing, and for my knees to become stiff, but not so long that I was at all overcome with fatigue. There have been times where I have been shaking somewhat, (and not through fear), before he’s even started to discipline me.
“Remove your underwear and bend over the chair.”
“Yes, sir,” I managed, my voice faltering a touch already. I unclasped my bra, slid out of it and slipped down my white lace briefs. I marvelled, momentarily at the intricate beauty of the garments, as I placed them neatly on the desk. Removing your underwear doesn’t sound like a big deal - it mightn’t sound like a deal at all - especially when a) it is only in front of your lover, and b) you’ve already been stood in your underwear for anything between 15 and 35 minutes. However, it actually does a few useful things. Firstly, it makes you feel physically cooler, even though it is highly unlikely that removing the lightest, scantiest pieces of lace from your person, causes any actual change in temperature. This misses the point. The additional vulnerability of being fully naked makes you feel humble, less protected and it is these things that manifest as a psychological temperature drop. Secondly, it is an act of submission. You are taking orders about what you will, and what you won’t wear on your person: that’s a very high level of subjugation – we all, perhaps, ought to think extremely carefully about that. In this scenario, I am fully committed, because I have erred and wish to be corrected and the person to whom I am submitting is worthy. This is everything. There are precious few people on the planet, whom I would even consider being treated as a subordinate by. I apply this to my private and public lives alike.
Fully naked, I stretched myself out over the Captain’s chair, a trusty friend of mine in these circumstances, and its support I would greatly need. This particular chair has been in Jeremy’s family for generations. It is, conservatively, 120 years old, and when I get into position over the back of it for punishment, such as this, I can almost feel its rich history. Often-times I wonder if any of his ancestors have been in exactly the same position. The corporal punishment gene does seem to run in families, after all.
Bent almost double, I could feel the top edge of the chair digging into my hips. It’s almost a perfect fit for my compact frame. It digs in, but doesn’t cut in. I placed my hands flat on the smooth seat and curled my fingers tightly around the far side. My feet were slightly apart for balance, and whilst my legs are required to remain straight, I try to imagine keeping my knees ‘soft’, so as to not hold too much unnecessary tension. I let out a long slow breath that I hadn’t realised I’d been holding onto, and mentally prepared myself for the next, very difficult, minutes. Minutes, Jacqui. That’s all this is, just minutes. I tightened and relaxed my jaw a few times over, something I learned during my sporting days to assist me in ‘getting ready’ for the action that was to follow.
Jem meanwhile, lined the senior cane up against my backside. Chilled as I was feeling, somehow the cane is always cooler. I could feel it’s smoothness, its sturdiness, and as he gave the obligatory ‘tap-tap’, I noticed how it sounded and felt so much more like ‘thud-thud’, than the junior canes we own. It’s difficult in these moments to not imagine that he has something which more resembles a baseball bat than a cane back there. Though, obviously, this is my overactive imagination, rather than objective reality speaking.
“Count and thank, Jacqui.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied already wanting to cry. This was going to be a truly terrible afternoon, and I knew it.
The cane was withdrawn, and he must have held it at the top of its arc, because it didn’t return to my cheeks within the expected time frame. I speculated that Jem was probably checking to ensure I wasn’t going to flinch ‘on impact’, as he’s not a fan of pre-emptive, defensive measures. He must have been satisfied that I hadn’t intended on moving a muscle however, as no rebuke came. Instead, the first stoke arrived.
“One, sir. Thank you.” I garbled, not at all very ready to do any speaking. The cane had landed low and evenly on my backside, but the first thing I noticed was the weight of the impact. This cane was heavy. The thickness of the scorching line was the second thing I noticed, and the pain-waves that emanated outwards from it, were something else. I hadn’t been caned like this for over a year, and it showed. From the off, I struggled to control both my breathing, and my thoughts. The second stroke came home all too quickly, and I wasn’t keeping up.
“Two, sir. Thank you.” I eventually managed, and I’m not going to lie, I was only able to enunciate anything after drawing a very long breath indeed. Thankfully, Jem didn’t interpret this as an attempt to delay the punishment. It wasn’t, my reaction was genuine, and I acknowledged the stroke as soon as I was able.
It wasn’t long, perhaps we had made it as far as five stokes, when I started to feel unusual. Not dizzy exactly, but each impact was causing some interesting things to happen to my eyes. Immediately after the cane landed, my eyes would shoot tiny white lights, and I realised for the first time in my life where the expression ‘seeing stars’ came from. I’d thought it was something made up by Walt Disney and Hollyweird, but here I was experiencing it for myself in real life. I was starting to see stars. That’s not good.
Now I had a real predicament. On the one hand, I must absolutely inform Jem, if I - at any time during punishment or play - feel genuinely unwell. This is not optional, and is expected of me. But what constitutes unwell in these situations? This isn’t an easy question, when you really think about it, and I was really, really thinking about it. The last thing I ever want to do is duck out of a punishment. Flirted with that once, my ego couldn’t handle it. Never again. Also, by its very nature, physical discipline is going to cause deeply unpleasant, painful, and unusual sensations in the body. Just like in my days as an athlete, there is a very fine line between a high degree of pain, and an actual injury. It is not always abundantly clear which is which. In this instance, I was experiencing some strange sensations and some ‘fireworks’ going off in my vision, but was I genuinely at risk of passing out?
I quickly thought back to the very first time that Agatha had come to tea. I was bent over the end of the bed, around one third of the way through 18 strokes, and I firmly believed that I stood a good chance of passing out if the thrashing were to continue. On that occasion, I politely informed my HoH and we halted proceedings. This was different. I felt strange, but I wasn’t of the belief that I was likely to pass out. In fact, the last time I had actually come properly close to passing out, was when a fellow actor had accidentally punched me fully in the face - live onstage. He was supposed to have put his stage combat skills to good use, and have punched past my face, leaving me to act as though I’d been hit. Instead, he let is adrenaline run riot, and actually just lamped me. It really, really hurt. I recall standing there in the next scene, somehow still delivering my lines in all of the right places, whilst I watched in horror as the underside of my right eyebrow grew so big that I temporarily lost half of my vision. I can remember thinking to myself, ‘Do not pass out, do not pass out!’ I learnt a great lesson that night, which was about to serve me well here.
Actors and actresses firmly believe that the show must go on, often it is used by non-theatricals to mock us. However, I have seen many, many acts of courage, and even heroism, in the most appalling of circumstances from my fellow Thespians, and I can assure you, ‘the show must go on’ is ordinarily no laughing matter. The play in question had had no understudies, and not even an Assistant Stage Manager, who would – in the worst-case scenario – go on in my place and read my part from the script. To make matters worse, I was also a personal friend of the playwright, in whose autobiographical play, I was playing her elder sister. Finally, my old voice and dialect coach, not to mention long-time adversary, was in the audience on that fateful night. There was no way in hell I was going to allow myself to show any weakness in front of him. No way. So, despite my grotesquely protruding brow, pounding head, and impeded vision, there was no chance that I would let anyone replace me. Therein lies the lesson. I was absolutely determined to stay on my feet, stay on stage and finish the damn show. I was determined.
A more formidable force than determination, I’m not sure I know of. I could have easily given in and passed out onstage that night, and no one would have blamed me. I had a massive shiner and it took several pints of beer, (yes actresses shamelessly down pints), and a whole bucket of ice to set me right after curtain. However, I wasn’t having it that way, while there was still a chance of not fainting, I was going to do all I could to cling onto it. This caning would be no different.
I took a decision to coach myself through the back half of the punishment, and to not allow any more thoughts of passing out. Yes, there were some tiny stars in my eyes, but I wasn’t going to let them rule me. I adjusted my grip on the now slightly damp seat, damp from the physical evidence of my labour, and forced myself to concentrate on accepting the next stroke.
“Six, sir. Thank you.”
“That’s seven, Jacqui,” my HoH corrected, gently. His tone reassured me that he understood that I had miscounted, because I was sailing very close to my maximal tolerance, and I knew that he wouldn’t make any issue of it.
Only five left, Jacqui. Come on, I cajoled myself. Unfortunately, the eighth went low – more thigh than bottom – and I couldn’t help but expel a large amount of air between gritted teeth. I glugged in a massive replacement, and volunteered my acknowledgement and thanks.
“Good girl,” he said, his tone revealing his care and concern. I was glad that he was reading my reactions accurately, and encouraged by the thought that we would now both do our best to see me through the rest of this.
“Nine, sir. Thank you,” I gasped, clamping my jaw firmly closed right after, save any more words might slip out.
“Three left.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Big effort, girl.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, not really feeling up for it, but fully comprehending the sentiment all the same. The tenth, all things considered, wasn’t too terrible. It landed in good areas – so to speak – and I was immensely grateful that the pain was bearable.
“Ten, sir. Thank you.”
“Almost done, two to come.”
“Yes, sir.”
He took his time lining up the eleventh, providing me with a generous number of seconds to gather whatever wherewithal I had left. A single bead of sweat fell from my forehead, and landed in the centre of the chair, unable to cling on any longer. Symbolic.
“Eleven, sir. Thank you,” I winced, wishing it was all over, and that there wasn’t still one more horrible stroke to come. One more blazing stripe of white-hot agony, and then the days and days of dreadful, lingering soreness that duly waited.
“Twelve, sir. Thank you,” I practically whispered, no strength or weight left behind my voice. My whole body shaking lightly as we reached maximum capacity. These involuntary tremors are the indisputable evidence of a job well done. I remained in position, over the back of the chair as I know to not get up until I am granted permission. For the time being, I was happy to stay where I was, and to allow my body and mind to catch up with one another.
Whilst waiting obediently, I reflected on the decision I had taken around stroke five to knuckle down and see the punishment through. I was pleased with it. I was relieved that the correct decision had been taken and that I hadn’t, in reality, come close to passing out. Even though, at the time, I had had some doubts, and even though there were some strange things happening with my eyesight, I had still remained in charge of my own destiny. Much more is within your power than you realise, a healthy dose of determination can work wonders, especially in the most challenging of situations.
“You may get up, when you are ready.”
“Thank you, sir.” I said, taking it really, really slowly. My backside was ablaze, a molten mass of excruciating pain – I didn’t even want to touch it. I didn’t want anyone or anything to touch it ever again, or so I thought at the time. This, this is why we don’t want to have to have Agatha over to take tea! Once fully up, I turned towards the corner, when I unexpectedly felt Jem, catch me by the hand.
“Not today,” he redirected, pulling me towards him. He then enveloped me in a massive embrace, and continued:
“Corner time isn’t appropriate. You’ve had enough, baby. For today, you’ve had
enough”.
I visibly sagged and he held my partial collapse firmly, and securely. I was so relieved that it was over, that I began to softly cry. A rare event, as being an actress has caused me to have a slightly unusual relationship with tears. Sometimes, even I am not certain whether or not they are real. Truth is a very slippery thing, Laurence Olivier said himself in his autobiography: What is acting but lying, and what is good lying but convincing lying?” I very much identify with his philosophy, and hence I place great importance on being vigilant. Truthfulness and honesty are the foundations on which I base all of my personal relationships. So, I am suspicious of my own emotions, and am continually trying to keep them in check, so as to be sure any that manage to escape, are wholly authentic.
Jem held me for some time while I cried. It didn’t last long, and it wasn’t any kind of impressive outpouring of emotion as we often read about. It was a simple sort of weeping, a gentle kind, and borne mostly out of relief that the ordeal I had put myself through, was now over. Was it remorseful? I’d say so, yes. But, the proof of this would be in the pudding, so to speak. I know by now that the most credible apology is changed behaviour. For this we would have to wait and see.
****
A short time later, now fully clothed, and ensconced in warm blankets, I recounted my latest version of having Agatha over for tea to Jem. He sat patiently, as I explained the shooting stars, and my interesting comparison of this experience with being punched in the face. He was alarmed at my old actress story, and quietly furious that an actor had, even accidentally, punched an actress in the face. My HoH was angry on my behalf, which struck me (pun intentional) as humorous given the state he had just reduced my hindquarters to.
Ought I to tell him that I was actually punched by the same actor again? He lamped me on two of the three nights of that particular show! My instinct was to keep that to myself, however wouldn’t that be lying by omission? There it is again, that strange relationship with truth and lies.
I made up my mind to tell him about the second time I got punched in the face onstage, and my goodness me did steam pump right on out of his ears! It took me quite some time to calm him down and talk him through it all. I’ll leave you with his final remarks on the matter:
“I should like to escort the young actor in question to take tea with Aunt Agatha
sometime.”
**That was an extract from SIX OF THE BEST 2020 which can be read in full here:
https://jacquijames.gumroad.com/l/sixofthebest2020/newyear
**SIX OF THE BEST 2021 will be out on the 24th December 2021.