Cricket Brat

“They’re going home,
They’re going home,
They’re going,
England’s going home!”

Oh how I have come to regret those words. It’s one thing to be vocal in England about the chances of an opposing sporting team. It’s yet another when that team involves the words “Australia” and “cricket”. It is even worse when the Aussie delivering the teasing is a girl. But it is the final insult when said “sheila” brings the mockery in the words and tune of England’s default national anthem “Three Lions”. The non-Brits amongst you may not understand the nature of this offence, but suffice it to say that if there were a line drawn beyond which no sane man would cross, I should have been found far beyond both it and the horizon.

And now, just three short weeks after having teased my workmates mercilessly upon England’s almost certain departure from the CB series in Australia, the boys in blue (and red) had won four games, and a famous two-nil series win. England are now most certainly “going home”, but they are doing so with a rather hefty trophy in their suitcase, a spring in their collective steps, and a restored pride in themselves as the rightful champions of “the gentleman’s game”. As the Kiwis say, “Bugger!”

“Crease line on her skirt,
Kiwi girl now squealing!
England brings the hurt,
Aussie girl believing!”

Daniel’s retort in song on Monday morning was both public and smug. Not that the gathered crew of teachers in the staff lounge knew the direct significance of “crease lines” across my skirt, as far as I know Daniel and I have kept the secret of our “little wager” away from anyone who doesn’t need to know: he’s not told anyone, I’ve told only those who read Curtseygirl’s Blog. (So well done you!)

So, once again, to remind you all of what was at stake, and I know many of you don’t need reminding as you’ve been very keen to read “progress”. The bet was that for every wicket by which England beat Australia; Kirsten should receive three strokes of the cane. For every five runs (or part thereof, rounded up) Kirsten would receive one. There was agreed (thanks to all who voted) a “double or nothing”, which Daniel defined as cumulative. That is to say, England’s total winning margin, subtracting Australia’s winning margin across the best of three series, would be applied to Kirsten’s bent form in one delivery upon completion of all three games. Now as it was only two games were required; England winning both. The sentence was not reduced by any Australian victory margin in one of the games as, quite simply, Australia did not win. The final equation then read 4 wickets by three is twelve strokes from game one, and 32 runs divided by five, rounded up, is seven strokes from game two. The magic number then becomes nineteen.

Now, those of you who read my last match report, that of New Zealand’s final, unfortunate, defeat to England will know that Daniel and I miscounted the consequences for me. In short, he spanked me five times instead of three. We agreed that each of us was to blame for the lack of Mathematical acumen there, (we’re both Geography/History/Religion teachers), so we’d share the blame. Consequently the nineteen became eighteen.

And then the waiting. What with snow days in Hertfordshire taking out the last two days of school, then a week of half-term, I have had to wait almost ten days for my day of reckoning. And then, with Daniel teasing me, (ever so nicely, he’s not really the smug type), all day, it took until almost five o’clock for him to finally ring through.

16:42 GMT, Monday 19 th February 2007. The telephone rings on Miss Ellison’s desk. She is working on her interactive whiteboard setting up a map of Brazil and so must walk across the room to answer the phone, upon the seventh bell of its asking.

“Excuse me Miss Ellison, I’m sorry to disturb your preparation time. It’s Mr Roberts here. Would you be so kind as to join me in my classroom as I have a matter of twenty-first century history to discuss with you?”

A gulp. “Yes, of course sir, I shall be right through.”

Daniel Roberts’ classroom is across the hallway, and along it by three doors from Kirsten Ellison’s room, next door to the office they now share as subject coordinators for Humanities, he for History and Geography, she for Religious Education, although he retains the unique title of “Head of Humanities”. As Miss Ellison leaves her classroom, locking it behind her, she sees that his is the only light on in that part of the corridor, although the sun has not yet set and so there is still light coming through the windows. She feels something rising in her stomach, and is surprised to see that her hands are shaking and that she has clasped them in front of her. The clack of her boots upon the linoleum floor seems louder than ever it has before, but whether it is her sense of anticipation at what lies in Mr Roberts’ room, or merely the absence of noisy pupils that has caused this seeming overabundance of footfall, she is uncertain.

Yes, yes. So I’m no Agatha Christie or J.K Rowling. (You’ve been a very wicked witch, bend over Hermione!) And of course you want this in first person don’t you: the point of these accounts being that it’s all about “he spanked me” rather than “he spanked her”. So anyway, Daniel phoned through to me, (and yes I did call him sir, it’s all “sir” and “miss” at our school), and I went down to see him in his room. We had agreed that the eighteen strokes should be divided into twelve and six, (as they should have been twelve and seven, for the two games), and that the final six should be offered “distinctly”. I didn’t know what Daniel meant by that, but I knew that he’d have some dastardly, (but not horrible) scheme for it. I knew he was looking forward to this, (the fact of England winning through to the final, then winning 2-0, and emphatically so in each game had taken him as much by surprise as it had me), but I also knew that he was not interested in “punishing” me: believing as I do that there is nothing “naughty” about a woman who spent her girlhood in Hobart supporting an Australian sporting team, especially one captained by a fellow Tasmanian!

Daniel looked up at me from his desk and gave me a friendly smile as I entered. He was just finishing up marking some late homework, (due before half-term but handed in only today), and had only one thing left on the “to-do” list before going home. He likes to be out before five o’clock if possible, (as do I, since we both start at seven in the morning). He said to me “that was quick; I thought you were plotting Brazil.”

“I was, but the outline was already there, and I thought I’d let the supply teacher go interactive tomorrow as it’s in the first lesson he’s using the map. They’ll do it together, the class and him.”

“Who is it?”

“Nine Lower.”

“And why supply?”

“I’m going to that new RE coordinators’ inset. I’m away four days. It’s half term in London so they’re doing it this week. Sorry.”

“No, Miss Ellison, it’s not your fault.”

(I hate it when he does this. We both know why he’s called me in to his classroom, and he acts like it’s just teacher chat.)

“Fine. I’m done now,” he says, closing the last project book with a flourish. Then, (mercifully), he’s straight into it. “Eighteen? Twelve and six?”

I gulp, and look down at my hands. (What am I, ten years old?) I look up again and smile. “That was the arrangement Mr Roberts. Allow me to offer my congratulations to you and all concerned at the England and Wales Cricket Board for two very fine performances.”

“More than two Miss Ellison!”

“Two that bear tidings upon this afternoon.”

“Bear tidings? Are you sure you’re Australian?” He’s laughing now. “Do Australians bear anything?”

I smile, raise an eyebrow, curtsey (really!), and say, “only tidings this afternoon Mr Roberts. Nothing else shall be borne, nor bared.” I continue smiling at him, I feel like vomiting.

“Fair enough.” He gestures towards his desk, where he has cleared a space facing the pupils’ desks; a space he has designated for me to rest my arms and waist. A place for Kirsten to bend over for her days-overdue caning. I drop my smile slightly and walk confidently, (at least I hope it looked confident), across to the desk; and without further word from either of us I assume the position.

“Bend over,” he says to me.

I look back over my left shoulder at him. “I am.”

“Yeah, I know, but you didn’t let me say it.” I look forward and downward again. I see the name on the front of the project book he has just finished marking. The book belongs to one of the girls in my home-group. She had commented earlier upon how “I like your pretty tights, Miss,” and now I am wondering what would have caused her to miss the deadline for getting her work in before half-term when the first stroke connects with my skirt.

“Ow, shhh, mmp. Um, that’s one Daniel.”

“You don’t have to (whack!) count them today Kirsten.”

(whack)

Nothing else was said during my caning, just as well as I’d have not been able to remember it to translate for you now. I did however keep count in my head, there were indeed a neat dozen strokes; same rules as last time, him using his wooden metre ruler and me fully dressed.

“And now the last six Kirsten, you can stand up for a moment.” It took me a few minutes to do so, I was a bit out of breath, (and oddly enough, my bottom hurt rather!), but stand up I did. “For the last six I want you to pull your skirt up.”

“You have to be joking Daniel! That wasn’t part of the deal. This isn’t discipline, you can’t just do that.” I do have more faith in Daniel than that, I first met him six years ago at a school in Kent, and have known him for the last three years so I was sure he wasn’t just “trying it on”, but this was out of the ordinary. And I was rather a mess at this point, (think about it!).

“Just your skirt, and just for the final six. A bit of additional ‘double or nothing’ I thought it would at least be distinctive. But of course you can say no, it isn’t part of our original wager.” He looked worried. Again, he knows me well enough to know how far the boundaries can be pushed; indeed he knew I may well have turned on my heel and walked out of the room if I were truly offended.

But I didn’t do that, I smiled at him. “You’re a cheeky bugger, do you know that?”

“And I’d like to put you over my knee as well.”

“No, too far.” I took a step back, almost tripping over the front row of pupil desks. “Skirt up and over the desk: it serves me right after how long living in the United Kingdom to still be supporting the Antipodes.”

“Good girl, she speaks sense at last.”

And so it followed, I turned my back on Daniel, ruffled up my skirt a bit, and bent over his desk again, piling skirt up behind me. I had to lean a little further forward than I had done before, to stop my skirt tumbling back into place, which did put me in a rather unladylike pose, but it was either that or take my skirt off completely and that was not ever going to happen.

“I like your tights, very pretty.”

“Thank you Daniel, shall I have a pair sent across to you?”

(whack)

“Cheeky.”

(whack times five).

“And so it ends. Stand up Kirsten.”

I did so, pulling my skirt back down as I did.

I don’t suppose you’re terribly interested in the discussion which followed, we’re all just reading for the part where Kirsten gets punished, but suffice it to say Daniel and I parted as friends, (as we always do, every day), and with a firm agreement that Kirsten will NOT be repeating her wager with respect to the cricket world cup starting in the West Indies in a few weeks’ time.