More Questions than Answers: Schooners and Smacks

Barrawah is a town on the south coast of Trowenna: a quiet fishing village which used to be a logging port. Now it is home to schooners and smacks, and the occasional skiff. I have been coming here since I was about seven: my father has a boatshed down here and although Imshi, the boat he and my grandfather built themselves, is now long gone the shed remains.

It is cold today, but having just arrived in Trowenna from my new home in Albion I cannot remember whether it is the winter arriving early, or staying late...I find the seasons so confusing these days, and not just those of the climate. I pull my scarf across my chest once more, a long pink twist shaped like a breast-cancer awareness ribbon it crosses my breasts between my overcoat and my jumper, and should be keeping my chest warm. I have Australian flu, (I’ve been coughing up green and gold all morning), and I don’t want to be put to bed: I don’t have long here this time.

I pull my beret down on my head, which is not how it is supposed to be worn, but I’m too cold to be bothered by jaunty or chic. Not that Trowenna is known for such things anyway. We are a culture of food: Atlantic Salmon, cheese, gourmet beer and wine, and the ubiquitous fruit of our history; but we’ve never been ones for fashion beyond the occasional Aran style sweater or a "My XXX went to Trowenna, and all I got..." style garment in some of the waterfront boutiques. There is a plague of them in our capital, Georgian warehouses beneath brooding Unghanyaletta and its silent “Organ Pipes” which remind me of Kaapstadt and a boyfriend I’d rather forget.

The wharf is how I remember it: wharfish, (dwarfish?), and certainly neither a pier or a jetty. There is no funfair at the end of this boulevard of tar and treated pine, neither does it “jet” but rather it runs parallel to the shoreline; indeed it is suspended above it. An old steamer slumps painfully on screaming ropes just ahead of me. Nothing changes, this place has always been old and forgotten. I look beyond the bollards and gulls and see that the pub is still there: and it has been resurrected into something not quite modern, yet nothing like it was. It will have been “gastrocised” now, all Trowennan new-builds are, but I hope it will be homely. I always loved Barrawah’s waterside pub; and I am certain that even after four years since my last coming there is a schooner with my name on it.

I smile with childish delight, and look down at my hands. There indeed it is, a frosted beer glass with the cursive legend across it Caoirstig Saoirse, (what the hell were my parents thinking?): literally a schooner with my name on it. I maintain the smile and show it to the young man behind the bar. I’m sure we had a cheeky snogging session about fifteen years ago, but like most of the boys of summer he’s probably married now.


“You right Kirst?”

(Am I right cursed? Undeniably so.) “Yes thank you Peter.”

“S’bin ages since you bin’ere”

“Four years I believe.”

“For years?”

“Four years, one-two-three-four.”

“Agh so.”

Agh so. My mum says that, I’d forgotten Peter was of Northern Irish stock too, so he is.

“What cha doin’ in Albion now?”

“Fuck knows really.”

He laughs. “Na Kirst, not why you there but what cha do? Fer workin’ at?”

I smile again. “Still in school.”

“Geography wasn’t it?”

My smile broadens, “yes it was, but now it’s Religion Education.”

Peter explodes in a fit of Ulsterism, “fer fook’s en croyen’s sake Caoirstig, now what would ye be goin’ and doing a ting loike dat fer?”

An ever broadening smile, “it’s all much the same thing Pyedor,” (I say in my best Inis Ceithleann accent), “geography, history, RE are all about the reality of a world bigger than ourselves. I hope to show kids how to look beyond their own world, not just for adventure but for society’s sake. Religions Education is the cure for selfishness.”

“Agh so, so is a good hard slap across the backside.”

“Well, since you’re offering...” I give him a wink.

“Cheeky girl.”

“Quite, so I am.”


I am back on the wharf, and so is the rain. I cannot pull down my beret any further for fear of obliterating my view so I huck up my collar and fold my arms across my chest. I stamp my boots on the wet cement: for all the world looking like a little girl in a defiant hissy fit. (For which the cure is the same as that for selfishness.) My car is just over there, but I actually like the rain so I’ll stay out a bit longer. I see Peter locking up the pub; surely only for a moment as although it is getting dark it is still only mid afternoon. It is definitely winter here, I remember now.

Lashing and belting. Which are words to describe heavy rain? I would have been a champion at Jeopardy if ever Trowenna TV had screened it here. I love rain, it always makes me feel special: I’m rather in the mood of a bit of lashing and belting and even though I am wet I am giggling. The water cycle is such an amazing thing, and even as a Geography teacher, (and therefore destined ever to wear brown corduroy ) I never tire of reviewing its miracle. This water running down my jacket and skirt: most of it down the outside of my boots, has been so many places and been used for so many things. I love how rain connects me to the basics of the humanity of strangers: of drinking and cooking and washing. The smacks and skiffs are bobbing about on the water beyond the wharf: there is no wind in this rainstorm so there is nothing to flatten the waves as the tide meets the river on its journey down from Swanport. The schooner sits far more contrite: (as indeed I would in the presence of such wild smacks): its larger size allows a decorum in the midst of tempest which is a lesson for me in the maze of my imagination right now. If only home weren’t so far from life. I need recalibration.

When I was seventeen I began a summer job at the Antiquarian bookseller in Swanport, and at twenty (and University) I was made mistress of the market stall in Barrawah. Now the store itself has moved to Barrawah, and it is here I choose to seek shelter from the inundation. I love rain, but I hate being wet, and in fear of my Australian flu turning Aotearoan, (where you’re coughing up all black), I go inside. The man for whom I worked in the dark and distant nineties is now gone, his daughter was at Ladies College with me and she now sits amidst the dust and flyspeck at the neat yet loaded counter to the left of the door. She greets me with a peck on each cheek, a warm smile, and the correct pronunciation of Saoirse. We’ve not seen each other since graduation from university, me as Mistress of Teaching, she as Spinster of Education (with Honours). Does she remember the books we used to read?

“Caoirstig Saoirse, how lovely to see you darling. I have read of your exploits, and indeed have read from your writings as well. I see that you still...”

I smile nervously and look down at my hands. Men usually find that becoming in me, but does she think me wanton for the substance of my writings?

She smiles back. “I also...yet I cannot hope to write as you do. My husband...dead...and my parents moved to the north island. Alone...just Peter...and sometimes your mother comes to tea when she and your father are down at their shed, but...no-one since you lwent from here and...”

The dark secret, never shared, (only us). Before we found our men folk (...dead...) we had found each other.

“And now Caoirstig Saoirse, you write of it with loneliness.”

“There is no-one, and I have not felt the need to.”

She sighs and a tear forms. “Oh dearest departed I had hoped...”

I reach for her hand, but she is standing too far from me so I abort the attempt. “Describe for me the rain,” I ask her.

“The...”

“Rain. I write with loneliness because I feel lonely. Tell me what you feel. Describe for me the rain.”

“The rain is heavy.”

“Go on.”

“The rain is falling.”

“And yet...”

“Caoirstig Saoirse, the rain is belting. Look out on the water, on the river. Look at the skiffs bobbing. Look at the schooners and smacks! Oh, Schooners and Smacks...do you remember?”

I nod and smile congratulation at her. “Schooners and Smacks...innocently describing the two most common watercraft of Swanreach, Swanport itself and of course Barrawah...yes also words in the Trowennan cant which describe...”

“A tall glass of New South Welsh beer, and also...well...”

“Smacks?”

“Yes, well we always thought that was pretty self evident.” Her smile fades. “So lonely Caoirstig Saoirse.”

“I’m not surprised dearest, it’s a bit isolated down here, out the backside of Unghanyaletta.”

“I meant you.”

There are no secrets that can be hidden from your first love. Not when you write an online story blog under a very thinly designed pseudonym. Even Trowenna, even Barrawah, has t’internet.

I shed a tear.

She takes my hand.

We lock the door of the shop, but do not pull the blind. We go around the end of the row where the travel books are kept, (the holiday aisle), and she pulls out a step used for reaching the uppermost shelves.

She offers me the seat. I pause for a breath, then sit.

She smiles down at me then lays herself across my knees.

Over the course of time I steadily beat her to tears...a rhythmic smack upon smack, each cheek, each sit-spot; the untamed wilderness of her skirt a well covered continent of exploration by the time I can no longer lift either of my exhausted arms. She is sobbing rather than crying, wracked and compliant she’d not hesitated under my rain but only writhed in response. My hands are swollen and my arms are heavy. My heart, even heavier. This hasn’t helped at all...I feel ever more lonely and ever more lost. This is no longer who I am. She has sensed this, and this is part of why she is crying. She has waited eleven years for me to return to her, and she has failed me.

She rises painfully, and looks again down at me. Her eyes are puffy, her lipstick smeared clownishly on her left cheek and also her shoulder. She is incapable of sitting, and I wonder if she wonders as I do...what if she’d taken the seat at the outset and I'd...

I stand, embrace her, kiss her. I’ve half a mind to lick that smear of lipstick but that passes. I turn and walk out of the shop, pausing to nod to a young woman who had been waiting at the locked door. It is only as I turn down the street and hear her asking for a copy of Raskolnikova that I realise she probably heard us going about our reintroductions inside. I also recognise her voice as that of my cousin with whom I shared a tent when we were eighteen.

But that is another story...

The Rose in Bloom

Kirsten was somewhere between pleased and frightened. Why she had been invited to speak at the Sixteenth International Biennial Convocation on Discipline in Schools at Wrest Point Casino was beyond her understanding, but that she had been asked to speak on the subject “Christian Scriptural Understandings upon the Use of Physical Means of Sanction” had left her stunned. She allowed herself a brief scan of the platform: sitting two seats down from her was a Catholic Monsignor from Rome: surely he’d have been a better option on the topic, since whilst Kirsten was most certainly Christian, and of the Biblical mindset, she did not believe that flogging was the answer to very much at all. This, after all, was the twenty-first century; the age of Samuel Marsden, “The Flogging Parson”, had passed, even in Van Dieman’s Land. Sitting between her and his grace was Sir Stephen Aldwych, former Secretary of State for Education in HM (British) Government, and former head master of Kirsten’s own girlhood school. Indeed it was Sir Stephen who had served Kirsten with her only experience of corporal punishment whilst she had been a pupil. It seemed odd to her that both she and he had been invited to return to Hobart to speak at the convocation, perhaps there was to be some sort of specific Tasmanian flavour to proceedings, and the calling in of the Diaspora was but one facet of this.

Thank you your Excellency, Madam Premier, ladies and gentlemen. Our next speaker is a daughter of this very city, raised in Kingston and educated at…

Kirsten looked shyly across at Sir Stephen. He smiled back at her, took her hand and squeezed it encouragingly.

… College and then the University of Tasmania where she completed a Bachelors degree with first class Honours in Arts, and a Masters degree in Teaching. She is currently serving as Director of Behaviour Support Studies at the University of Hertfordshire in the United Kingdom, and as senior adviser to the Hertfordshire Local Education Authority on behaviour management. She has published three books on the subject of both the alternatives to corporal punishment within social and educational settings in schools and care homes, and upon its uses therein. Her most recent book addresses this subject from a Christian Biblical understanding and it is to that end that we have invited her to address the gathering. It gives me great pleasure to introduce Miss Kirsten Ellison CBE, AC…

“Sick ‘em Kirstie!” winked Sir Stephen. Kirsten smiled, her nerves evaporating at the sound of the uncharacteristically ocker encouragement from her mentor. She stood to the applause and walked across to the microphone.

“Good morning your Excellency, Madam Premier, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your welcome: it is indeed a great privilege to be home, and to be speaking to you on a topic so close to my heart. I must admit to a bout of nerves at this point, speaking not only in the presence of both the Governor of Tasmania and the Premier, but also of Sir Stephen, my former head-master. When last we shared a desk in the same room I was bent across it…

Laugher

“…I trust the same shall not be required of me today.”

“The Christian faith composes, I believe, an incredibly diverse and deep-seated international community. Before accepting my post with Hertfordshire I was Behaviour Support Teacher at a local secondary school and teacher of Humanities where I wrote units of work integrating History and Geography with Religions Education. As such I was able to integrate the study of ethics and religion with my daily duties as classroom and key-stage teacher. It became apparent to me that the two are, and shall always be, intrinsically connected.”

Kirsten looked up: the sea of faces disappeared after two rows and that was fine with her as she had never enjoyed speaking in front of large crowds. The people she could see seemed relaxed and attentive, she’d not said anything contentious yet. Yet.

“And so it is that I speak to you from perhaps three fronts. As disciplinarian, for want of a better term; as moralist and ethicist, a teacher of Religion within the context of Humanities; and as holder of specific religious beliefs of my own. I speak with three tongues; be they the tongues of men and angels I pray they be also tongues of love. I speak with the three simultaneously.”

Kirsten heard the Monsignor chuckle at her quote from First Corinthians. She turned slightly but could not see him, was it an approving chuckle or a derisive one? Sick ‘em Kirstie she reminded herself.

“The instruction of scripture to punish children bodily is found most notably in the Proverbs, of the twenty-third chapter and the fourteenth verse. It is, however, the thirteenth verse that is of interest to me: do not withhold discipline from a child. I agree, and am the first to do so, that a knee-jerk reaction away from discipline…”

Kirsten paused to stress the importance of her word,

“…as a response to the flagrant and unmerited physical abuses of children in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, is not a valid response. Scripture states that if you punish him with a rod he shall not die, well we all know that in the past that has not always been the case. Should we, however, withhold all discipline?”

Kirsten looked up. Still nothing too threatening for the crowd, but again she could only see the first two rows, where the respectable people sat. Kirsten knew had she been a delegate to this session she’d have been further toward the back: it was the people sitting there she really hoped to impress.

“I stand before you as one born in nineteen seventy-two. Sadly I was not born here; I am an immigrant from the mainland…”

Kirsten paused meaningfully; she knew how Tasmanians hated reference to “the mainland” as such,

“…that of course being the North Island of New Zealand…”

Laughter

“…before settling in Kingborough at the age of five when my father began work as an engineer with the Hydro. I attended a local primary school, studied under our own dear Sir Stephen’s directing hand here in Hobart itself, and then continued on through Tasmania University until the late 1990s. I am one of those known collectively as Generation-X, but unlike most of my contemporaries I have in fact read Douglas Coupland’s book. I know who Kurt Cobain is, and Pearl Jam, but I also remember when popcorn used to be made on the stove and not in the microwave.”

Laughter.

Kirsten looked up, they were with her now.

“I am a child of the children of the sixties. My parents are Baby Boomers, my mother a ten-pound-Pom, although she’s actually from Northern Ireland. I was raised in a home where there was strong discipline, it was often physical, it was occasionally unmerited, sometimes it was even cruel, but it was the action of loving parents who were themselves quite young at the outset. I am an only child, my parents never had the opportunity to get it right before they had me, and they never had the opportunity to get it right afterwards: I was a solitary guinea pig reared on the banks of the D’Entrecasteaux Channel.”

Laughter.

Kirsten allowed herself a smile; they’d asked her back to Tasmania and it was Tasmania she would give them. This city was more, indeed, than just the end point of a Sydney yacht-race and an Old Bailey pick-pocket hearing. It was home, and she was bloody proud of it.

“And so, as a child of this even Greater Southland of the Holy Spirit…”

Laughter

“…than the big one to our near north; of a land referred to by a man no less infamous for his famous last words than a certain Ned Kelly himself, as that island of bondage and tyranny…”

Laughter.

Kirsten saw her former History professor in the crowd, and returned his nod,

“…and a child also of a Christian heritage I am delighted to be able to speak with you this morning.”

Applause.

“I am of the opinion that punishment need not occur where discipline is solid. Rather than sparing and spoiling from the Proverbs, let us look at the thirty-first chapter of Solomon’s great work, and of the twenty-eighth verse.”

Kirsten wondered where the Anglicanisation of her language was coming from, her church back home in London was anything-but, however she resigned herself to sounding religious. She thought it might be expected of her.

“The Wife of Noble Character: a passage very dear to my heart as a young, very single and stunningly attractive Christian woman…”

Laughter

“…incidentally I shall be passing out application forms and accepting CVs from eligible bachelors, or mothers of same, at the end of this session…”

Laughter and cheering from the back

“…seems to me a better place to consider the scriptural basis for raising children. This passage speaks of the woman of virtue who is rewarded by the blessing, honour and praise of her children. Blessing in this context is best translated as happy and to be envied; wouldn’t we all like that ladies? Scripture, far from countenancing the thrashing of minors, places physical punishment within the confines of a loving, God-honouring family where wife and husband serve side-by-side in their God-ordained places of service and leadership, both as servants, both as leaders, setting an example of appropriate forms of Christianity as to allow children to be raised up in a manner of godliness from which they shall not depart.”

“Listen my sons to your father’s instruction, pay attention and gain understanding… When I was a child in my mother’s house she taught me, saying ‘lay hold of my words with all your heart, and keep my commandments, and you will live’. This is the wisdom of Solomon at the commencement to his fourth chapter of said Proverbs. The Christian gospel is one of grace; not obedience to legal codes but of loving relationship with the one Christ made accessible as our dear, Abba Father.”

Kirsten heard the Monsignor call her good.

“When I was little, in a home of church-attending parents, I was spanked with open hand or hairbrush as necessary, and sometimes more than necessary. My father relinquished all of this to my mother’s capable hand when I began to menstruate, and she ceased when I reached the age at which I might legally leave school. I chose to stay at school, but was no longer required as a fifteen year old to bend over young lady. And may the Lord make me truly thankful.”

Laughter

“I was caned only the once at school, in my final year, and by mistake.”

Laughter

“Yes, it’s true. A mix up in names and I was sent to the triangle for the crimes of another pupil. For the most part I was kept good at school not by the threat of the cane, or by its application, but by the support of the teachers and the community of grace, not in forgetting misbehaviour but in encouraging the girl who fell into error of many sorts…”

Laughter

“…except of those sorts…”

More laughter

“…to stand up again and walk on in secure confidence of her place in both the school community and in the world beyond the walls of the college. I thank Sir Stephen, Mister Old Witch…”

Laughter

“…for establishing such a culture in his tenure as leader of our community of excellence, and for allowing me that priceless opportunity to feel the bite of discipline upon my own dear seat of learning in the name of research.”

Kirsten turned and extended her hand to Sir Stephen. He rose, bowed formally, and shook her hand. Kirsten executed a neat curtsey and turned back to the lectern: all to thunderous applause and laughter which Kirsten acknowledged with a casual wave. Sick ‘em Kirstie! she reminded herself.

“It is said of many men that they can be so longwinded upon their homecoming that they should be called ‘Gusts of Honour’…”

Laughter

“…and of others that when they say ‘lastly’ they last. Allow me then to say ‘in conclusion’ and conclude…”

Laughter

“… by going on to say…”

Laughter

“…that in my opinion as all of Christian, Behaviour Support Specialist, Humanities Teacher, and indeed woman of this time and age, but mainly as Christian, that the Biblical answer to the question ‘to beat or not to beat’ is found not in examining the repeated and rapid implementation of the rod; but rather in considering the benefice in the sustained and significant building of a culture of love and support within a committed community, at best the extended family, as was the manner in which our own dear Lord was himself raised to the place where at thirty years of age he could embark upon a mission, within a community of mates, to bring about the salvation of the age. By his stripes we are healed, by his church we are discipled, and in his steps we are raised to be the people we were created in the image of God to become: solid, secure, stable members of a generous society, where everyone uses inside voices and keeps his or her elbows off the table at meal-times.”

Laughter and applause.

“God bless you, each and all, in and with gracious abundance.”

A Rose By...

“Excuse me Sir, the Headmaster has asked to see Kirsten Ellison.” Any interruption was welcome in 6A at this time of the day. A quarter to three, on Thursday afternoon and even the HSC Maths A (top) class were flagging. Kirsten didn’t particularly like Maths, but she knew it was required if she was to get into her chosen university (and escape Hobart forever).

“Kirsten? Go please.”

“Thank you sir.”


Kirsten straightened her tie, gathered her pencil case and book, and left the room quietly. She wanted to be a teacher, and hoped to get into Rusden College in Melbourne to do it, (and escape Hobart forever), and so thought it worthwhile being polite and considerate to her teachers now. She wondered what the Head wanted to see her about though; she knew she was getting close to earning her 250th merit card for good behaviour and academic effort, but such certificates were awarded on Friday afternoon at school assembly.


Kirsten paused at her locker to put her books and pencils in it. She knew that a call to the Head’s office usually involved some waiting which is why she’d chosen to pack her things, (and Mr Abel, the maths teacher had not intervened), rather than leaving them on her desk for later. It would be time to go home when she was out of the office.

“Belinda, do you know why I’ve been summoned?” Belinda had been the messenger, and was passing Kirsten just as she turned away from her locker.

“Sorry Kirsty I don’t. I know he’s got some of the fag-hags with him now, and two bogans, but they’re hardly your sort of company. Sorry mate I need to dash, he also wants to see Vanessa Carlon.” Belinda kept walking.


Now the puzzle deepened. Vanessa Carlon was known as a bully and a rebel, she’d been caught extorting money from the new-girls. The fag-hags were girls who were known to be smokers, and the bogans were the scruffy types who were always in detention for wearing laddered tights under rolled-up skirts, or untucked blouses and crooked ties. The school crime-lord, scruffs and smokers, hardly the company Kirsten ever kept. Maybe she was being asked to go as an example of what good girls are like. She could just imagine the Head saying, “now ladies, and I use that term loosely, why can’t you be more like Kirsten Ellison here.” Kirsten really hoped not.


Outside the office was a line of three girls. The bogans and Vanessa. (Vanessa’s classroom was next to the office so she’d got there quicker than Kirsten had.) Just as Kirsten reached the line, flashing what she hoped was a friendly smile at Vanessa, the door opened and four girls walked out.

“Joanna!” It was Vanessa’s voice. “Jo-mate, what de’do?”

Joanna looked up at Vanessa, tears filling her eyes; she just nodded and kept walking.

“Jo-mate? Oh. Hey Caroline, Cazza? Cazza!” Caroline Vass similarly looked at Vanessa without saying anything, but her tear-stained cheeks and her nod of assent told Vanessa what she needed to know.

“Fuck!”

Kirsten jumped. She’d never heard anyone use that word in school before, certainly not outside the Headmaster’s office, and not with the door still open.

“What’s the matter Vanessa?”

“Fuck! It’s the thirtieth today isn’t it?”

“Yes Vanessa it is.”

“Last afternoon of the month.”

Kirsten still didn’t understand the significance of the date, but agreed that tomorrow, Friday, would indeed be the first of next month. Samantha Walsh, who was just leaving the Head’s office turned to Vanessa and said “Yes mate.”

“It’s punishment arvo. Not that you’d know Miss Priss, but the last afternoon of the month is when all the girls who have earned it during the month have to come up here for corporal punishment.”

“I’m sorry Vanessa; I still don’t get what you’re saying.”

Samantha turned around, “He’s caning us, you idiot! Each of us just got three across the arse with the stick.”

“Walsh! Unless you’d like to come back for a few more I suggest you get to class immediately.” The Head’s secretary was at the door, helping Amanda Barrowman who was sobbing uncontrollably. Kirsten stepped out of line and took Amanda’s hand, helping her past the line of girls.

“Oh Kirsty, I got five; and I’ve never been caned before. It really hurts.” Amanda was in the same class as Vanessa so Kirsten walked her down to the door.

“Sorry Miss,” said Samantha.

“Right, who have we here?” The secretary checked her list. “Vanessa Carlon, right. Two Dober sisters Victoria and Laura, right. Kristen-Elisa deWitt, o-kay she’s with Amanda now. Kristen-Elisa, hurry up!”

“Of course Ma’am, sorry.”

“In you go girls.”


Kirsten had been to the Head’s office on two occasions previously. Once with her parents when she was accepted into the Upper tier for HSC, (a special “gifted and talented” programme for clever girls), and once when she had had an asthma attack whilst playing touch-rugby for the school team in an after-hours tournament, and the sick-bay was out of action. On both occasions she’d been seen by the Assistant Head, Ms Penstock. She and Vanessa were shown to seats beside a low table whilst Victoria and Lauren Dober were taken straight in to see the Head.


“Kirsten Ellison, why are you here?” Vanessa seemed quite pleasant at this point, and seemed genuinely interested. What Kirsten did not know was that Vanessa had heard the roll call, and knew that there had been a mistake. By calling her “Kirsten Ellison” rather than “Kirsty” as all the other girls did, she was hoping to cement the idea in the secretary’s head that this girl was in fact Kristen-Elisa.

“I really don’t know Vanessa. Certainly not the reason why those other girls were here I imagine!” Kirsten laughed pleasantly. “Not that I wish them any malice of course, it must be horrible being caned.”

“So you’ve never been caned before?”

“No. I mean, my parents used to spank me when I was a girl, but no I’ve never been in so much trouble at school.”

“I can’t imagine you being spanked Kirsten Ellison.”

Kirsten smiled. “Well I don’t recommend it, but I suppose I learned from it. My mum still threatens me with the hairbrush when she thinks I’m getting bolshie, but I’ve not felt its fury since I was fifteen.”

“How old are you now?”

“I’ve just turned eighteen, like you. My birthday was in the July holidays”

Vanessa winced. Krissy deWitt was only sixteen, what if the secretary had heard? Then again, Krissy was blonde and Kirsten was coppery so they’d obviously not paid too much attention. Vanessa allowed herself a smile, which Kirsten returned. “You’d not be smiling if you knew what I know,” Vanessa thought to herself. “It’s so much more satisfying when the hitting part of a bully’s work is done for her.” Not that Vanessa considered herself a bully of course; it was more “estate management”.

“Are you going to get the cane Vanessa?” Kirsten was embarrassed to ask, but it seemed like the next obvious question in the conversation.

“Oh I expect so. What is it, September now? So that’s March, April, June; this is the fourth time this year I’m here for it.”

“Oh Vanessa! I’m so sorry.”

“Well Kirsten Ellison, when you break the rules you need to pay the consequences.”

“Does it…I mean…umm…does…”

“Yes. It hurts a lot. Didn’t you see the fag-hags?”

“Amanda was quite distressed, she said she got five.”

“Ooh. Usually it’s three. I imagine I’ll get five today, since it’s the fourth visit this year.”


The unmistakeable sound came through the wall behind them. Whoosh, crack, wah-HAaa!

Kirsten gulped. “Oh poor Lauren.”

“That’s Vicky actually. Lauren doesn’t cry, so they always cane Vicky first in the hope that Lauren might crack: seeing her twin sister arse-up over the desk.”

Whoosh, crack!

“They’ve been here before then?”

Ooh! Hoo-hoo.

“Yeah, they were here with me in March and June at least.”

“Oh.” Kirsten felt a tear well in her eye, and sat back in her seat. Vanessa allowed herself a smile and sat back as well. Both girls sat in silence as Victoria received her final stroke, and then Lauren had her three. Vanessa was right, Lauren’s voice was not heard in the way her sister’s had been.


“Stand up!”

“Huh?” Kirsten had been lost in thought and was startled by Vanessa’s instruction.

“The Dobers are coming out. It’s the code; any girl waiting here always stands when any girl leaving there comes out. Solidarity sister, on your feet!”

Kirsten stood up and turned towards the door. Lauren was stone-faced as she exited the room, holding Victoria’s hand and leading her towards the outer door. She winked at Kirsten and Vanessa, Victoria was too busy crying to acknowledge the ovation. “Poor things,” muttered Kirsten.


“Kristen-Elisa, come in here please.” The Head’s voice.

“Those poor girls,” Kirsten’s attention was on the retreating Dober sisters as she absently answered the Head’s command to enter his office. She presumed that since Vanessa was probably going to receive quite a firm punishment he’d called Kirsten in first, (since she was to receive no punishment), and allow her on her way. She saw it was now almost twenty-past-three, bell in ten minutes!

“Kristen-Elisa!”

“Sir, coming.”


The Head’s office was as she’d remembered it, although it was of course not Ms Penstock standing behind the big desk. Mr Aldwych, (known by all the girls, even the good girls, as “mister old-witch”), walked around the desk and shook Kirsten’s hand as she approached. “Take a seat Kristen. Is it fine if I just call you Kristen?”

Kirsten thought she’d misheard, but thought it better not to comment. After all, he’d shaken her hand so he obviously knew who she was: and it was better that being called “Kirsten Ellison” the whole time.

“That’s fine sir, thank you for seeing me sir.”

Mr Aldwych smiled, he’d not heard that before, but then this was to be young Miss deWitt’s first caning so he could imagine her being over-polite

“Now, Kristen, do you know why you are here.”

“No sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“It’s about your behaviour Kristen.”

“Of course sir.” Kirsten was sure he’d said “Kristen” that time, but again thought it of little consequence: as long as they had the spelling right on her certificate and he didn’t call her “Kirst”, which she hated, she didn’t mind.

“At this college we have a long tradition of educating ladies, such as you, to function in the world beyond our doors. One hundred years ago we were educating, the daughters of our colonial masters, and of the land-owners. Now any girl in Hobart, indeed any girl in Tasmania, may attend. And not just to raise a company of demure ladies to manage their husbands’ estates, but to equip young women, such as you, for the last decade of the twentieth century and indeed into the twenty-first.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Consequently, we have very strong ideas on behaviour and discipline. We have the name of our school to protect, but more importantly we want our graduating women to be well adjusted and ready for what comes next in life. What do you hope to do next, Kristen?”

“I want to go to Rusden sir, and it’s Kirsten actually.”

“Ah Rusden. Yes I was at Rusden, it’s a good school. And, more importantly, not in Tasmania.”

Kirsten smiled.

“Yes, you’ll be able to escape Hobart forever. Making it even more important, since you’ll be representing your State, that you have learned how to perform appropriately. I mean this both academically and with regard to conduct. We are a ladies college Kristen, we may not have ladies come in but we sure as eggs have ladies go out.”

“Of course sir, I hope I shall make you proud of me.”

“You must know then what this college makes of your conduct.”

“You mean how I’m behaving now sir? Yes sir, I think I know.”

“And you are aware of the rewards and sanctions policy of this school?”

“Yes sir, I was on the SRC in 1988 and 1989 when it was drawn up.”

“SRC?”

“Oh, Student Representative Council sir. It’s now called Pupil Forum.”

“Yes, so you know where this is leading then, this conversation. Kristen?”


Kirsten did know where this conversation was leading: she was to be called up in front of the assembly tomorrow to receive her Merit Award for 250 earned merits.


“Do we need to engage in further conversation Kristen-Elisa?”

“No, sir, I understand that you are a busy man and that you still need to talk to Vanessa Carlon. I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me first.”

“Good girl. Now I realise you’ve not been here before so I’ll take you through the procedure.”

“Thank you sir.” Kirsten had indeed been “here” before, not in this office but she had been publicly presented with her Merit Award for 100 earned merits, but she thought it best to allow the Head to finish his piece.

“Good girl, approach the desk.”


Kirsten stood up and walked across to the front of the large wooden desk.

“Lean forward, and place your hands flat on my blotter.”

Kirsten did so, imagining that this was some sort of processional rite. She was glad that she had taken up Mr Aldwych’s offer to walk her through the process; obviously there was to be some sort of desk on stage tomorrow and girls would be required to take their certificates from someone sitting behind it. Kirsten saw the green leather blotter where Mr Aldwych would have sat to write, and leaned across to place her hands upon it.

“Are you ready Kristen?”

A strange instruction, but as she was in place after the last instruction Kirsten replied “yes.”


Whoosh crack!


“Kristen-Elisa deWitt. Under guidance from this school’s 1989 Discipline and Behaviour policy I… BEND OVER!”

Kirsten had jumped when the cane had struck her, and had stood up with a startled squeal.

“Kristen-Elisa bend over the desk NOW, young lady, or do you want another stroke?”

Unsure of what was happening, Kirsten bent over the desk again, placing her hands on the blotter.

“Good girl. Now, under the policy I hereby deliver to you three strokes of the cane upon your covered buttocks for continued disregard of school rules, leading to you gaining three Red Card Warnings. Have you anything to say?”

“Sir, it’s not me that …


Whoosh crack!


“…ah-HA-a-ouch … oh sir it’s not me you want.”

“Disobedience brings its own rewards Miss deWitt.”

“But please sir, I’m not …”


Whoosh crack!

Whoosh crack!


“…ooh-hoo-hoo. Ha-aah-oow. Sir, I’m not her.”

“Foolish! You surprise me Kristen-Elisa.”


Whoosh crack!


“OW! Oh please sir, I’m Kirsten Ellison. Kirsten Louisa Ellison, from 6A. Kristen-Elisa deWitt is a different girl, she’s in 4C and she’s probably at the swimming meeting in Launceston.” Kirsten broke into tears. “Please sir, I’m a different girl.”


Mr Aldwych stood back. He turned and looked at the file on the desk beside the sobbing girl. “Birthdate?”

“Oh, mine sir, July two sir.”

Kristen-Elisa DeWitt was born in March.

“Class?”

“Six A sir, I was with Mr Abel when you called.” The tears were running down Kirsten’s face and her voice had a sighing quality, but she’d stopped crying.

“Well girl, stand up, what did you think you were doing here then?”

Kirsten stood up slowly. “I think I have 246 merits sir, I thought you were going to present me with my certificate tomorrow.”

“Miss …”

“Ellison sir. Kirsten.”

“Take a seat Kirsten.”

“Please sir I’d …” Kirsten was rubbing her bottom, unaware of “the code” that a caned girl waits until she can get into the toilets before doing so.

“You’d rather stand. Well, let’s leave this for later then. You go clean yourself up and I’ll see you back here tomorrow okay?” Mr Aldwych put his hand on Kirsten’s arm. “I cannot tell you how terribly sorry I am. Good afternoon Kirsten Ellison; oh what a silly error!”

“Thank you sir, good afternoon sir.”


Kirsten turned and walked out of the office. As she did so she saw Vanessa standing, awaiting her turn. “Nice meeting with the Head was it Kristen-Elisa deWitt?”

“Carlon?” Mr Aldwych was at the door. “You could have saved this unfortunate young lady a great deal of trouble. You’ll have your five, plus the five I gave her.”

Vanessa smiled, “Kirsten Ellison got five! Winner!”

“Vanessa Carlon, that is cruel and unthinking. I think I’ll ask you to raise your skirt on this occasion if I can find a female chaperone. Kirsten, would you agree to be Vanessa’s chaperone?”

“Please sir, let her just have the punishment she came for.” Kirsten smiled at Vanessa, and walked out.

“Now Vanessa, why can’t you be more like Kirsten Ellison? In you come.”

Bea Isfor

This is a story I wrote in Hobart in April 1996, so I would have been 23 then: it is one of the first spanking stories I wrote. It is entirely made up, names and the club itself are all imagined, but the external geography of Hobart is accurate as is the name of Tasmania University (it’s where I was studying at the time). This was one of four stories I wrote in what I had hoped to be a series of twenty-six, one for each letter of the alphabet. This is Belinda, another two were Jessica, (a girl at a boarding school who is woken up in the middle of the night to be caned in front of the entire sixth form), and Deborah, (a young woman in her first job who is taken by a sexual predator as she walks home from work, but is spanked rather than raped). Rachael, (a young babysitter spanked by the parents of her charge for allowing him to break something), was re-used recently in Drought. I began stories called Anna (a nineteenth century maid caned for sloppiness, and named after Madam Karenina) and Natalia (a sixteenth century woman artist beaten by her father for being better than her brother, based on Artemisia Gentileschi), but never finished them.

I hope you like Belinda, I was very pleased to find her hidden in an old file of holographs, she was my favourite of the girls, although Jessica’s was the best story. (Sadly I have not got copies of the other stories only Belinda’s.)

This is a recent typing up of the original handwritten copy: I am very pleased to tell you that my handwriting has improved in the past eleven years, as has my grammar. I hope my storytelling has too, I like this story but I think it a bit stiff in form.

B is for Belinda

Belinda pulls her right shoe out of the box beneath her bed and pulls it on with a grimace. The toes are tight, she needs new ones, but then she needs money for so many things that shoes for Birdbar are low on her to-buy list. She stands up, clenches her toes, and steps off towards the kitchen.

Belinda Messenger is twenty-two years old and in her second year of a B.FA at Hunter Campus of Tasmania University, focussing on the History of Art and completing a practical course in photography. She loves that the college sits on the old wharf of Hobarttown; she imagines the convicts and screws who used to walk the very cobbles she daily walks between her flat in Wapping, her work in Salamanca Place, and the college on Hunter Island. She had been delighted to read in the Saturday Tasmanian that one of the bars local to her was recruiting hostesses, so whilst her classmates waitress tables or work in childcare, “Bella Mess” is paid to drink and talk to nice men.

Birdbar is located in a cellar beneath The Salamanca Tavern, and continues Salamanca Place’s long tradition of providing an ancillary service industry to the maritime communities of the Southern Ocean, and now of Antarctica. The Australian and French exploration vessels Aurora Australis and L’Astrolabe are both wintering in port, although the Russian one is not in this year. Belinda enjoys the company of the sailors, it is only officers who are allowed into Birdbar by Michal, the big Czechoslovakian at the door, but there are plenty of other houses of ill-repute for the lower cast of sailor to release his seamen. She enjoys the Australians and the Russians, but the French are her favourite. “Bonsoir, je’mappelle Belle, je suis tres jolie” she will often say to great applause.

Belinda’s shoes make click-clack as she traverses Murray Street and crosses into the gardens in front of Parliament House. The greenies are still encamped there, re-enacting Sunbury and extravagantly puffing mary-jane in protest at the draconian (Van Diemonian) restrictions on the use of said relaxant. She passes them without speaking to anyone, they are all too far out of it to see her anyway. She turns out of the gardens, walks along past the furniture shop and in the front door of Birdbar.
“Dobre vecer Beleenda”
“Ahoj Michal.”
Michal smiles, Belinda is the only one of the girls who has bothered to learn the Czech word for “hello”, in fact she is the only one who really speaks with him. Belinda briefly touches Michal’s hand as she enters, believing it is always a good idea to be friendly with the biggest boy in the room.

“You’re late Ms Messenger.” It is team coordinator Gretchen, known by the girls as Hausfrau.
“I’m sorry ma’am.”
“Two extra for you tonight.”
“Of course ma’am.”
Gretchen is herself only twenty-nine, but she is old. She has a mouth like a cat’s arse, both in appearance and output: with wiry hair and shoulders like a man. She is living evidence that the Berlin Wall was only downed seven years ago, Gretchen is everything everyone ever said about the women of the GDR.
“Room Seven.”
“Thank you ma’am.”
“And don’t forget the two, I shall ask.”
“Of course ma’am, thank you.”
Gretchen walks off, Belinda mutters “slag.”
“Four!” Gretchen doesn’t turn, but she has heard.
“Sorry ma’am.”
“Extra, mean is now six.”
“Understood ma’am.”
“In centre.”

Spanks. That’s what the two extra four mean is now six refers to. Belinda’s job is to chat to men, and occasionally women, fetch them drinks, share drinking with them, (but no alcohol for her), and allow herself to be spanked by them when deemed necessary. Sometimes the girls would also put on a “show” where several of them would be called up to go over a knee in the centre of the room for public displays of correction. This is what Gretchen had meant by “centre”, Belinda is going to receive six smacks during the evening show.

Belinda enters Room Seven and sees three men seated in a cloud of tobacco. Her friend Felicity is already present, sitting between two of the men and drinking Fanta through a curly straw. The men have bourbons on ice. Felicity looks up at the new arrival.
“Gentlemen, may I present Ms Belinda Messenger: aka Bella Mess.”
Belinda executes a neat bow.
“Who is, oh look, seven minutes late. Hausfrau?”
“Two,” replies Belinda, looking around the room to find who might look least likely to hurt her. Sometimes it is a gamble, drunken men can hit very inaccurately, or very very hard: you never know which.
“Come here then.” Felicity raises her arm and smiles. Belinda shoots her a look of gratitude. “Excuse me for a moment good sirs, Bella needs a belting. Turn around Bella.”
Belinda turns where she is in the room, and puts her hands on her knees. Felicity steps around behind her, and puts a hand on her back. With a single word, lateness, she brings the other one down in two smart slaps to Belinda’s tightened bum.
“Sorry Flicker.”

Bella and Flicker enjoy the company of the men, drinking Fanta politely through curly straws as the sailors sink deeper into a second bottle of Sam Cougar, but soon enough comes eleven o’clock and the closing of the siderooms. State licensing laws allow Birdbar to remain open only until midnight, so the last hour is always spent in the Central Room so as to make sure everyone is accounted for at closing time. Two of the sailors return to their ships at this point, but one continues in to the Central Room, walking surprisingly steadily with a girl in each hand. Save Belinda’s entry there have been no more corporal punishments in Room Seven tonight.

The trio arrive to find that they are last ones in, although that is to be understood as Room Seven is the furthest from the Central Room. Gretchen is standing on the raised circle in the middle of the room along with Mr Darwin, who is both the licensee and the manager, and some of the party from Room Four. Gretchen is speaking into the microphone.
“I see Ms Bella and Ms Flicker have joined us, so now our party is complete and the fun is able to begin. Mister Darwin has some things to tell us now.”
Mr Darwin takes the microphone and proceeds to explain that there are two sets of punishments due this evening, before the men can ask for some “free smacks” upon the girls. Two girls have been late, and one girl has spilled a drink on her client: indeed the clumsy girl has also been one of the late ones. These offences have been dealt with in the rooms, but will be addressed publicly as well. The girl from Room Four looks down, she knows she is owed six smacks for the spill and two for the lateness, indeed she has already received eight spanks in Room Four, but because she is going to be smacked for two transgressions then an implement will be used in the Central Room.
“Ms Rosie?” The girl, Belinda’s classmate Rosanna Bain, lifts her head.
“Yes sir it is true.”
The man from Room Four sits down, and pats his lap, Rosie bends over it and is paddled eight times: it appears as though the man is quite sober as the paddling is both direct and well measured. Rosie squints and grunts.

“Ms Bella? And your companion as well please?”
Belinda knew this was coming, she has been the other late girl and although she has already been smacked by Flicker she knew that there was always a Centre Room smack for that as well. Then there were the four for insulting Gretchen, but since these are separate incidents Bella will not receive the paddle.
Rooms Four and Seven trade places on the stage, and Belinda receives two very hard swats from the man, bent across his knees. Gretchen then sends the man back to the booth with Flicker, tells Belinda to bend over the stool, and delivers four hard smacks of her own. As Belinda is standing up, the man calls out “she’s nicked my wallet!”
An investigation follows, which over the course of twenty minutes scours the man’s pockets, Belinda’s pockets, Room Seven, and the booth in Central Room. The wallet cannot be found, the man all the time insists that Belinda had taken it. Belinda protests her innocence, but Mr Darwin decrees that until the wallet be found, both she and Felicity will be held accountable: which both girls know means more spanks for them.
And so back to the Central Room. Belinda goes up first, still protesting her innocence but knowing that all will be sorted out in terms of the theft. She feels able to deal with another smack, knowing that she will not have to handle Police and so forth.

The man pulls Belinda over his knees and Mr Darwin leans across and folds up her skirt. Gretchen hands the man the paddle and gives him a single worded instruction: “twenty”. The man smiles, and began the smacking. Belinda continues to protest her innocence, between gasps, but the smacks kept coming. At twenty he pushes Belinda off his lap so that she falls heavily to the floor, and then calls out that he has been only joking, but now bring the other one. Felicity protests, Belinda stands up and begins to straighten her clothes. Mr Darwin asks what the man means and he says that it is all just part of the game, he’s now smacked the blonde one and it is the red-head’s turn now.

The wallet had never been stolen, it is locked in the cloakroom safe.

Mr Darwin informs the man that since he has made a false accusation against Belinda he has two options: either accept a spanking from Belinda, or be banned from Birdbar. The man accepts the ban, saying he is not sorry for what he has done as it has all been worth the experience of “spanking a pretty blonde’s bare arse in front of my mates”. Mr Darwin has Michal evict the man, to great cheering from the other men in the bar who give three cheers to “patient Bella, a good sort.” Bella smiles shyly and presses down the front of her skirt.
“I was not bare arse,” she tells the men before stepping off the stage and heading to the Ladies to fix her face up. Felicity assures her that since the uniform for the girls involves black pantihose, which were obviously not the colour of bare flesh, and had remained in place upon Bella’s lower half, the men had been aware of her legs being covered all along. “Good,” replies Belinda, I wouldn’t want them to think I’m a slag.”