Free Rectory of Correction by Amanita Virosa Page B

whipping drawers. Amelia’s heart sank at the sight. The tight drawers would be even more galling over a welted bottom.
    â€˜Oh, no,’ she said out loud before she could stop herself, ‘not those bloody monstrosities!’
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    The Reverend was waiting for the girls as they filed into the classroom. The combination of their impossibly tight drawers, punished bottoms and leg muscles stiff from their exertions ensured that every one of the trainees moved gingerly.
    Amelia moved to her desk and stood up straight, anxiously awaiting further orders. The Reverend looked at each of his charges in turn. She swallowed hard as his eyes fixed on hers.
    â€˜All right, sit down,’ he said at last.
    Amelia winced, even before her sore bottom met the hard wood of her seat. The action of sitting tautened the cotton of her drawers uncomfortably. Then her martyred flesh did meet unyielding wood, and she winced again.
    The Reverend Dawes stood before his table, leaning forward and supporting his powerful frame on straight arms that ended in clenched fists. He raked the rows of trembling girls with his pitiless raptor’s gaze.
    â€˜Only one word could describe the performance of this class today,’ he said slowly. ‘Pathetic!’
    Amelia felt her stomach clench as he spat the word viciously.
    â€˜You are a lazy, disobedient, idle, fidgeting shower of brats!’
    The Reverend stood back and shook his head in mock sorrow. He turned and strolled over to the rack of straps and canes. There was a horrible silence as he perused his implements at length. No girl dared to make a noise; Amelia barely dared to breathe. Eventually he selected a cane and swished it thoughtfully. Amelia’s knees had started trembling and she simply did not seem to be able to keep them still. The Reverend Dawes turned and stalked towards his class. Amelia’s mouth felt dry as blotting paper.
    He walked through the desks until he was behind them. Amelia strained her ears to try to chart his progress, not daring to turn. The tension in the room was dreadful, a suffocating blanket of clammy fear.
    â€˜All of you deserve a salutary thrashing on general principles.’
    Amelia closed her eyes at the word ‘thrashing’ and tried to keep the tears at bay. Not more, she prayed. Her bottom was too sore for more. It simply was not possible to bear it...
    â€˜However, in the interests of discipline I must appoint two of you as prefects. Two of you have shown slightly more promise than your wretched companions. These two girls will have the privileges and the responsibility of prefecture. They will have the duty of maintaining order in my absence.’
    Let it be me! A faint ghost of hope tiptoed into Amelia’s heart. Please, she prayed silently, let me be a prefect.
    â€˜The prefects will have food and dress privileges. Flogging drawers, for example, will be optional for them, outside of the classroom...’
    The idea of being free of those wretched garments, even for part of the time! Amelia wanted it so much that she almost choked with hope. Why was he taking so long to announce his choices? She bit her bottom lip and tried to stay her trembling. The Reverend was playing with them, she realised suddenly, dangling the possibility in front of every girl in the class, simply to have the satisfaction of then snatching it away. Still, she reasoned as his measured footsteps paced behind her, she must be in with a good chance. After all, it would scarcely be Gretchen or Charlotte, and she could not see timid little Linnet being picked. With a sudden thrill, Amelia remembered, she had come in second on the cross-country run.
    â€˜In order to maintain discipline in the dormitory,’ the Reverend continued after a long pause, broken only by his measured tread, ‘prefects will be authorised to administer up to four strokes of the tawse or cane, without reference to me.’
    Amelia’s whole body was trembling