Annabel Parminter, 27, history graduate and temporary tour guide, leans on a pillar of the imposing 18th century hall, gazing out over the rolling parkland. It is late afternoon and the sun shines golden on the old stonework.
Annabel Parminter is bored. There will be no more visitors this afternoon, though that could be counted as a blessing in her current mood. To think that only three generations ago, this entire estate was the property of her family, the Parminters of Parminter Hall. Now here she is, the sole remaining member of the Parminter family, reduced to traipsing round and answering the bathetic questions of gawping tourists for the “heritage” company who now owned it.
She shrugs her shoulders in resignation and takes a chair out into the sunshine. “Might as well take the weight off my feet until closing time” she thinks, and sitting back, closes her blue eyes.
Annie Peacock, skivvy, scullerymaid and general maid of all work, lugs a bucket of water out to the stableyard, gets down on her knees and starts to scrub. She is startled to hear a step behind her and turning suddenly, knocks the bucket over. She watches in horror as the scummy water laps around the gleaming polished boots of Mr Fairfax, head groom. “Oh, sir!” she quavers, mopping haplessly at his feet with a wet grey cloth. “Oh, I am sorry, sir, so sorry.”
“Get that filthy rag away from me, you careless girl!” he shouts, his face ablaze with anger. “Clear up this mess and then report to me in the tack room!”
Annie Peacock nods mutely, her lip quivering. “Yes, sir, sorry sir!”
She hastily brushes the water away down the drain in the centre of the yard, puts the bucket and brushes away and runs, stumbling over the cobbles, to the tack room. She dare not lose her position at the hall; what would become of her? She would never go back to the orphanage – that much was certain.
She pushes open the door and peers into the gloom. Mr Fairfax is waiting for her, leaning against the bench, his face a mask.
“Well, now, Peacock,” he says grimly, “You surely are the clumsiest maid we have had here. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Oh, if you please, sir, I am truly sorry but you startled me and somehow I just…..” her voice fades away and she looks at the ground, twisting her tattered apron in her hands.
“This is not the first time I have had to speak to you about your clumsiness, is it, Peacock?” His voice is pure ice.
“No, sir,” mutters Annie.
“I presume that you have no wish to lose your position here?”
“Oh, no, sir, please sir, no sir” Annie looks up in terror. “Please don’t make me go!” Then with rising colour but determination, “ I won’t go back to the orphanage – I won’t!”
“Indeed, missy? Then perhaps you had better tell me what other course of action is open to me?”
Annie looks down at her feet again, twisting the cloth of her apron tighter and tighter. She mutters something indistinct.
“Speak up, girl! And look at me!”
“Please sir, I’m to be….to be…..”
“Yes? To be what?”
“Sir, to be ch-ch-ch…..”
“Yes? I am waiting!” this in tones of deep menace.
Annie takes a deep breath, raises her head and looks him squarely in the eye. “To be chastised, sir.” She says.
Without a word he gestures toward the bench. It is obvious that this scene has been played out before. Annie meekly approaches and bends over the bench, grasping the far side with both hands. She flinches as she hears the swish of a leather belt being removed from his trousers. There is a pause as he walks around, sizing up her situation, then, with the speed of an adder, he strikes. Annie draws in her breath. Crack! Another strike…another ….and another. The blows now rain thick and fast but Annie makes no more sound.
“You are silent, girl!” he says “Perhaps I am not getting the seriousness of your situation through to you. Further measures would seem to be needed. Do not presume to move!”
“No, sir” a little muffled, this.
He replaces his belt and moves around the room, deciding on which of the items of tack will suit best. With a satisfied grunt, he selects a crop. “Are you ready”
“Sir.”
Thwack! The crop is applied with precision. “I think 12 strokes – can you count?”
“Nnn o, sir” Annie lies. She wants above all not to submit entirely to him and does not trust herself to speak as he strikes in case her voice breaks.
“Very well, I will count – it will serve as part of your general education.”
The 12 strokes are duly delivered; Annie has still managed not to cry out, though her bottom is now aflame.
Fairfax appears to take her continued silence as a slur. He looks around the room once more and a twisted smile crosses his face. “Stand up, missy!” he commands. Annie does so, wincing as the rough material of her dress rubs across her stinging rear. “Now – fetch that saddle down and place it on the saddle rack.” Annie does so; she has to stand on tiptoe to put it in place and the same twisted smile flits across his features as he watches. “Now, bring me that halter – be quick about it – now lay yourself over the saddle and let your arms hang right down on the other side. Further over – that’s better. ” Inside, Annie is in turmoil; her stomach turns over in anticipation of what is to come. Come what may she is determined to hold on both to her pride and her job.
He bends to tie her wrists with the halter, his face so close to hers that she can feel the stubble on his chin graze her cheek as he whispers menacingly “Now we will see what you are made of.”
Her wrists are then tied to her ankles under the saddle rack, leaving her dangling helplessly, buttocks on high, while he walks over to the racks on the wall. Heavens – what is he going to get now? All to soon, she realises. The sharp pistol shot sound of the whip is unmistakeable but worse is to come. With a swift movement, he flings her skirts up over her head, leaving the two halves of her Victorian drawers exposed. She has no other underwear, counting herself lucky to have been given this pair by the housekeeper who was outraged at the thought of a member of the household being, as she put it, indecently clad. They are no protection now, however; he pulls the two halves apart like curtains and surveys the results of his previous exercise with some satisfaction.
The whip sings through the air once more before the first lash lands with precision on her quivering buttocks. Annie bites her lip but makes no murmur. The whip lands again and again and Annie cannot restrain herself from trying to wriggle away, hopeless though that is.
“Hah! I would appear to be making some progress!” he says. "Now I think it is time to reinforce our arithmetic lesson. You will count the next ten lashes with me. ONE …”
Annie makes no sound.
“You had better find your tongue, missy,” he says, “or you will earn yourself two extra lashes for every one you fail to count with me. You may not be good at numbers, but I’m sure you can add that up. Now – once again – ONE!”
Annie manages a faint “One” “TWO” “ Ttt two” “THREE” “Th th threeee” – this through gritted teeth. Each blow of the whip runs through her like a knife; she is afraid that she will not be able to hold back the tears he cannot see but which are brimming in her eyes.
At last, the magic “TEN” and Fairfax stands back to survey his handiwork. Annie’s rump is incandescent, the bruises from the crop underlying the intricate network of wheals he has interlaced across her scarlet bottom.
“I think that will suffice for now” and he loosens the leather halter, freeing her. She slips off the saddle, hardly able to stand. “Now you will replace the crop, halter and whip to their correct places. I will replace the saddle myself. I will not expose you to the risk of dropping it and meriting another punishment just now.”
“Thank you, sir” says Annie with, could it possibly be, a hint of sarcasm?
He looks around sharply but she is meekly engaged in hanging up the halter.
Fairfax turns and leaves the tack room. Annie looks after him with an inscrutable expression in her blue eyes and just the suggestion of a smile playing around her mouth. She goes out into the sunshine, somewhat stiffly but still with an indomitable air about her.
From the hayloft above the tack room, Roger Parminter, only son and heir to the noble house, gazes after her with incredulity. He has witnessed the entire scene and is overwhelmed by Annie’s spirit and endurance. “My God! What a girl! Who cares if she is the scullery maid - I believe I am in love!”
Annabel Parminter opens her eyes. The sun has dropped below the trees and she shivers briefly as the cool air blows over her arms. She rises from the chair and “Ohhhhh!” She cannot believe it! Rubbing her hands over her thin silk dress she is astounded by a burning, stinging heat and the unmistakeable pattern of raised welts criss-crossing her buttocks. As she stands there, stunned, she hears the sound of whistling from the old stable block as young Mr Fairfax, the company driver, parks the estate minibus . . . . .
