Steppingham was a middle-ranking boys' boarding school in what was becoming a small and exclusive dormitory town a few miles outside Edinburgh. Its clientele had, for years, been predictable - the sons of the mission, the ministry and the military - but in the late 1980s Scotland was experiencing falling numbers in all of the above categories, so, faced with financial meltdown, the governors took a bold step; they called in the bank manager, then the builders, and re-invented themselves as a co-educational school, to the anguish of several exclusive private girls' schools in the Lothian area. For the first year, the school actively recruited what would be a landmark female intake from the final years of junior schools as well as casting a net for gifted young women to join the lower sixth; they also built a nasty breezeblock compound in a remote corner of the grounds to house new female resident staff.

Jennifer Green was regarded as both a very able and a very troublesome pupil; her previous long-suffering headmistress had suggested to her parents that she might be better off taking her Advanced Highers at a technical college as she was unsuited to the demands of a traditional education, but her parents had grabbed the chance to send her to Steppingham, on account of its having a more robust disciplinary procedure than the academy, which had been all at sea when young ladies responded with rebellious ingratitude to their privileged learning environment; Jennifer was soon to discover exactly how robust this could be.

Philippa Parslow, on the other hand, was English, twenty-five years old and on the run from a failed relationship with the Rotherham Love Rat, as her ex Gavin would be forever known, and the demands of teaching music in a rough Sheffield comprehensive; a well-run school with nice kids in a semi-pastoral setting was just what she needed to lick her wounds. And, of course, she was just what they needed too, as they sought to broaden the curriculum and at the same time appoint single women as houseparents to the female boarders. The fact that she was an accomplished tennis player was a bonus, and the headmaster Mr. Muir set about pencilling her into extra teaching slots as games mistress before she had even arrived.

Although corporal punishment had recently been subject to a blanket ban in state schools, the incurably left-wing city council in Sheffield had, like many others, already taken their own steps to ditch the cane, and Philippa had left teacher training college at just the right time to catch the brunt of burgeoning disciplinary problems. But Margaret Thatcher's government, whilst apparently caving in to pressure from Europe on human rights for the masses, had allowed the traditional, private bastions of beating and buggery to which they sent their own children to continue in time-honoured fashion, and Steppingham still retained the strap. All teachers could administer two sharp strokes on the non-writing hand, whilst more severe discipline could be administered at the discretion of the headmaster, to whom the governors had left the decision of what to do with the new influx of female students.

"Belt 'em," said Mr. McGreavy the physics master at one of the staff days preceding the autumn term; now middle-aged, he had been widowed young and had brought up three daughters single-handedly, so had no room for sentimentality.

The newly recruited home economics teacher Miss Whitehead, with whom Philippa shared lodgings and general responsibilities for the girls'welfare, looked disapprovingly but Mrs. Crerand, who had hitherto been the only female teacher at the school, announced that she would be quite prepared to use the strap - as she had already done on the boys - and act as chaperone to any girls sent to the confines of the head's office for more serious offences. That settled, Miss Whitehead and Philippa were issued with their personal straps from a central supply, and Philippa, as youngest female staff member, was left to wash up the coffee cups.

Philippa found that, in actual fact, very little corporal punishment was required, especially towards the girls; the fourth and fifth year boys tried it on with the new teachers a few times, but a couple of determined whacks soon settled the biggest culprits. Sixth formers didn't get beaten and the only other girls in the school were the first years, who tended to wander round in a subdued huddle and do as they were told. The school had a passable tennis court, and waking up alone every morning in a breeze block shed was mitigated by the orderly peace and seclusion of the place; she was going to enjoy teaching at Steppingham.

Jennifer Green, on the other hand, was bored; she was stuck in this morbid hellhole with drippy do-gooders and the most appallingly dull set of boys in the whole of Scotland. More humiliatingly, she still had to wear uniform, and began to regret her misbehaviour at her previous school, where the sixth form regimen would have been more relaxed. And doing bloody cross-country for that silly English cow! She trudged along sullenly at the back of a string of trotting sixth-formers, and an idea began to take shape. The cross-country course went along a street of modern bungalows, then through a wood and, after a circular tour of disgusting muddy farm land, along the other side of the estate and back into school via the playing fields; if she waited until everyone else had entered the wood, she could cut through the houses and take a massive short cut. She pretended to need to re-lace her trainers until the penultimate stragglers were out of sight.

Jennifer assessed the houses, and selected one which looked empty; she sprinted down the drive, vaulted a low dividing wall and out through the opposite driveway; she thought she heard someone bang on a window, but made it into the street. So far so good! One more time to reach the main road beyond; she crossed the street, chose a house and repeated the manoeuvre. But as she tried to make her escape over the fence and down the driveway, a woman came out of the kitchen door with a wash basket; Jennifer went to outflank her by going across the lawn and fell flat on her face in the fishpond. Dripping wet and angry, she glanced down; the lawn had been criss-crossed with string to keep herons from plundering the carp. The woman wanted to know what Jennifer was doing in her garden; the answer came that she was trying to avoid getting tripped up by stupid old bitches who put booby traps on their bleeding lawns.

Jennifer then had to genuinely run with the woman in angry pursuit, but the woman soon gave up, and settled for a shouted threat to phone the school - which she carried out, as did the woman who had banged on the window in the previous street. Although she tried to sneak home in the midst of the other runners, Jennifer's muddy wet top and the accurate description given by her accusers ensured that she was swiftly found out. Steppingham school had always enjoyed excellent relationships with local residents, and this outrage, whilst possibly par for the course in faraway Sheffield, was unheard of here. Mr. Muir called for an emergency staff meeting to decide what to do with the miscreant.

"Belt her," said Mr. McGreavy, who plumped his cushion and sat down in his favourite staff room chair and began to read a science journal as though the matter was decided. For the most serious offences, one final sanction was available short of expulsion; six of the best, delivered to the rear in public during assembly with the very stoutest of Lochgelly tawses. But this was very rarely invoked, and Mr. Muir was worried about the implications of beating girls on the behind. Maybe expulsion would be the proper recourse after all. Then, to her surprise, Philippa found herself speaking up on behalf of the culprit; she had seen much worse behaviour go unpunished in the state sector, and the girl was very bright and gifted - if she could be brought into line she could do well, and bring credit to the school.

"Looks like you've got yourself a job, then, dear!" said Mrs. Crerand, and Philippa wondered just what she had let herself in for.

"After all, it was your class in which she misbehaved," pointed out the headmaster.

Getting the male staff to administer public punishment to a female was out of the question, but Mrs Crerand's arm had, she announced, been playing up, whilst Miss Whitehead refused point-blank to get involved, and Philippa, having painted herself into a corner, was duly handed the heavy Lochgelly tawse from Mr. Muir, with the suggestion that she begin to practice how to use it.

"Er ... bend down, please, Sir?" she asked timidly, and the staff room erupted with hilarity.

"Not on ME, girl!" thundered the headmaster, "Use Mr. McGreavy's cushion!"

And the rest of the staff watched with wry amusement as the embarrassed young woman learnt how she was expected to tame Jennifer Green.

There was a sombre mood in assembly next day, as Mr. Muir recounted the events which had led up to one of Steppingham's pupils causing disgrace to fall upon the whole school community. The vase of flowers, which normally adorned the polished wooden table in the centre of the dais, had been put to one side, and the heavy tawse, which many of the pupils had never seen, lay in its place. He pointed out that, in these enlightened times, women and girls could enjoy equal privileges with men and boys, but had to in turn bear equal responsibility when those privileges were abused.

"Come to the front, Jennifer Green!" he barked, and a gasp of anticipation spread throughout the hall as Jennifer left her seat; the older boys at the back whom Jennifer had called wimps, oiks and suchlike would have paid good money to change places with the wide-eyed first years who were going to get the best view of proceedings. The other teachers moved to the edges of the hall to preserve modesty, and Jennifer and Philippa were left alone on the platform.

"Bend over the table and hold on to the far side, Jennifer!" ordered Miss Parslow, as she took up the thick strap and flexed it. Jennifer did so, and Philippa flipped up Jennifer's bottle-green pleated skirt, causing a collective sigh to rise from the testosterone-loaded ranks at the rear, for Jennifer was to be belted across tights and knickers only. Philippa swivelled her hips and raised her arm to the horizontal.

Whack! Fifteen-love, thought Philippa, as the youngsters saw Jennifer's face cloud with pain.

But her second stroke was high, and barely clipped the top of Jennifer's buttocks; Mr. McGreavy tutted audibly. Fifteen-all.

Whack! This time Philippa flexed her wrist more, and Jennifer let out a gasp; thirty-fifteen.

The fourth stroke was low, across the top of the thighs, and Philippa checked it slightly as it fell. Jennifer lay impassively across the table; this one obviously hadn't hurt too much. Thirty-all.

Suddenly Philippa noticed one of the fourth year boys whom she'd previously strapped grinning insolently half way down the hall. She grew angry; this stupid girl had now caused her to be humiliated herself, twice within twelve hours; well, she was going to be very sorry! Philippa put down the tawse, removed her jacket and wiped her sweating palms, then recommenced the punishment with increased vigour.

Crack! The hardest stroke yet, and Jennifer cried out this time; forty-thirty.

For the last stroke, Philippa forgot the technique she'd learnt, raised the tawse high over her shoulder, and brought it whistling down like a tennis serve, but with a final sideways swerve, hard and accurate on Jennifer's throbbing rear. The sound echoed through the hall, Jennifer screamed and straightened and even the teachers jumped. Game to me, thought Philippa. She caressed the warm leather for a few seconds, and let her eyes linger on some of the major miscreants, insolence now wiped away from their startled faces. One or two of the first-year girls began to cry.

"Back to your seat, Miss Green!" ordered Philippa, trying to match Mr. Muir's inflections, and Jennifer, after giving the upset first-years a wet-eyed wink to reassure them that she was all right, tottered stiffly back to her place. She managed not to sob out loud until she could reach the privacy of the newly-constructed girls' toilets.

Jennifer Green was ten minutes' late into her first lesson, double physics with Mr. McGreavy. As she shuffled apologetically towards her seat, Mr. McGreavy called her to the front of the class. It wasn't fair, she thought, getting your hand strapped for late attendance straight after such a thrashing. But he rummaged under his desk, and handed her his beloved cushion.

"Gosh, thanks, Sir" she beamed, but Mr. McGreavy looked at her sourly.

"Only because I don't want the class distracted by your squawking, Green, and I'll have it back at the end of the lesson, if you don't mind!" he said, as Jennifer gratefully placed the cushion on the hard-topped lab stool.

Jennifer found that she had acquired hero status amongst the younger scholars, and respect from her peers for the way she hadn't made more fuss than strictly necessary during her whacking; but she didn't want another dose, so accepted the sudden popularity and settled down, whilst Philippa also found that she had acquired a measure of respect, her muscular tennis arm marking her out as the hardest belter in the school. Any discipline problems she might have had melted away, at least in the short term.

Mr.Muir was quite frank during the telephone conversation; yes, like many private boarding schools they hadn't completely abolished corporal punishment, although of course it was no longer an everyday event; no, since going co-ed they hadn't a separate policy for female pupils; yes, they had used the strap on girls but, no, he wasn't going to go into any further detail, though they had nothing to hide from either parents or governors. It took less than three minutes to reassure the lady who he hoped was the mother of a prospective pupil. He was therefore mortified when, a couple of weeks later, an article appeared in a Sunday colour supplement entitled "Where To Send Your Daughter To Be Thrashed", in which Steppingham featured strongly. A photo-montage included himself, culled from the school prospectus, alongside a grim, bearded Muslim holding a frightened burqa-clad young girl firmly by the arm, a smarmy Christian fundamentalist displaying an American-style paddle inscribed with Bible verses and a sinister-looking lady dressed in Victorian style who ran a "strict finishing school" for young ladies in Wolverhampton. None of the famous boarding schools which Steppingham tried to emulate had been featured, having either abolished corporal punishment or pretended as much, and his beloved school was now linked with the loony-bin end of education. Fortunately, one of the governors knew the newspaper editor, so the following week's edition contained an amendment, stating that the disciplinary procedure at Steppingham was "being overhauled" and that there had only been an isolated incidence of "legacy punishment policy" which had involved "a senior girl". But, in the meantime, two families had summarily turned up at school and bundled away their first-year daughters, so Mr. Muir, pressurised by the galvanised governors, reluctantly collected in all the straps issued to the staff and called time on corporal punishment, Miss Parslow having to administer the alternative disciplinary sanction of extra cross-country runs.

But there was one twist in the tail, at the school's annual prize-giving that year; the retiring Mr Muir announced that he had one final duty to perform.

"Come to the front, Jennifer Green!" he commanded.

Jennifer got up out of her seat and trudged slowly towards the assembled staff in their peacock-like display of academic robes. Mr. Muir went to his jacket, and took out the heavy Lochgelly tawse which had remained unseen and unused for months.

"Hold out your hand, Miss Green!" he said sternly, as the onlookers registered their shock, wondering what the girl had done to merit such humiliation on a day of celebration.

And he took the tawse and read out the gilt inscription:

"To Jennifer Green, prize for improved behaviour."

He laid it gently in her outstretched hand, now hers to keep forever, and they both chuckled at the prank they had pulled. He also gave her the redundant Steppingham punishment book; as only the severe public punishments were recorded, my wife's name was, incongruously, the very last and only female one in a long history of painful disciplinary encounters.

The story was over, though I never tire of hearing it. I surveyed the thick tawse, the gilt lettering now slightly faded and the business end roughened through regular use. But those old Scottish leather-workers had been proud of their craft, this instrument would last a lifetime, and we were still only in our early thirties.

Jennifer now pressed her face and upper body meekly into the soft upholstery of the sofa as I slipped her knickers down to her ankles, leaving her bared pink bottom stretched over the arm of the sofa awaiting her punishment, or, rather, her sweet reward for another week's worth of lecturing at the University. I was very proud of her, though that reassurance would have to come later.

A knock at the door; I went to open it. There stood the recently-appointed headmistress of Steppingham school who had graciously consented to undertake discreet extra-curricular visits to deserving former pupils.

"Bloody Friday night traffic!" said a soft lilting Lothian voice interspersed with an occasional low Yorkshire vowel.

"Hello, Philippa, we're ready for you!" I said, and sat down to watch.