diana - 2

I was astonished when Nanny Castle swept me over her lap, flipped up my skirt, and landed a sharp smack on my bottom. Outrage wasn't even the second emotion that rose to the fore. I think that my second reaction was bewilderment. Why was she doing this to me? We had met scarcely half an hour before. Hitherto, she had shown me only kindness and compassion. Now, she was hurting me, although instinct told me that she had my best interests at heart, however she viewed them, and that she was the first person in my life to care about me without the authorities paying her to do so.

My bottom throbbed and burnt at the impact of that initial slap. Nanny Castle had a strong arm, and this was obviously not the first spanking she had delivered. She paused after the smack, perhaps for thirty seconds, although it seemed longer. Then, when I made as if to rise, her left hand held me securely in place. Three more wallops followed in quick succession before she tugged my knickers down. At this indignity, I protested for the first time.

Life had not treated me kindly and my usual reaction to the world was the bravado and bluster of an outwardly tough girl. But, during the last couple of weeks, a triple whammy of uncaring blows had crushed me. Now, I was at such a low point that the pain and indignity of a spanking passed without protest; it was the humiliation of lowered underwear that belatedly provoked my response.

I was days rather than weeks old when someone, perhaps my mother, left me, as a weak and undernourished baby, on the doorstep of Parkside Wood Children's Home. In the history of the home, I was only the third nameless waif. The first two were, I believe, both boys named alphabetically as Adam and Barry. That left the letter C for me. In full, the authorities named me as Christina Parkside Wood, but I was usually known as Tina Wood.

As a baby, I was too sickly for anyone to seek to adopt me. Later, my attitude and resentment probably scared away couples who might have adopted me, potential foster parents too. I remained at Parkside Wood until my sixteenth birthday, when the system flushed me out into the world, as though I were the smelly consequence of last night's dinner.

Over the next six years, I struggled to survive, without support, in squalid accommodation and dead end ill paid work. Now, I was twenty-two years old and in dire straits.

My fresh troubles began when, at the end of July, my grasping landlord increased the rent on my sordid bedsit. The same week, the supermarket, in which I stacked shelves, reduced my hours. As far as I could see, my only hope lay in applying for state benefits. That day's post had brought a cold and uncaring letter telling me that I had no entitlement to taxpayers' money. The civil service's language was too opaque for me to follow the reasoning behind that decision, but their refusal was all too clear.

I sat on a park bench weeping; the heartless letter crumpled in my hand.

When I felt an arm about my shoulder, my first thought was that a boy was trying his luck with a vulnerable girl. I shrugged off the consoling hand before detecting a light floral perfume identifying my comforter as a woman.

"I'm sorry," I said, holding back my tears for a moment.

My moisture-blurred vision obscured the woman and, indeed, the entire park. They say that eyes are the windows of the soul. If so, my soul was looking through steamed up windows. I made to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

"No," a woman's voice said. "Don't do that."

She spoke quietly, but her voice conveyed more authority than any I'd previously heard. I had, on occasion, defied teachers, and Parkside Wood staff, but disobeying that voice was inconceivable. I halted my hand an inch or so from my face.

"Here," she added, "use this."

I felt someone press soft fabric into my grasp. When I'd wiped my eyes, I saw that she had passed to me a large and spotless white handkerchief. For the first time, I saw the lady's face. Her age was difficult to guess. She might equally have been thirty or fifty. That didn't matter; her grey eyes drew my entire attention. If they were the windows of her soul, her eyes revealed a paradoxical character which, at first, I was unable to fathom. The mixture of kindness, compassion, fixity of purpose, and steely determination was beyond my experience. Instantly, I admired her. It was impossible to do otherwise.

"Blow your nose as well," she urged.

After a moment's hesitation, I obeyed. I would have complied instantly, except that it seemed extremely wrong to sully the pristine handkerchief with my snot.

"Thank you, Miss," I said.

She needed a respectful title, and I opted for the one with which I'd addressed teachers during my schooldays.

"Believe me," she replied, "no boy is worth it."

"It's not a boy, Miss."

"A girl?" she asked.

"Not that either, Miss. It's this."

I handed her the crumpled letter. Until I gave her the ministry's refusal of benefits, I hadn't intended to share the document or its contents with anyone. But the lady carried the air of a person who would settle troubles if anyone could. The image came unbidden to mind of Cinderella's fairy godmother. For a moment, I imagined her flicking her wand, releasing a cascade of stars that would turn the heartless civil servants into horses to draw my carriage to a ball. It was years since anything from a fairy story had entered my head. Despite my misery, I giggled. The lady looked sharply at me, raising one eyebrow.

"Is Miss C P Wood your big sister?" she asked, tapping the letter.

"No, Miss. I'm C P Wood."

"You applied for state benefits? How old are you?"

"Twenty-two, Miss."

"Really? How remarkable. You might be a fourteen-year-old."

"I had a bad start in life, Miss, half starved and left on a doorstep. My body has never fully recovered."

"Looking into your eyes, I see that your spirit has never fully recovered, either. My home is a short walk from here. You will join me for tea and cake, and then we can consider what we must do." Her words sounded more like a command than an invitation that I might accept or decline. She glanced again at the letter. "Your address, on Lancaster Street, is not encouraging."

"It's a bedsit, Miss, not very nice."

"My name is Nanny Castle. You may call me Nanny. And for what do your C P initials stand?"

"Christina Parkside, Nanny. People call me Tina."

"Come, Christina."

Nanny Castle placed her arm about my waist and swept me from the park bench. Without any conscious intent on my part, I found myself trotting at her side as she stepped swiftly along the path, through the gate, and on to the street. A dozen paces brought us to her front door, black with a shiny brass knocker in the form of a lion's head. It was a prime location, and my assumption was that Nanny Castle was employed to care for the children of the wealthy family who must live here. Yet, as we passed into the hallway, I found that the house was strangely tranquil for a family home. There were no scattered toys nor other tokens of childhood. The loudest sound was the ticking of a grandfather clock next to the antique table housing a telephone.

"I suppose, Nanny," I said, "that the children must be away."

"There are no are children, Christina. I live here alone."

"But aren't you a nanny?"

"I no longer need to work, although sometimes I long for a young life to guide. If you're interested, I'll tell you about it while I make tea. Or perhaps you'd prefer to tell me your story."

"No, Nanny, I'd rather hear about your life."

In reality, I had no great desire to learn of Nanny Castle's situation, but I definitely didn't wish to think about my life. Sitting in this quiet house with a cup of tea was, at that moment, the apex of my ambition.

I was surprised to hear Nanny chuckle.

"Is there some kind of joke, Nanny?" I asked.

"Not exactly, I was just thinking of Marianne, the last young person I had in my charge. She had a lot to say about herself."

"Maybe she enjoyed a more pleasant life than mine."

Nanny had led me into the kitchen, the furnishing of which contrasted strongly with the hallway. Nothing here had the patina of age and yet it was, in its own way, old-fashioned. The Formica covered table and matching chairs belonged in my own 1950s childhood. Nanny Castle filled a kettle, placed a whistle on its spout, struck a match, lit the gas, and set the water to boil on the stove.

"In some ways, I'm sure that Marianne did have a more pleasant life than yours," Nanny replied. "At least, as Mr Blackstone's daughter, she had no money worries."

"Gerry Blackstone?" I asked.

"You would be more polite if you called him Mister Blackstone, Christina, but you have the correct person in mind."

It was at this point that, in surprise, I gave voice to a coarse and unwise expletive.

Gerry Blackstone's businesses had included the supermarket in which I worked. He had once visited the store and, at the manager's insistence, we had prepared for his arrival as though he were royalty. I spent an entire day cleaning and polishing trolleys with wire wool and malodorous glop, hard and unnecessary work that made my back ache and sore fingers stink.

Nanny Castle lowered herself on to the nearest chair, took a steady hold of my right wrist, placed her left hand firmly upon my waist, swept me forward and down. Before I had registered her intent, I found myself over her lap, bottom uppermost. Casually, as though this were the most natural thing in the world, she flicked my skirt upwards to expose my underwear. In this, my penchant for miniskirts was not my friend. A longer garment would have better defended my bottom, although it obviously wouldn't have defeated Nanny. Almost at once, a forceful smack struck my right buttock. The impact of her open palm on my rump stung abominably. Taken by surprise, I neither protested nor struggled to escape. Only after she paused for maybe half a minute did I attempt to wriggle free. Nanny's unexpectedly strong left hand kept me pinioned while she delivered another three wallops, with scarcely a second between each and the next, alternating between my left and right cheeks. My bottom throbbed and burnt. Then, I felt her seize the knicker elastic about my hips and start to tug my undies down.

"Hoi!" I protested, at this fresh indignity. "What are you doing?"

It was, I suppose, a rhetorical question, nevertheless Nanny answered.

"I'm baring your bottom, Christina, so that I can spank you, as any girl deserves if she pronounces the frightful word you employed."

"But I'm twenty-two years old, and nobody put you in charge of me!"

"Somebody needs to care for you Christina, and I've accepted that responsibility. Not another word, young lady, until I complete your first spanking."

I sensed that by 'first spanking' she meant the first spanking she would give me, without reference to the possibility that someone else had previously smacked my bottom. The phrase implied that this would not be my last session over her lap. Such was the authority she commanded, I didn't contest her right to punish me, nor did I again attempt to rise before she had finished. Slap after hard slap roasted my bottom.