Bye-Bye, Professor Chapman

There was a knock at my office door.

I was preparing a paper for the “The Journal of Comparative Religious Studies” on the reconciliation of free will in a pre-ordained universe, and such an interruption was most unwelcome.   I was not expecting anyone – perhaps it was the Dean on the prowl to inveigle a victim into the nightmare of one of his admin chores.

“Enter!” I barked authoritatively: if it happened to be one of my students, I would not want any rumor going around that sometimes I was approachable.

“Ah – Chapman:  just the chap.”   The Dean swept in like a galleon in full sail.

A sense of dread gripped my intestines.   He once made me spend several weeks checking the accuracy of marking on ancient exam papers until I caved in and agreed to give lectures and tutorials for the newfangled Agnostic Studies undergraduate program.   Although I did cave in back then, it still amazed me that we were giving out degrees to people for not being able to choose what to study.   Ah well – modern times.

“Ah yes, nice to see you, Dean” I parried, taking care to make sure he could not reach my in-tray without wrestling me to the floor.   When you are in a mental battle to the death, you don’t want a simple stratagem like simply dumping a file to take the day.

“May I sit down?”    He plopped himself into my visitor’s chair before there was any chance that I could dream up some excuse of why that could not happen right now.  

“Of course, Dean, I always have time for you.”   I surreptitiously pulled the in-tray out of his reach.  He had clearly forgotten that I was a leading member of the Professorial Chess Club.

“There is talk, Chapman.   Talk.   I do not like talk so I thought we had better have a chat about it.”

“Talk, Dean?   What sort of talk?”

“The sort we do not want in this university.    It’s the other professors, you know,”

“What are the other professors doing, Dean?”

“Talking.    And not only talking, Chapman.   They are talking about you!”

The net tightened.   It was a ploy.   He had the most foul admin chore ever imagined, and he was baiting me prior to sealing my fate.

“Well, Dean, we academics are noted for gossiping on inconsequential matters.   It will soon blow away.”

“Why do you walk up and down the corridor kicking the walls?”

“What?!”

“Come on, Chapman, even I have seen you doing it.   What demons muster up such anger?”

I gave in.   A quick death was quicker than this lingering torture.

“It’s the Agnostic Studies course.   I always had ill-bodings about it.”

“You kick the walls because you are angry about our new under-grad course?   Really?”

“No.   Of course not.   It’s the students on that course.   Well, it's some of the students.   OK it is one of the students.   A girl called Megan.   She is driving me absolutely gaga.”

“Megan?  She was the one I once saw you dealing with in a disciplinary way?   She is the reason you are running around berserk?”

“Berserk is rather strong, Dean.’

“It’s what the other professors say when they talk.   And I must put an end to all that talk.   It’s just not right, all that talk.    Now – if Megan is causing you problems, why don’t you simply give her another thrashing?”

“It’s not so simple, Dean.   You know I can’t take a cane to the back side of a female under-grad, no much how much any one of them may deserve it.   But in her case, for a while, she was a student in good standing at the Marchmont School for Girls.   And just for that period, she came under their disciplinary rules.   That was the school I taught at prior to coming here, and I'm an emeritus school master – which meant that I had the right to give her a session at the wrong end of my cane, whenever she really deserved it.    But her good standing ended at the start of this year.   And with that out of the way, she runs amok all over me during our tutorials”

“I see.   Looks like something of a bind.   Well – there’s actually no problem at all, then, old man.   For I happen to be one of the Chancellors who supervises that particular school.”

He took out a sheet of paper from his brief case, and quickly jotted down some scribble on it.

“Here.”

I took the proffered page.   It bore the letterhead for the Marchmont School for Girls.   It stated that, in accordance with the relevant ordnance, Megan was hereby granted the life time status of “student in good standing”.   At that school?    For life?   Ye gods and small fishes.

“Can you do this?   I thought there were specific rules and what-nots?”

“The rules for good standing only cover the case where it is to be granted regardless.   For example a girl who has 90% attendance and C grades for an academic year, cannot be denied good standing status.   But that is not the only way.   We chancellors can do pretty much what we like , in matters such as this.”

“I see.”

He stood up.   “Well, Chapman, no more door kicking, eh?   You have a far more effective means of dealing with such frustration from now on.   And this WILL put an end to the talk, won’t it?”

He gave me a from under the eyebrows questioning look.   The threat was very clear, if unspoken.

“Yes, Dean.’

“You can give the letter to her next time you two meet.   Right now, I have to go and see Carruthers about the Ministry’s request for a full report on our canteen dinners.”

He swept out of the office like a galleon in full sail.

Poor Carruthers – what on earth had he done to be treated that viciously?   I guess I would never know.

---oo0oo---

There was a knock at my door.   Rather timid, rather hesitant – I wondered if Megan had got wind of the surprise I had in store for her, for usually she knocked with the vigor of a bailiff serving a distress warrant.

“Enter!”

Megan let herself in, carrying five text books, three note pads and two carrying cases.   She and her fellow course members loaded themselves up as if in serious training for the weight lifting team.   I had always surmised that having lost their faith, they needed something else to cling on to.

“Good evening, Professor Chapman.”   She was small and petite, and rather pretty in an under-grad sort of way.   But she had the tongue of a viper.   So did most of her course members, but they had learned to use sweet words in my presence.   Not so Megan.  

She dropped all her baggage in a heap and sat in the chair I indicated.

“Before we start, Megan – I have some rather grand news for you.”

“You’ve reviewed my course work and upgraded my Midders to an ‘A’?”

“Don’t be silly.   You got a very generous B+.    With all your outbursts I could have failed you completely, you know.”

She glared at me with a defiant “Just you jolly well try that and see what happens to you” jut of her jaw.

“But I do rather think that this coming year an A could well be within your grasp.   Look what the Dean has left for you.”    I passed her a photocopy of the paper.   I did not want any sort of accident to happen to the original.

She read it, shook her head in disbelief and read it again.

“He can’t do this.”

“Yes he can.   He is not only our Dean, but your Chancellor.   That means he most certainly can.”

She pursed her lips, stood up and pulled herself up to full height - and then put the back of each hand on her bottom and rubbed it gently.   “I’m not afraid of you, Professor Chapman.”

“Sit down Megan.   There is no need to have any fear of me.”

She sat.   She raised her eyebrows raised and awaited clarification.   I explained further.

“Of course, from now on, should you threw a tantrum that would have gotten a school girl at Marchant into trouble, you would, of course, be in the exact same trouble.   As if you were her, of course, and not as an undergrad student.   That stands to reason.”

“Of course.”

“The problem with you agnostics, Megan, is that you don’t really grasp the concept of absolution.’

“I am not an agnostic.   We have had this out before.   Remember?   I told you that you don’t have to be a loony to be a psychiatry student.   Hmm … watching those students at Freshers,  perhaps you do have to be a bit stark raving mad.”

“Those students?    Do your mean Carruther’s students?”  

“Yes – the first year psychiatry course.   They turned the Quad into an ad hoc mosh pit.   It wasn’t pretty.”

I was damned if I was going to ask her what a mosh pit was.   But at least, I had an inkling on what Carruthers had done to get saddled with an official report on canteen dinners.   The poor sod had lost all his free time for the best part of this year and all the next.

“OK – so you are not necessarily an agnostic.   But you do come in here and rubbish my lectures as if you are one.”

“I do not!   I simply seek clarification.”

“In a very sassy manner.    And, miss, should you continue to forget your manners, I shall discipline you in the manner of a Marchmont schoolgirl!!”

“So – I you decide I have gone too far, its six of the best for me?”

“Twelve, actually.   You’re a senior.”

“And why is that good news?”

“Absolution.   You take your punishment and the slate is wiped clean.   All your outbursts vanish, and an A grade is there simply for good exam results.   So your grade will not be dragged down regardless of how many bouts of rudeness and academic disrespect happen!”

There was a long silence.   She pursed and unpursed her lips from time to time, and occasionally she wrinkled her nose as a mark of deep contemplation.

A look of sudden comprehension swept over her features. One of those moments of epiphany, no doubt.  She looked up brightly.    “OK.   How many?”

“How many what?”

“How many strokes of the cane is it going to take to get me absolution for all my “outbursts” in the  semester just finished?”

“Absolution?  Why would I give you absolution?”

“I am a straight A student - well I would be a straight A student - but I have just one B to take that away.   There is one week left for validation and review.   It is entirely in your remit to re-grade my grade.   Especially if some past..er… sticking points were no longer sticking.”

“Are you suggesting that I cane your bottom and then alter your grade?”

“Are you suggesting that was never on your mind?”

“There is a quid pro quo there, I can see.   But no - it was not on my mind.”

“OK.   So tell me.   How many?   How many will it take to absolve my past 'crimes'?”

I pondered.   “Three,” I announced.

“Three strokes of the cane!?”  She was incredulous, stood up and said “So - let’s get it over with.”

“Not three strokes, silly girl.   Three sets of twelve – Marchmont style – with a week between each for recovery time.”

She sat down again.   She opened the palms of her hands towards me like some carpet haggler in an oriental bazaar.

“One set of twenty four, so it’s over and done with.”

“This really isn’t up for negotiation.   But I pride myself on having a kind streak, even though I am a professor, and all.   Shall we say two sets of fifteen?”

“That would be awfully painful.   More important, it also means the second set will not happen until after the open period for grade changes has closed.   You have only a few days left."

"Good point.   But ...   Hmm.   That does make it a bit awkward."

"I’ve got a possible solution.    You know a Marchmont caning is always on the seat of the skirt.   Skirts are known to take the edge off the bite.   So, final offer, one set of twenty four on the bare bottom.   That should be more than enough by way of retribution, absolution and also the dissolution of my butt.   Further, the matter will be all over and done with on the spot, well in time for your regrade to take effect.”

There was another lengthy silence, this time while I concentrated on the all the intricacies of the finer points.

Finally I squeaked a weak sort of “Yes, OK then.”

“Are we going to do it right now, or would you like me to come back when you have gotten your breathing under control?”

I took a deep breath.   “Right now would be ideal, Megan.”

I stood up, went over to my desk, and took out a small wooden sign.   “I’ve still got this.”   I handed it to her.   It read “Do Not Disturb” – it was a present she had given me last Christmas.

She took it and opened the door.   “The hook is still there, as well, Professor Chapman.”   She placed the sign in place, shut the door firmly and returned to face me.

I had taken out the cane sent to me by Mister Brown – a neighbor of hers – which was longer, swishier and woodier than the memento cane I kept in my drawer as a reminder of when I was an ordinary school teacher.  He had sent me his cane as another Christmas present – but I shall tell you about that some other time.

She stood contrite in front of me.   I looked down at her – she really was quite tiny for her age.

“Last chance to back out, Megan.”

See looked up, looked me squarely in the eye and gritted her teeth.   “I deserved an A.  I am going to get an A.   And you won’t make me cry!”

Probably not, I thought, having taken her iron butt to task more than once.   But trying was something not to be sneezed at.

She stood in the center of my office, turned her back to me, and bent over to touch her toes.    

Effortlessly, she reached back and still bent right over, lifted the hem of her skirt until it was draped over her waist.

Then using two thumbs, she tugged her short white panties down to her knees.

Then she touched her toes again.   And for the first time, I noticed that she was wearing white ankle socks and black single strap sandals – almost in a schoolgirl-like fashion.

Her legs where taught, and her buttocks were clenched tight, ready for what was to come.

I placed the cane across the center of her bottom.   It was by any manner of speaking a pretty bottom but many would agree that it would be even prettier when it had some dainty red stripes painted across it.

I swung back and then let fly with sufficient force to make her rock forward, almost far enough to make her take a step.   But she did not move her feet, nor make the slightest sound of distress.

I placed the next two slightly above and below that stripe, and then two more to fill the gaps between those three to make one single band of crimson.   Then I let another zinger land right about where the first one had landed.    Still no noise, but her knees moved slightly back and to alternately, as if she were gently running on the spot – without moving her feet, of course.   She was definitely feeling the effects, despite all her bravado.

The next six repeated the pattern, but an inch or two lower on her bottom – just above the horizontal crease that indicates the lower boundary of the butt cheeks.    Presumably a more sensitive area, for she was almost wriggling by the time the sixth one of that set landed.

I was winning, but had not yet won.

The third set was placed between the first two sets, and had the effect of eventually making it look as is she had just one single, wide stripe of agony running over her rump.   Her breathing had become very labored.

The next two landed somewhere in the middle of the first stripe, the next two on the one immediately below, and the last two at the bottom of her bottom.   Every one produced a loud grunt of acknowledgment – even if they weren’t actual yells of pain.   But, in the circumstances, it was quite satisfactory to get any sort of reaction, and particularly ones that showed just how close to the breaking point we had reached.    But that made the total twenty four.    I pondered if I could manufacture some penalty strokes.   No – that would have been inappropriate.

“OK. Megan.   You’re done.”

She slowly stood up, clenching and unclenching her fingers as she did so.   Very carefully and gingerly, she readjusted her dress back to normalcy.

“Was that really worth it, Megan.”

“Do I get an A, now, Professor Chapman?”   Her eyes sparkled with the tears that she had grimly kept from trickling down her cheeks.   If she thought that she had scored one over me, I would somehow have to get the concept of a Pyrrhic victory over in one of my future lectures.   She would surely understand.

“Do you get an A?  Of course you do.   Your previous tantrums are now absolved, and I am a man of my word.  So – do tell me - Is it going to be worth risking your hide in this manner- just to poke fun of my beliefs?”

“I don’t poke fun of your beliefs.   I just cannot accept that you think that they should be mine without question.   And that they are infallible.”

“Well I hope this lesson has been well learned.   If you go too far henceforward, all your future punishments will be as near identical - to the one you just got - as I jolly well can make them.   It is the new standard for you.”

“I understand, Professor Chapman.”

She went to the door and brought back the “Do Not Disturb” sign.

“You should not get rid of this just yet, Professor Chapman.   I’m convinced that you have not yet finished with me.   Or it.”

I took it an put back in my drawer.

With a whirl of books, pads and bags she left without adding any more.  Just a bright “Bye” as she pulled the door close behind her.

I sat and reflected.   Well, if nothing else, the corridors in this building were virtually guaranteed not to get kicked by me from now on.   Which surely meant this was the end to all the talk.

I had a feeling that this was going to be a very good academic year.