Regenesis

Joanna - Friday afternoon

The street was relatively empty ahead of her, one car had just passed her, giving her ample room to mount her bicycle from the pavement, lifting her leg in the most genteel way she could over the pedals, making sure that nothing untoward was on show. You never knew who might be watching. She lowered herself gingerly onto the saddle, but her scrunched up eyes and lips betrayed the pain of her still-smarting bottom. She adjusted her skirt over her legs, and started to pedal, looking down at the wicker basket set in front of the curved handlebars of the sit-up-and-beg model which had been provided for her. Not for her a titanium frame with all the latest trimmings. She was given one of the all too heavy models without gears which all newly minted employees were lent when they took up their new posts. Her bottom was amply supported by the broad saddle, for which she had been grateful when presented with it upon moving in. She wasn't so sure now, as her bottom began to throb against the thinly padded vinyl. She had received a curt email telling her to remain behind after the other staff had left for the day. There was no further detail given and her mind flew in every direction wondering what she might have done wrong that day, where she might have been found wanting, how she might have been anything other than the girl she had been trained to be. She had made sure her desk was immaculate, the stationery all in its place, no documents left out, her keyboard newly dusted and her screen free of any smudges or smears. She perched on her chair, or rather the stool which had been provided for her: a hard, backless model on wheels. When she first arrived she had been instructed to sit with her skirt arranged over it, her knickers in direct contact with the surface. There was no back to the stool so she was forced to sit with her back ramrod straight, although her corset already gave her no other option. At the best of times the office could only be described as quiet, but, without the distant murmurings in the adjacent offices, Joanna felt a sense of foreboding even more, as she waited for the call from Miss Beckwith. She had been instructed to wait behind until summoned into Miss Beckwith's inner sanctum. She sat nervously, her hands in her lap, looking around her immediate workspace, double-checking everything. She decided that the angle of her keyboard wasn't straight enough, so adjusted it slightly and then hands back in her lap... Was her hair ribbon straight? Quick adjustment....and then back in her lap. She could hear the ticking of a clock in an adjacent room, which only served to heighten her sense of impending doom, a count down before the call. She looked down once more for yet another check. Her handkerchief showed the requisite inch from her left sleeve, her embroidered initials just visible for anyone to inspect. Turning her hands over she inspected her fingernails.... clipped short and filed smooth as a good secretary should for perfect typing. They had been that way since she herself had been brought to Nursery all that time ago, and gone through that awful processing, being stripped of everything, her clothes, her independence, and having it replaced with a regulated and uniform existence in which everyone locked inside that building lived, breathed and slept the same routine, dictated by an unknown authority and administered by a set of nannies whose sole job was to keep and train the girls in their charge to a new standard of behaviour and manners. Any deviation from that standard was instantly punished and the girl made to show her thanks for being corrected.

The piercing sound of the old-fashioned bell phone ringing up on the special shelf made Joanna jump. She rose from her stool, immediately conscious of the adrenalin rushing through her body, and she almost dropped the handset, her fingers were shaking too much. Her voice cracked as she spoke "Good Evening, Ma'am, how may I help you?" She listened attentively as instructions were given before answering "Yes Ma'am" and carefully placing the receiver back in its cradle once she knew the call had ended. She gulped unconsciously before putting her hands down to straighten the skirt of the tunic she was wearing as part of the limited uniform choices made available to her once she was appointed to her position. Under the tunic she wore a white blouse with a rounded collar, buttoned to the neck with a floppy ribbon bow hanging at her throat. The full skirt, just reaching below the knee when standing, was worn with an even fuller petticoat, which exaggerated every movement of her body. She had been made fully aware of this and was constantly warned to watch her posture and care for her appearance. Everything was watched. Everything was noticed. Stepping away from her desk, she took one last look in the full-length mirror directly opposite her desk and smoothed her dress one more time, needlessly, before making her way towards the thick oak-paneled door behind which she would learn her fate. She knocked twice, not overly loud, but loud enough to alert Miss Beckwith to her presence. While she waited, she contemplated what furniture layout might await her. Apart from the very imposing antique desk which never moved from its spot at a slight angle to the rest of the room, and the various decorative pieces selected to set the right tone for a conservative and traditional lawyer's office, there were various other pieces of occasional furniture scattered around the periphery. Sometimes Joanna had shown visitors in to sit at the desk opposite Miss Beckwith, and there had been two equally sized chairs. At other times she might show visitors of differing rank, who would be met with chairs of unequal size. She listened carefully for a full thirty seconds before she heard the confident and slightly brusque tone of her Mistress. "Come!"

Inside the room, the room into which she had shown countless girls before, with their guardians or nannies, she saw no chair at all opposite the desk. Miss Beckwith sat, writing on some papers, paying absolutely no heed to the scared girl who had just entered. Joanna closed the door quietly behind her and stood just inside the room. She waited, the anxiety clear on her face and in her body language. She took one faltering step towards the desk, and then, wondering if that might be seen as impertinence, thought better of it, and retraced that step. She stood, hands clasped in front of her, feet together primly, and lowered her eyes respectfully. Without looking up, a hand rose from the desk and one finger extended slowly before indicating a spot a few feet in front of the desk. Joanna rushed to obey, feeling her skirts brush her legs as she took up the position indicated, looking down at the lady in front of her, and wringing her hands nervously in front of her.

Finally the pen was lowered and Miss Beckwith slowly lifted her head to face the girl stood before her.

"Why do you think I asked you to stay behind, Joanna?"

"I......I'm not sure, Ma'am."

"Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

Joanna ran through the last few days in her mind trying to think of anything that she might have done wrong.

"I....I don't think so, Ma'am."

"Nothing nagging in the back of your conscience?"

"I.....I don't think so Ma'am."

Miss Beckwith slowly leaned back in her chair and looked the poor girl up and down.

"Do you realise how lucky you are to have this position with me?"

"Yes, Ma'am, I do."

"You might have been sent to do any number of menial jobs in Iuvenham, but I chose you."

The words hung in the air for Joanna to consider.

"Do you know why I chose you, Joanna?"

"I think so, Ma'am."

".............and why was that?"

"Because I came near the top in my intake and I'm told I showed promise, Ma'am."

"Why do I feel I might have made a mistake, Joanna? Why, when given the pick of the litter, so to speak, do I wonder if I made the right choice?"

Joanna, felt the guilt well up in her. She had been trained to look inward and think of things which she might have done; failings, slips and minor misdemeanours which may have gone unnoticed by her nannies, but which she was encouraged to admit to assuage that guilt. Although she knew that admitting these crimes would result in correction, she knew that afterwards she would feel better about herself, and about her relationship with whoever gave her that correction, as if receiving a spanking would bring her emotionally closer. Part of the training was in developing a sense of emotional love for her disciplinarian, so that, once punished, a girl would have strengthened the bond between the two of them. In nursery this was a very primal love, only sparingly reciprocated. Once a girl had left nursery, however, the love that developed between a girl and her guardian was allowed and indeed encouraged to develop. Not in any carnal sense obviously, but in pleasing the guardian in every way, from the very smallest things to how a girl reflected on her guardian. This was a case in point. Joanna knew that whatever happened here, today, would be reported back to her own guardian, or in her case, her governess, and would count against her in one way or another, whether it be in the general sense of how she was regarded by her governess, or perhaps that she would incur a further correction once she arrived back at home.

Joanna felt a tear well up in her eye. She could not hide it or wipe it away, and she knew that Miss Beckwith could see it.

"Go and fetch your conduct book, Joanna."

"Yes, Ma'am." Joanna curtseyed again and scurried off to retrieve the blue bound book she had to keep on display on her desk. She picked it up and walked back clutching the book, embossed with the words "Joanna Harris – Conduct Book" on the front. As she approached the inner sanctum once more her pace slowed and she held it close to her chest as if it were a prized possession she did not want to let go. And she did not want to let it go, knowing what was written inside. Miss Beckwith was sitting back in her chair with her hand outstretched to receive it. Joanna came closer and offered it, like the naughty child she was, her eyes lowered and her posture cowed, before resuming her earlier position. As she opened the book, Miss Beckwith uttered the word "Fingertips" and Joanna meekly complied.