Flowers in the Rain

A girl with a foolproof plan still manages to get caught.

(The Next in the Swishing Sixties series)

by Dick Templemeads

Christine Latimer woke with a start, it was 8 O’clock on Sunday 17th September 1967 and she had just been woken by the sound of the newly acquired electric lawnmower from the garden of her next door neighbour, Mr Jones.

Christine was 19, and for six days each week she commuted from the small market town of Lanesbury to London where she worked in Hatton Garden as a trainee diamond setter. Thus she looked forward to a Sunday morning lie in, but it seemed that early every Sunday, at least in summer, that wretched man, a passionate gardener, disturbed the peace before then, self righteously toddling off to church at 10.30.

Christine tried to get back to sleep to no avail, so she turned on her transistor radio which was tuned to Radio Luxembourg. The sound of the Move singing ‘Flowers In The Rain’ soothed her to some degree, but she swore to herself that she would find a way of getting her own back for all the Sunday lie-ins that she’d promised herself and he’d robbed her of.

The chance suddenly presented itself quite unexpectedly the following Friday.

Walking home in heavy rain, Christine was just arriving at her home when she saw Mr and Mrs Jones drive away and clearly attired in evening dress; they would obviously be out for the evening. With their son and daughter now both at university and her own parents not due home from holiday for another couple of hours, Christine, an only child, seized the moment to get even.

Mr Jones was looking forward to showing his dahlias in next week’s church flower festival. He’d won the cup for the past five years; well now she had her chance she’d see to it he didn’t win this year.

The Jones’ large detached home and Christine’s parents’ cottage sat at the end of a deserted lane where no one would be walking in this rain. Realising no one would see her, she quickly dived into home, extracted a pair of scissors and then, slipping into the front garden next door and witnessed by nobody, she quickly cut the heads off of all Mr Jones’ flowers, depositing them in a plastic carrier bag and humming the tune to ‘Flowers In The Rain’ as she did so.

It took just a couple of minutes to de-head all the flowers. Then there was the question of where to dump the bag?

If she put it in her own dustbin her parents would find it, as would the Jones if she used their own. Then she thought of the church and the graveyard where there was a large wire bin for depositing dead flowers. That was ideal and only 200 yards away. Mission accomplished, Christine went home, had a hot bath and was ready to greet her parents when they returned.

The next morning as she left for work Christine noted with satisfaction the stalks now adorning her neighbour’s garden. They had not noticed the damage in the late night darkness but soon they would.

On her return Christine encountered Mr Jones who, apparently not suspecting her, asked if she’d seen anybody loitering near the house the evening before, to which she could truthfully reply that she had not.

“Hmm,” mused Mr Jones. “Both Mrs Jones and I have launched major crackdowns on bad behaviour at our schools. It’s probably an aggrieved pupil, and now I won’t win the cup again this year. When we find out who did it, he or she will have a very, very sore backside.” With which he marched back into the house, leaving Christine feeling faintly nervous.

Mr Jones was headmaster of the local boys grammar school and Christine’s boyfriend, David, had told her of how, on more than one occasion, he’d ended up in Mr Jones’ study, bent over, touching his toes, trousers and pants down around his ankles for a very painful six of the best. Moreover, Mrs Jones taught at the local girls’ secondary and she too was legendary for her use of the cane. Only last week Christine had seen the damage that Mrs Jones had done to the bottom of Deidre, Christine’s 18 year old cousin, who had been caught smoking.

Christine, a very well behaved only child, had herself never felt the cane. The worst punishments she had received were lines at school on two occasions and on very rare occasions her mother had slapped her legs, but nothing more.

Christine’s parents, who themselves were not overly fond of Mr and Mrs Jones, were faintly amused by what had happened though their view would have been rather different had they known their daughter had perpetrated the crime.

Two hours later and Christine was regaling David with the true account of the episode; he too was amused. The couple had an enjoyable evening, Christine allowing him to put his hand inside her bra and later her knickers but no more than that. She was not yet ready to “go all the way” though she knew that stage was not too far off.

Thus returning home after her date, she fell into a blissful sleep until, like the person in the song ‘Flowers In The Rain’, she woke half asleep to find her bedclothes in a heap.

Her anxious mother had entered the bedroom and roused her. “Christine, get up, get dressed right away and get downstairs quickly. Mr and Mrs Jones are here and you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Very nervously Christine slipped out of her nightdress, opened her underwear drawer and took out a plain white bra and brief red and blue polka dot knickers. She put these on followed by a cream blouse and short black skirt. Within a few minutes she was in her parents’ sitting room, where Mrs Jones stood with Mr Jones who was holding the carrier bag full of Dahlia blooms. The game was up. Christine realised right away the mistake she’d made; the bag bore the name of Connells of Hatton Garden, her place of work.

“It seems, Christine, that it was you who cut my Dahlia blooms?” came from Mr Jones.

Christine’s silence was a tacit admission of guilt.

“Why?”

“Because you wake me up every Sunday with your bloody, I mean blasted, lawnmower,” responded the young woman.

“Do you realize this constitutes Criminal Damage?” Asked Mr Jones.

Christine, too ashamed to speak, shook her head.

“Well,” added Mr Jones. “I’ve discussed this with your parents and it has been agreed that you, with your mother as witness, will come next door to our house right now, where Mrs Jones will cane you and thus the police will not be involved.”

Already close to tears and blushing red with humiliation, Christine nodded and followed her two neighbours and mother next door.

The Jones’ house was larger than Christine’s and featured amongst its four downstairs rooms a large study with a heavy teak desk. From a hook on the back of the door hung two crook handled canes which Mr and Mrs Jones had used to punish their son and daughter from time to time. Now Mrs Jones was about to use that well practiced right arm to punish Christine, whose bottom had not been smacked since the day she had been born.

Mrs Jones instructed Christine to bend across the desk and grasp the opposite side, and then told her mother to position herself so that she could witness the full event. Her mother, who herself had felt the cane at school, was close to tears knowing how her beloved daughter felt at that moment. She knew that Christine would be trembling, stomach churning, feeling as if it was turning to water, half wanting to get the punishment over with and half hoping it would never start.

Mrs Jones stood behind Christine, raised her skirt onto her back, tucked her blouse out of the way of her bottom, and then inserted a finger into each side of the pretty young lady’s dainty knickers and slid them to her knees, revealing a slender bottom with no spare flesh to absorb the stinging visitation that it was about to experience.

Leaving the trembling girl bent over, she crossed the study and unhooked the thinner and lighter of the two canes before returning to stand behind Christine.

Mrs Jones flexed the cane for a few moments then placed it against the young woman’s bottom. Christine shivered as the cane was placed against her bare skin. She felt it rest for a moment before Mrs Jones drew it away and above her shoulder.

Christine heard a swish as the cane seemed to descend in slow motion, it landed on the top of her bottom, for a second there was just a faint tingle then the pain took effect and straight away her bottom felt like it was on fire. The young woman gasped but managed to suppress any yell of pain. Mrs Jones waited a good ten seconds before driving the second stroke down onto Christine’s posterior, the cane landing a fraction of an inch below the first blow. All the time the pain had been accumulating and as the second added its fire Christine yelled out in pain.

Mrs Jones delayed for 15 seconds before delivering stroke number three which caused Christine to scream again and then burst into tears. Her punisher had great experience both as giver and, when as a girl herself, a receiver, and she delayed the fourth even longer, before driving the thin wand down into the young woman’s cheeks. Christine was now sobbing and begging for Mrs Jones to stop but the neighbour, eyeing the four welts which she had imposed with great skill on the young jeweller, had heard such pleas so many times before. She delivered the fifth harder than the others, and then saved the fiercest for last.

When she had finished, Christine remained across the desk sobbing and her onlooking mother also had tears in her eyes.

Finally Christine summoned enough courage to lift herself off the desk and wriggle her dainty panties back up onto her burning bottom, a painful exercise in itself.

Mumbling a final apology, the still crying girl returned home where she spent the next two hours lying face down on her bed. Her mother then applied some cold cream to her daughter’s wounds.

The following Saturday morning, 30th September 1967, Christine had taken the day off work as her parents were again away. She awoke just before seven and turned on her radio to witness the birth of Radio One.

Her bottom was still uncomfortable and her regularly viewings in the mirror had told her that the marks, though fading, were still clearly visible.

The pips announced the seven o’clock news following which Tony Blackburn intoned the first ever Radio broadcast, and the record to mark this momentous event was ‘Flowers In The Rain’.

Later that morning, David called. They’d been due to go out on the Sunday but Christine had not felt like seeing her boyfriend when her bottom was so sore, though she had explained over the telephone.

David had seen plenty of boys’ bottoms striped from the cane in the school showers, but never had he seen a female’s. Reluctant at first, but after some gentle persuasion on the part of David, the pretty young woman finally succumbed and, turning her back to her boyfriend, flipped up her short skirt and slid her diaphanous lime green panties down to her knees.

“You poor girl!” Exclaimed her boyfriend. “Those weals are as bad as any I’ve ever had.”

“It certainly was agony,” replied his girlfriend. “Mum put cold cream on them but it didn’t seem to help.”

“Perhaps this will ease it.” Responded her boyfriend who knelt behind Christine and kissed her wounds.

Christine who, despite the pain, had felt aroused after her caning was now getting that same moist feeling and six days after losing her caning virginity, the pretty blonde was deflowered, and the song ‘Flowers In The Rain’ would hold a special place in her memories for years to come.

The End

© Dick Templemeads 2014