The Great Ginger Beer Caper of St. Swithin's

At St. Swithin’s School for Girls, a frightfully posh pile of bricks tucked away in the rolling hills of 1963 England, two fourth-formers, Beatrice "Bumble" Baxter and Clara "Clogs" Clogworthy, were as inseparable as jam and scones. St. Swithin’s was all starched pinafores and hockey sticks, but the tuck shop was meaner than a wasp with a grudge, and the dining hall’s offerings—lumpy porridge and cabbage stew—could make a goat gag. Bumble, with her unruly curls and a grin wider than the Thames, and Clogs, whose plaits were tighter than her logic, decided they’d had their fill of culinary misery. They wanted sweets, ginger beer, and a proper midnight hoot.

It all kicked off one rainy Thursday in the dorm, when Bumble, sprawled on her bed with a contraband copy of Bunty, moaned, “Clogs, old chum, I’d swap my hockey boots for a toffee. This place is positively ghastly for one’s sweet tooth!” Clogs, polishing her specs and munching a stale biscuit she’d hidden in her sock drawer, sat bolt upright. “Bumble! What if we started a secret society? Midnight feasts, like in The Famous Five! Lashings of fun!” Bumble clapped her hands. “Hockey sticks, Clogs, you’re a brick! We’ll call it… the Order of the Midnight Gobble!”

The scheme was bold as brass. Every Saturday, when the moon was high and the snores of St. Swithin’s echoed like a foghorn convention, they’d sneak to the disused potting shed behind the rose garden and feast like duchesses. But first, they needed supplies, and smuggling at St. Swithin’s was trickier than nicking the Crown Jewels.

Bumble, whose auntie Dot ran a sweet shop in the village, cooked up a plan. On weekly outings, when the girls marched to the village under the hawkish gaze of Miss Pimm, Bumble would “trip” near Dot’s shop, dropping her scarf. While Miss Pimm tutted about clumsiness, Auntie Dot would slip a sack of humbugs, lemon drops, and ginger beer bottles into Bumble’s satchel, winking like a pirate. “Gosh, Bumble,” Clogs chortled, “we’re practically smugglers for the Ministry of Munch!”

Clogs, meanwhile, was a genius at concealment. She found an old hockey manual in the library, hollowed it out, and stuffed it with toffees and barley sugars. The ginger beer bottles were a headache—glass clinks louder than a bell—but Clogs, handy with a needle, sewed secret compartments into their gym bags, padding them with old vests to muffle the noise. “Jolly topping, Clogs,” Bumble cheered. “We’re running a fizz empire!”

For weeks, the Order of the Midnight Gobble flourished. Every Saturday, Bumble and Clogs crept past the squeaky third stair, skirted the portrait of St. Swithin (said to frown at rule-breakers), and reached the shed. Under the flicker of a torch, they scoffed treacle tarts, peppermint creams, and guzzled ginger beer, giggling over Miss Pimm’s habit of sneezing during hymns. “To the Gobble!” they’d toast, clinking bottles. “May our tummies never grumble!”

But secrets at St. Swithin’s were as safe as a jelly in a furnace, especially with Matron Mumpsimus on patrol. Matron, a woman built like a wardrobe and twice as stern, had ears sharper than a fox’s and a nose for mischief. One fateful Saturday, the girls got reckless. They’d nabbed a tin of shortbread from Auntie Dot, and Clogs, fizzy on ginger beer, let out a burp so thunderous it could’ve woken a coma patient. In her room, Matron’s eyes pinged open like a sprung trap.

As Bumble and Clogs staggered back, sticky-fingered and sniggering, a torch beam sliced the dark. “BAXTER! CLOGWORTHY!” Matron’s bellow rattled the windows. Caught red-handed with a humbug in Bumble’s cheek and a ginger beer bottle in Clogs’ fist, they froze. “Sleepwalking, Matron?” Bumble tried, but Matron’s glare could’ve melted steel. “To the dorm, you greedy gremlins! You’re for the high jump!”

Back in the dormitory, with the other girls peeking from their beds like mice at a cat show, Matron produced her weapon: a stout wooden hairbrush, its polished oak gleaming like a headmistress’s wrath. “Over my knee, Baxter!” she barked. Bumble, in pyjamas so tight they creaked like a ship’s rigging, bent over with a theatrical groan, her curls bouncing. Matron raised the hairbrush high, and CRACK!—it landed on Bumble’s taut pyjama seat with a sound like a cricket bat meeting a ball. “Oof!” Bumble yelped, her legs kicking like a startled pony. WHACK! THWACK! The brush danced a merry jig, each wallop flattening the thin cotton stripes, leaving Bumble’s backside stinging like a nettle patch. “Golly, Matron!” she wailed, half-laughing through gritted teeth. “My bum’s hotter than a bonfire!” SMACK! SMACK! Matron kept at it, the brush bouncing off Bumble’s squirming rear with relentless rhythm, each thwack echoing in the dorm. The girls in their beds bit their lips to stifle giggles as Bumble’s cheeks—face and otherwise—reddened. After a dozen or so, Matron plonked her upright, curls askew. “That’ll teach you to raid the tuck, missy!”

Then it was Clogs’ turn. “Clogworthy, you bespectacled bandit!” Matron roared. Clogs, pyjamas snug as a second skin, shuffled forward, plaits swinging like pendulums. Over she went, her glasses sliding down her nose as Matron hoisted the brush. CRACK! The first swat hit Clogs’ tightly clad bottom like a thunderclap, jolting her forward with a squeak. “Crumbs!” she gasped, her feet twitching. WHACK! THWACK! SMACK! Matron wielded the brush like a conductor gone rogue, each meaty wallop flattening Clogs’ pyjama seat, the cotton straining under the onslaught. Clogs wriggled, her plaits flopping, as the spanking built a fiery glow that rivaled a sunset. “Oh, heck!” she cried, voice wobbling between yelps and giggles. “It’s like sitting on a wasps’ nest!” CRACK! CRACK! The brush landed with metronomic precision, each thump drawing a fresh squawk, Clogs’ backside bouncing like a rubber ball. The dorm was a sea of smothered laughter as Clogs’ glasses fogged up, her dignity as scorched as her rear. After what felt like an eternity (but was likely fifteen whacks), Matron set her down, plaits askew and specs crooked.

By breakfast, Bumble and Clogs were the talk of St. Swithin’s, hobbling to their porridge with grins despite their tender seats. “Worth it for the shortbread, eh?” Bumble whispered. The Order of the Midnight Gobble was officially kaput, but knowing winks suggested the hollowed-out hockey manual might yet hide a peppermint cream or two. And as they limped to Latin, the girls swore they’d never burp that loud again—well, probably not