Diary of a boarding school boy, 1965

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

V. eventful day. Mike, Danny and myself legged it into Brocklehurst this afternoon. It’s Saturday so its half-holiday. We’re allowed into town on our own being sixth-formers. We went to the flicks, although they’re strictly out of bounds. Not sure why, exactly. Perhaps it’s unhealthy, they call it the ‘flea pit’ for a reason. Maybe it’s because it’s a den of iniquity (I wish!!). I did see quite a few old men in dirty raincoats.

We saw that new film with Sophia Loren. The newspapers said it was really racy, so how could we resist. Someone must have seen us (who? who? Some master perhaps. One of the dirty mac brigade). By the time we got back to school Bertie Blenkinsop our ratty housemaster had already heard of our misdeeds.

Straight after tea there we were the three of us lined up on the worn rug in front of Bertie’s desk for a jawing. And can he give it. “Disgraceful. Outrageous. Never head the like in my life.”

Of course, Danny can’t keep his big mouth shut and he pipes up, “But Sir, we’re eighteen. We’re allowed to see adult films. I go to the pictures all the time in the hols.”

Bad move. Bertie’s face went three shades of puce. “Pah!” he exclaims in that pompous way that he has. “How dare you!” his voice went up an octave or two. He wasn’t going to let off. “You know very well the picture house is strictly out of bounds.” He flared at us, with those icy steel blue eyes of his. I admit it sent a shiver up my spine. This was not going to end well.

Bertie went on, “You deliberately flouted an instruction from the headmaster. No boy is to go into the picture house. The instruction is as clear as can be. How dare you flout the rules. I will not tolerate it.”

That was when he hauled himself off the chair and strode across the study. He’s a big man and has a tremendous presence when he’s roused. He reached the far end of the room and stopped at the cupboard in the corner. All three of us had been in this study before. We knew what was coming.

Seconds later he brandished his stoutest and thickest cane. He must have a dozen or so in that cupboard, all assorted sizes. He flexed the cane between his hands and gave us another of his icy stares.

That was when Mike got on his high horse. “Come on Sir,” he grinned but there was no humour in his voice, “We’re too old for this.” Wrong thing to say. “Pah”, he says that word a lot. “Would you prefer to visit the headmaster?” He had us there and he knew it. If we went to Dr Gordon we’d get twice the strokes and if we refused to be caned we’d be on the next train home, never to return. I stared at my feet and I suppose the other chaps did much the same. “No, I didn’t think so,” Bertie growls as he swipes the cane through the air.

“Stand by the wall, all of you.” There was no going back now. We were in for a bumming. We’d all been caned before (is there  a single boy at the school who hasn’t been?) so we knew the drill. He called Danny out first. I’ve always wondered whether masters actually enjoy caning our backsides. I know some are really pious and say they’re doing it for our own good. Jenkins even used to say “You’ll thank me for this one day boy.” I doubt it very much.

Danny steps out and on the time-honoured instruction “Bend over and touch your toes”, he does just that. Danny’s one of the mainstays in our rugger team and he’s quite beefy.  I hadn’t realised just how muscular he was until I saw him pointing his bum at me only two feet away.

There’s a lot of muscle back there and judging by the way his buttocks stretched against his tight grey trousers none of it’s padding. Could I detect a slight smile in Bertie’s face when he took up position alongside Danny and slowly sawed the cane across that magnificent bum? I rather think I did.

I’ve been caned a few times before but this was the first time I had ever seen someone caned. We usually get told to stand in the passageway and we enter the study one at a time. I had a chance to see Bertie’s caning technique. He stands about a yard to the left which is the length of the cane and then he taps the very tip of the cane across the middle of the furthest cheek. That way he gets his aim, then he brings the cane away and raises it to above shoulder height before returning it with great force so that it thwacks deep into the meaty bum. A cloud of dust rose from the seat of Danny’s trousers and hovered in a shaft of light that came through the window.

I couldn’t see his face but his head jerked up and his knees buckled slightly so I knew that one must have stung like blazes. He didn’t make a sound, of course. A chap doesn’t do that. Well, perhaps the first time when you’re a nipper but no self-respecting senior is going to give a beak the pleasure of hearing him yap.

Bertie tapped the cane about a quarter inch below the first and let fly again. Whoosh! Crack! Bingo! It landed right on target. Now Danny had two throbbing stripes across his backside. The third went a bit higher than the first and by the time the sixth and final stroke landed Danny would have had half a dozen raw welts running in parallel across his bum. I have to hand it to Bertie; he’s an expert. But then he ought to be, he’s had enough practice over the years.

When Danny was allowed to rise and return to join us I saw his eyes were shining brightly. There were no tears but it was obvious the six-of-the-best had been some ordeal for him. I just hoped I could take my thrashing as stoically as Danny had. I would have to wait a little longer to find out as Mike was called forward.

Just as Danny is a tower block then Mike is diminutive. I don’t suppose he stands more than five-feet-six and with his slender body and baby face he might easily pass for fifteen. I had been surprised they let him into the picture house.

Mike assumed the position, knees straight and fingers stretched so the tips brushed the toes of his shoes. There wasn’t much for Bertie to aim at. Mike’s cheeks were not much bigger than a couple of peaches. Bertie did the sawing and the tapping and just as before he let fly with maximum power. The force as the cane connected with Mike’s bum was so momentous that it knocked my pal forward and he almost toppled to the floor. “Pah!” Bertie barked again, but before he had a chance to moan any more Mike was back in position. He had a certain air about himself. It was as if he were saying, “Go on then, do your worst. I don’t care. I can take it.”

Maybe Bertie saw something of that attitude himself because I swear to God he cut poor Mike’s arse to ribbons over the next  thirty seconds. Even from a distance I swear I could see six thick lines throbbing under Mike’s trousers. His bum was marked like a corrugated iron roof. I think I’m beginning to answer my own question: Yes, Bertie was thoroughly enjoying himself.

The walk back to the wall was clearly painful for Mike. He wouldn’t be sitting down for a very long time after this.

Bertie turned to me. Those steely-blue eyes pierced deep into my soul. He didn’t say a word, there was no command. Instead, he simply pointed with his cane to a spot on the floor near his desk. That was my cue: Bend over, touch your toes. I took a deep breath, blood was coursing through my body and even before Bertie had started my ears were popping and a vein on my neck throbbed. Although my legs did not want to move I managed to take up my spot. The room spun as I leaned forward and touched my toes. It is actually quite difficult to keep a touch-toes position for any time. Your knees want to bend, as that is a much more natural position.

Given a choice I’d rather be over the desk or a chair. Bertie has a superb leather armchair that is just the right height. I wonder why he doesn’t use that. It would certainly be more comfortable for his victims. Not that what comes next would be in any way comfortable.

I felt the cane tap against my backside. I screwed my eyes tight and shut my teeth. I prayed that I could take this thrashing. My two chums had done superbly well, I didn’t want to humiliate myself in front of them. Thwack! Jesus. I had never before felt such pain. I can’t describe it. Perhaps it was like Bertie had taken the red hot poker from his fire and then pressed it hard into my naked flesh. It was as if I had been branded, like they do to cattle or horses.

How I stopped myself from yelling out, I simply do not know. If the first one was terrific then stroke number two was terrific-squared (or some other mathematical formula indicating it was many times greater).  Just like with Mike the impact of the cane pushed me forward and my feet slipped on the carpet. “Pah!” – there he went again. I could happily have throttled Bertie with my bare hands.

Of course, I didn’t. I’m an English schoolboy, destined like generations before me to administer the Empire. This was all part of the training.

By the time swipe number four cut into me my bum was numb. There’s no other way to explain it. The cheeks felt like they had swollen to twice their natural size and they were no longer physically attached to the rest of my body. It’s hard to explain. I know my head was throbbing perhaps even more than my poor bottom. The room was spinning and I felt like I did last Christmas when I had far too much scrumpy cider to drink. It was almost an out of body experience.

I can’t remember anything about the final two cuts. I do recall hearing Bertie’s voice as if it was drifting from many miles away across a long valley. He was instructing me to stand up. He must have jawed us some more – he usually does after he delivers a beating; he likes the sound of his own voice so much – but I can’t recall a single word he said.

Minutes later we were in the bogs admiring Bertie’s handiwork. Each of us had those parallel lines I wrote about earlier. And the word “corrugated” perfectly describes the red ridges we all had. I couldn’t sit at all for an hour and I still can’t comfortably. I’m writing this entry standing up with the diary perched on the mantelshelf of our study.

Another day over. What larks! I’ll be sleeping on my stomach tonight, no doubt. Blooming heck, what a life. Oh, and before I forget the film was a load of rubbish. No bloody tits anywhere. Boo!

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was inspired by a news article on the Corpun website

 

For more Original Fiction, click here

Traditional School Discipline

Traditionalschooldiscipline@gmail.com