Prefects beating for ‘immorality’

 

It was in November, when Tony was gaining some prestige as an ethical and moral reformer, that a message came from Richardson, the Captain of the School, to attend a meeting of school prefects.

Tony arrived rather late in the prefects’ common-room that evening, to find the other prefects, twelve in number, already assembled. There was an atmosphere of forced gravity in the room; it seemed rather as though all these  people had come in late after football, and had had no time to put their dignities on properly. Tony apologised, and hoped that he had not kept them all waiting; and the Captain of the School (whom the Head had selected for soundness rather than for enterprise) went on to explain the business in hand.

It was the old story of a note that had been picked up, considered suspicious, and handed over to the Captain of the House.

“This note,” Richardson was saying, a little pompously, “is of a certain type which it is unnecessary to particularise, a type which has always been recognised as detrimental to the tone and general welfare of the school. It was written by a three-er in the Hall to an all but new boy, who, I am told is in Jennings’s.

“My own strong personal feeling on the matter is that this is an excellent opportunity for an exemplary punishment of the boy in the Hall, whose general reputation is, I think, bad.

“I therefore propose that we administer a prefection to the boy in question. But, before taking a ballot on the matter, I should be glad to hear the views of Roreton, in whose House I gather that this younger boy is ; and I should also like to know if anyone wishes to propose an amendment to the punishment suggested?”

“May I ask,” said Tony, “what is the difference in the ages between these two boys?”

“Three and a half years, Roreton,” said Richardson.

“And may I ask,” Tony continued, “whether the tone of this note was merely romantic, or definitely immoral?”

“Definitely immoral,” said Richardson decidedly.

“Then I should definitely advocate an immediate perfection,” Tony said.

“Very well,” Richardson continued. “Is there any amendment? No? Then I will give you the names of the two boys; and if you think that they both deserve beating, write down both names; if only the elder, write down his. And I would like to remind everyone that for the result of the ballot to be accepted it must be unanimous.”

As Tony folded his piece of ballot-paper in half, he wondered vaguely who the young boy in his House was; for that matter, who the other boy was. He hoped that he would not know him, would not have heard of him before. Poor devil! Still, he was a damned fool to put anything down on paper.

“The name of the younger boy,” Richardson was saying, “is Hodgkiss; the name of the younger is Hodgkiss.”

Hodgkiss! An unlikely sort of person, Tony would have said.

“... and of the elder,” Richardson's voice droned on, “Mortimer.”

“Mortimer!” Why, he was in Jennings's, and a friend of Tony’s. He had only come a year after him. It was absurd, incredible.

“What was the last name, please, Richardson?”

“Mortimer, Roreton.”

So it was Mortimer. Mortimer, the least physical, the most spiritualised person he knew.

It was impossible. The situation was ludicrous.

And Richardson was still speaking. “I think,” he was muttering, “that the prefection of such a prominent person as Mortimer should have a most beneficial moral effect on the school.”

Oh! It was impossible! Tony could not assist at this hypocrisy. But he could not speak now. The discussion was closed. Still, he would not, he could not, vote for it.

Richardson was coming round for the papers. Quickly he wrote “Neither” across the paper, and folded it. Really, this was hell’s own situation.

They were reading the votes now.

“Mortimer - Mortimer - Mortimer - Mortimer - Mortimer - Mortimer - Mortimer . . . what’s this? Neither!” Richardson stopped counting. “There is one dissentient opinion,” he said. “I must remind everyone of the rule which insists on a ballot such as this being unanimous – if it is to be acted upon.”

There was a pause, during which each prefect looked suspiciously at his neighbour. Tony shivered; he could feel the eyes of all converging and focusing themselves accusingly on him. Oh! why did he ever wish to be a prefect? He felt so weak, so powerless, now.

“I shall take a second and last ballot.” The voice of Richardson jarred horribly.

In an instant it seemed that the ballot-papers were collected.

“The voting is now unanimous,” Richardson was saying.

Automatically, or so it seemed, Mortimer came into the room. Did he admit it? Oh, yes, yes, yes, he admitted it.

A chair was put in position. Tony gazed distractedly at the boy; and there came home to him the recollection of far clocks striking, and the Round, and a winter sky beneath the twilight. But the arts of Keats were not unaccomplished.

The chair was in position.

“Bend over, please.”

Richardson took up the cane and fingered the end of it. To the other prefects: “Follow on quickly.”

“Bend further over.”

Two quick steps. A sweep of the cane. Richardson handed it to Formby, who was left-handed. He swung it ferociously, a practised, vibrating stroke. It was Tony’s turn next. The cane sprang out of Formby’s hands, and fell, with a rattle, on the bare wood floor. As Tony stooped to pick it up, he heard one of the junior prefects snigger. The sound maddened him. He raised the stick and brought it through cruelly hard. He handed it to Giles. Turning, he caught a glimpse of Mortimer’s face, twisted by sudden, unexpected pain. He went and stood by the window numbly.

One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the remaining strokes. Remotely, he heard Richardson’s “Thank you.”

Faintly, the utterance of compressed lips, A door was opening and shutting. A chair was being slid back against a wall.

Tony walked out into the honest air. Out of the distance, out of the mist, Richardson was thanking him for his co-operation! Somewhere else Formby was thinking loudly that this was the best thing that had been done for some time. But Tony did not hear them. For his ears were being scalded by the fierce reproachfulness of Liebestraume ; and his eyes were filled with a vision of wet pavements beneath a winter sky, and kindly fogs lapping upward from the dear grass of the Round.

 

Extracted from Pyramid by Lionel Birch (Philip Allan,1931), available to download free here.

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

For more extracts from novels, click here

For more items including Prefects, click here

 

Traditional School Discipline

Traditionalschooldiscipline@gmail.com