Memories: A lifetime of resentment

Corporal punishment was a way of life in many – probably most – schools in the United Kingdom until it was made unlawful in 1986. Boys were punished in this way almost routinely. For some they simply shrugged off the experience and moved on. For others (and who can tell how many?) it was a devasting experience and one that they never forgot. – Here John Paull recounts on his blog his days at Penzance Grammar School in Cornwall in England during the early 1950s.

Even though one tries to remember the good things about one’s school days, there’s one abiding memory I have, literally a hurtful one that I want to describe: the painful, humiliating, angry memory of being caned.

The system of punishment in place in my grammar school in the 1950s was quite simple: if you were a dead good lad and did everything you should do, you collected Merit Marks. So, for example, if your homework was spot on and you received, say, 10 out of 10, you were awarded a Merit Mark. It was recorded in your Journal and signed and dated by the teacher.

If you were naughty and did something that irritated the teacher, you were given a Conduct Mark.

If, and when, you collected 10 Conduct Marks, you had to go to the Headmaster after school on a Tuesday, and explain yourself. He would then decide whether to cane you or not.

If you were really a pain in the class, boing noisy and upsetting the teacher, he had the power to give you THREE Conduct Marks. That meant you immediately went to the Headmaster’s Study and, without any discussion, you were caned.

I wasn’t a difficult pupil. Well, I don't think I was. I was just a working class kid with a kid’s sense of right and wrong, and a kid’s sense of humour – one that, I’m sure, though, wasn’t always appreciated by teachers.

I’d heard from others that being caned, hurt. Hurt really bad. Some kids had blue welts on their hands after being whacked. Sure as hell, I did not want to be caned by the Headmaster.

But, as luck would have it, in my third year at grammar school, about half-way through December, I had collected nine Conduct Marks. So I knew I had to be extra careful and not get my 10^th.

Well, the day came when I wasn’t careful enough, when I couldn’t keep my trap shut, when my wishing rock didn’t get me out of trouble.  One Tuesday, I irritated the placid Mr. Hogg, my form teacher.

“Paull,” he said sternly, “Bring me your journal. That’s enough. There’s one conduct mark for you.”

My heart sank. I knew what that meant. I pleaded with him. “Sir, it weren’t me, Sir, ‘Onest.”

But it was, indeed, me. I told a lie. I told a lie because I was scared. When Mr. Hogg opened my Journal, he saw that I had nine Conduct Marks. His bottom lip dropped. He frowned. He knew that he was sending me to be caned. I squeezed my hands, and said again I was sorry.

But, and I now, of course, understand why, Mr. Hogg, biting his lip, went ahead and signed in my 10^th Conduct Mark, adding the comment, “Paull talks too much when he should be reading.”

He looked at me and said, “Could have said you lied to me, you know.”

I went back to my seat, already fearful of what lay ahead.

As always, I went home for midday dinner. I hardly touched my plate full of fried chips. told my mum I would be late home after school. “Goin’ to go to the after-school chess club, so I won’t be home right on the button, Mum. That ok?” It wasn’t a lie because I knew I would need to go to the chess club after being whacked. That’s where everyone went for a quiet sob.

She smiled. “Of course. Glad you’re learning about chess. Your dad can play, you know. Learn and you can play with him.”

The afternoon flew by. It went by at a million miles an hour. Just after 4 o’clock, I lined up with several other boys outside the Headmaster’s secretary’s office.

When it was my turn, I went inside the Headmaster’s study. Without looking at me, he took my Journal, quickly read the comments made by the teachers, signed it, handed it to me, and said firmly, “Wait outside with the rest.”

There was no reprieve for me. I joined the queue of lads. Everyone stared at the floor, not saying a word. I could feel the cloud of embarrassment, shame and fear that hung over the group.

Eventually, the Headmaster came out, carrying a long, thin wooden yellow cane.

He beckoned to the first boy. “Come here. HERE!" The boy moved towards the Headmaster. 
“Hold out your hand. Higher, boy, higher!”

He raised the cane as high as he could, looked the boy in the eye, and smacked the cane against the boy’s fleshy hand. He let out a sharp sound.

The Headmaster glared at the boy.

“Don’t cry, boy. Don't cry.”

“Now, the other hand. Quick!”

The Headmaster raised the cane and whacked the boy’s left hand. Tears came gushing down his cheeks.

“And, what do you say?”

“Thank you, Sir,” wailed the boy, squeezing his hands between his knees.

“Good. Now be off with you….and don’t let me see you here again.” said the Headmaster.

“Next.”

Too soon, it was my turn. The Headmaster glared at me.

“Come here, Paull. Step forward. Hold out your hand…..you’re RIGHT hand!”

I held out my right hand and stretched and parted my fingers.

“You, Paull, should know better. Hear you want to be a teacher. Lord help us! Two for you.”

The cane bit into my hand, shooting a flashing hot pain up to my elbow. I immediately squeezed my hand shut, winced, and fought back the tears.

“Now the other one. Hold it out. HIGHER!” said the Headmaster

The left hand hurt more than the right. I cried. I couldn’t control the flood of tears that ran down onto my lips.

Rubbing my hands together to ease the burning sensation, I looked at the floor thanked the Headmaster for hurting me so much. “Don’t let me see you here again, Paull,” he grunted.

Rubbing my hands and squeezing my fingers,  I went and joined the chess club.  I sat next to a couple of my friends who were scrutinizing the chessboard. Dudley looked up at me. “You cryin'? You ok?”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes,” I said, “it bloody did. Look.” I showed him the dull blue welts on the palms of my hands.

“Bloody 'ell,” said Dudley. “Look at that!”

There was no way that I could concentrate on how to understand and play the very complicated game of chess.

Dad was home from work. I put my hands in my pockets. He asked me if I’d had a good day at school.

“Yes, Dad, dead good day. Gotta go upstairs and do my homework. Down soon for tea.”

I went upstairs, opened my satchel, and took out my English homework. My hands were hurting so much I couldn’t keep hold of the pen.

I wonder to this day why the Headmaster didn’t give me chance to tell him how sorry I was for being a naughty boy.

Picture credit: Unknown

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