The lunchtime line-up
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
(A
St. Francis Independent Grammar School story)
John Allison is
seventeen years old and when his family move home he is forced to leave his liberal
progressive school and join St Francis Independent Grammar School, popularly
known as St. FIGS. What a shock is in store for him at this traditional school:
traditional school uniform, traditional curriculum, traditional sports and , of
course, traditional discipline. Follow John and his pals through a series of
tales at this fictional school.
All around him boys were hurrying along, anxious not
to be late.
“Hurry along you tykes,” a senior boy, obviously a
prefect, called to a group of eight or nine young boys, who were some way off
from the gate. “Gates are closing. You don’t want to be up for a bowing.”
The boys ran at fall pace and as the last one made it
through the ornate gates, the prefect slammed them shut. Any boy who arrived
now would have his name taken and could find himself up before his housemaster for
a caning.
John stood unsure where he was supposed to go. For a
moment he paused to take in the splendour. St Francis Grammar School,
Brocklehurst, reputedly could trace its roots back to the 1700s. It certainly
was a splendid old building, but not ancient. John had never seen anything
quite like it. His previous school had been modern in all respects: the
buildings, the curriculum, the attitude of teachers to their charges.
Seemingly hundreds of boys streamed into the building.
They certainly didn’t look too modern in John’s eyes. All the boys in the
first, second and third forms wore grey short trousers. John didn’t know any
eleven- to fourteen-year-old boys in the real world who wore short trousers to
school. If it had been said that the boys should wear short trousers at
Calmbury, his previous school, the boys – and the teachers too – would have
mocked the suggestion.
John surveyed his new schoolmates. He didn’t feel
quite so absurd now wearing his green-and-gold-hooped school cap: everyone as
far as the eye could see wore the strange headgear. His mother had laughed out
loud when she read the school’s regulations and teased him unmercifully: school
cap; white Y-front underpants (how would they know?); short-back-and-sides
haircuts and Ha! Ha! Ha! six-of-the-best-for-you-young-man if you are naughty.
And, no girls!
His father did not join in the fun. Even now, more
than twenty-five years after he had left behind his old school St Tom’s forever,
he still resented the canings he and his fellow pupils had endured.
John hated the school uniform. His green school blazer
with gold braiding around the edges shrieked of self-importance. At least, aged
seventeen, he would not be forced to wear the short trousers.
St Francis had a fine academic record. It was a
traditional school: traditional teaching methods, traditional sports,
traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. It was a boys-only
independent fee-paying grammar school with delusions that it was an elite
public school. This was such be a contrast to Calmbury, also an independent
school, but it had girls as well as boys and attitudes were so informal the pupils
were not expected to wear school uniform and corporal punishment was unheard
of.
“Excuse me.” John was approached by a short, stocky
boy, about his own age. “Are you by any
chance Allison?” He seemed friendly and John was happy to confess his identity.
“I’ve been told to take you along to meet your form
master. My name’s Anderson.”
And, with that he led John into the ancient building
and his new life at St Francis.
His form master Mr Tatler gave him a lot of
information about his lessons timetable and where the classrooms were. But,
John couldn’t take it in. Tatler (the boys, John later discovered, called him ‘Tatters’)
was dressed in a formal academic gown and resting nearby on a desk was his
mortar board cap.
John didn’t know how to react; it was as if he had
stepped into a time machine and travelled back; how many years? He had never
seen a schoolmaster dressed like this. He assumed all the teachers, or ‘masters’
as he had better get used to calling them, wore something similar. He had never
seen anything remotely like this in his life, except perhaps once when he had
been a small boy and he went exploring in the attic at his granddad’s home. He
had found a pile of old comics; the Magnet and the Gem he thought
they were called. They weren’t very good, they were full of words with few
pictures, but the drawings he did see were of schoolmasters dressed like Tatters.
Anderson was a good sort and he soon took John under
his wing. At lunchtime he was given the ‘grand tour.’ And, ‘grand’ the school
certainly was: ivy-covered walls; mullioned-windows in the library; a ‘clock
tower’ with narrow stone steps leading to the headmaster’s study.
“You don’t ever want to go up there,” Anderson said
cheerfully. “It can mean only one thing.”
He laughed at John’s puzzled expression. “A bowing
from Dr Henderson-Smith,” he laughed as merrily he swiped his right arm through
the air in parody.
John blanched. He was silent, unsure what he was
expected to say in response. His mother had mocked the corporal punishment
regime at St Francis, but John was not so offhand. This school gave him the
creeps. Anyhow, he knew he was only nine months away from taking his final examinations
and leaving school for good. He would just keep his head down. Besides, he was
seventeen and far too old to be summoned to the doctor’s study for a ‘bowing.’
The tour continued through the passageways (as ‘corridors’
were called at St Francis) of the three main buildings.
“And around here is where the housemasters’ studies
are.” They turned a corner into a long passageway, almost bumping into four
boys standing in a line, facing the wall.
“Ha!” Anderson, chuckled and called over to the
miserable looking youngsters. “Hello there! What’s this, the ‘lunchtime line-up’?”
Suddenly, behind him, he heard footsteps. It was Mr
Durrant, the housemaster of Treacher’s.
“Quick!” Anderson grabbed John by the sleeve of his
blazer. “Let’s go, we don’t want to get caught here.”
But, Mr Durrant was in no hurry; he had enjoyed a
satisfying meal and was on his way to his study for what had become known among
the boys as the ‘lunchtime line-up.’
Every day, almost without fail, one or more boys would
be sent to him for a caning. St Francis Grammar was a traditional school and
corporal punishment was regularly used. There were rules and if a boy got
caught breaking them, he was punished, and very often that meant a beating.
One of Mr Durrant’s duties, and he took it very
seriously, was to be impose discipline. That day he expected to find four boys
waiting nervously outside his study and as he turned the corner he was not
disappointed. They were an assorted bunch; two eleven-year-old juniors dressed
in short trousers; most unusually, a prefect; and then Anthony Brewer, a fifth-form
rebel who was becoming a regular visitor.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he always called the boys
he was about to thrash, “gentlemen.”
“Stand up straight all of you. Keep facing the wall.”
The boys did as instructed, but the housemaster detected some resentment from
James Axford, the prefect. Well, if he did misbehave and break rules he shouldn’t
be surprised that he was treated the same way as the first-form boys; in every
respect.
Mr Durrant unlocked the door of the study and
beckoning to the two youngest boys, said, “Come with me Hill and Townsend.”
Showing no enthusiasm, the boys followed behind the
gowned master.
“Stand there, in front of my desk.”
It was a large room, gloomy, with dark oak bookshelves
around three walls. A large desk, also made from oak, dominated the room and
there were a number of small wooden chairs. Two large padded armchairs were
arranged around a small coffee table. The chairs were called ‘comfortable
chairs,’ but to the boys who bent across their backs routinely during the
lunchtime visits they were far from comfortable. In the corner was a tall,
thin, cupboard that housed the implements that were responsible for that
discomfort: Mr Durrant’s vast collection of canes.
He sat behind his desk and surveyed the two boys. He
always thought the short trousers pupils were required to wear until the end of
their third-form made the boys stand out in the town as something special. He
knew some of them resented being dressed in what they thought of as ‘children’s
clothes.’ But, of course, they were children; all the pupils at St Francis
were; even the sixth-formers, and, he believed it did boys the world of good to
be reminded that they were not yet adults. If he had his way they would all
wear short trousers until they left school, aged eighteen.
Colin Hill and Ian Townsend had been fighting, and
that was clear for all to see: Hill’s left eye was already going black and he
would have a smashing shiner to show his parents when he arrived home later
that afternoon. Townsend had scratches on his knee where he had been rolling in
gravel.
He had already been told by the boys’ form master that
they had been quarrelling about swapping football cards and it had developed
into a fight.
“I am not going to ask who threw the first punch; I
believe you are both equally guilty. What have you got to say for yourselves?”
They did what all young schoolboys do in such
circumstances; they flushed a little, hopped from one foot to the other, stared
down at the carpet, but said nothing.
It took some coaxing to get the boys to tell him what
he already knew. Mr Durrant lectured them about why fighting was not the best
way to resolve disputes.
“Violence is not an answer,” he said as he walked to
the corner cupboard, rummaged inside and removed a small thin, straight cane.
Townsend, who had been caned at the school before, was
relived. That tiny little thing won’t hurt much; with his thick flannel short
trousers and pants, he’d hardly feel a thing.
“Stand back gentlemen,” the housemaster instructed. “You,
Hill, face the bookshelf. Townsend, hold out your left hand.”
What? Neither boy expected this. They knew they were
to be caned, but this was St Francis, the big boys’ school, Here, they caned
you on the bottom, not on the hand like in primary.
Ian was not looking forward to this. The problem with
getting caned on the hand was that you had to witness what was happening. Your
tormentor stood in front of you and you had to look him in the eye, while he
raised the stick and brought it crashing down into the palm of your hand. You
had to be brave not to move your hand away at the last minute leaving the cane
to slice through thin air.
Getting the cane on the bum was so much easier. Only
last week he had been caned in Mr Wilkinson’s science class. He was always
caning boys; woe betides any of them who did badly in a test or failed to hand
in homework. Ian had been ordered to bend over one of the laboratory stools; it
was quite high for an eleven-year-old to reach across comfortably, but by
standing on tiptoes he managed it. Then, he closed his eyes tight and gripped
on the legs of the stool for dear life as Mr Wilkinson swished three cuts into
the seat of his short trousers. He felt the agony of the cane across his
buttocks, but all he had to do was stay there, holding on tightly, until the
punishment was over. Apart from getting up from the stool and running away,
there was no way he could avoid the punishment.
Not so, if a boy was caned on the hand. Ian was not
sure he could be brave enough to keep his hand in place for Mr Durrant’s cane.
“I said raise your left hand, Townsend.” Reluctantly
Ian held his hand up. Mr Durrant took hold of it until he was satisfied it was
in position, raised his cane and brought it down, SWISH!
Ian had kept his hand in place, but dearly wished he
hadn’t. “YEOWWLLL!” he let out a scream and tucked his left hand under his
right armpit and bent over double in agony.
The housemaster had seen it all before. “Hand up
again, Townsend.” Ian was crying openly as he allowed Mr Durrant to hold his
hand high once more and bring the cane down with a SWOOSH!
Ian was not taking his punishment well. His friend,
and despite the fight they were good friends, turned from the bookshelf to see
Ian bent double, rubbing both of his hands together between his knees.
Outside the study the two boys waiting their own
punishments exchanged silent glances. What was he using on them? What was he
going to do when it was their turn?
“Other hand.” The punishment was repeated; two swishes
on the right hand. Both the boy’s hands were throbbing like mad and it felt
like they had swollen to twice their proper size.
“Stand by the bookshelf. Hill, your turn.”
Ian stood by the bookshelf, rocking backward and
forward, blowing hard on both palms in a futile attempt to stop the torture.
There were two welts on each hand and he licked his tongue across them, hoping
against hope, it would stop the pain. Tears flowed uncontrollably down his
face.
While Ian tried to nurse his wounds, his friend Colin
was being put through it with Mr Durrant’s cane. He coped no better than Ian
and was howling hysterically by the time the fourth stroke cut into his hand.
Mr Durrant placed the cane on the top of his desk.
“Stand there,” he pointed once again to a spot in
front of his desk. The boys did as they were told, but each of them was too
distressed by their pain and shame at their failure to take a caning without
breaking down, to take in the housemaster’s lecture.
Mr Durrant pushed the punishment book across his desk
towards them. He had already written their names, the nature of the offence and
the number of strokes awarded. He handed Hill a pen.
“Please sign your name.”
His hand was too swollen to hold the pen effectively
and he just scrawled a line where the signature should be. He handed the pen on
to Ian who did no better.
“Thank you gentlemen. You are dismissed.”
Ian had great difficulty twisting the door handle to
leave, and kindly, the housemaster did it for him.
The boys rushed to the lavatories to soak their hands
in basins of cold water, but it wasn’t much help. Soon they would have to go to
afternoon classes: how on earth could they be expected to do any work? They
also had to face the shame that their classmates would know they had been caned
and judging by their tear-stained faces, had not taken it well.
Colin also knew that when he arrived home his black
eye would tell its own tale; his mother would send him to his room to wait for
his father to get home from work. A session with the slipper on his bare bottom
while bent across his father’s knee would certainly follow.
Mr Durrant eyed the remaining two miscreants standing
facing the wall in the corridor. He pointed to the prefect. “You boy, follow
me.”
James Axford entered the study, splendid in his smart
green blazer with gold braiding. He looked a little apprehensive as well he
might; senior boys, particularly prefects, were expected to set an example to
the younger pupils, not to break the rules themselves.
Mr Durrant knew he should have sent the boy to the headmaster,
but he was certain Dr Henderson-Smith would have given Axford a special
thrashing because he was a senior boy and also withdrawn his prefect status. Mr
Durrant thought that punishment was too harsh for Axford’s crime.
He had been spotted in town during school hours: the
school uniform was very conspicuous. Mr Durrant suspected prefects sometimes
left the school premises during their free periods: the only thing Axford did
differently was to get caught.
He selected a longer, thicker whippy rattan cane from
his cupboard.
James had been expecting this and had a speech
rehearsed, “You can’t cane a prefect, Sir; it’s not allowed.”
The barrack-room lawyer! Mr Durrant was more amused
than angry, but tried not to show it.
“Pardon?”
“Prefects aren’t allowed to be beaten. No prefect has
ever been beaten, that is,” he trailed off a bit as he realised his housemaster
was in no mood for this.
Mr Durrant knew Axford was both right and wrong; no
prefect had been caned in recent memory, the boy would have the privilege to be
the first in a very long time; but there was no rule that said he could not be
beaten.
The housemaster was beginning to wish he had sent the
brat to Dr Henderson-Smith. All he wanted was for Axford to bend over and take
his Six and they could both move on.
Then he had an idea. “Take off your tie, Axford.”
The boy was genuinely puzzled by this order. “Tie,
Sir?”
“Yes Axford, take off your prefect’s tie.”
The boy hesitated, trying to work out in his mind what
was going on.
“Please do it now Axford, I have others waiting
outside to visit me.”
Still unsure what this meant, the boy loosened his tie
and pulled it from under his shirt collar.
He held it in his hand, wondering what he was meant to
do now. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“Hand me the tie, please.”
The housemaster took the tie and put it on his desk.
“Now, Axford, you are no longer a prefect. Please bend
over that chair.”
James was indignant; he was to be beaten and lose his
prefect’s status; just for being out of the school. The other guys did it all
the time.
The housemaster swished his cane impatiently.
“The chair, Axford, the chair.”
James took a deep breath and stood close to the back
of the armchair. He had been in this position before, but not for at least
three years, when he had been caught smoking; it had been the first time he
tried cigarettes and after the whacking he got then from Mr Durrant, it was
also the last.
“Bend over please.”
James leaned forward and reached out to grasp the
front of the seat cushion.
“Let’s have your bottom a little higher please.”
James had to stretch on tip toe before he satisfied
his housemaster.
“Legs further apart.”
James screwed his eyes tight and gripped the cushion
for dear life.
Mr Durrant whipped six stingers into the boy’s
submissive buttocks: rat-tat-tat- rat-tat-tat. The strokes were a little more
vigorous than he had originally intended and the cracks of his rattan cane
against the tightly-stretched grey Terylene trousers rang around the room like
machinegun fire.
James groaned as the whacks pounded into his buttocks,
but stifled his desire to yelp out loud. He could feel moisture behind his eyes
and prayed he would not cry; not at least until he was far away from the housemaster’s
study and the boy standing outside waiting his turn.
Mr Durrant had not yet allowed Axford to stand. He put
the cane away and watched the boy from a distance; Axford was breathing heavily
and his head was so low he was almost kissing the seat cushion. The caning had
hurt; Mr Durrant knew it but he also understood the importance the boys placed
on their dignity, it would not matter how much agony the caning caused them,
they would not want to let their punisher know.
The housemaster saw the boy wanted to get out of the
study without delay, so he put him out of his misery.
“You can remove yourself Axford. You took that well.”
James stood and despite himself, his hands shot to the
seat of his trousers to hold his throbbing buttocks tightly.
Mr Durrant pretended not to notice and turned to his
desk and picked up the tie.
“Take this Axford, you are now reinstated as a
prefect.”
Despite the agony in his buttocks and his original
resentment, James was genuinely pleased to be restored to the prefecthood.
“Thank you very much, Sir.”
He signed the punishment book and Mr Durrant offered
his right hand and they shook; like gentlemen do.
As he painfully shuffled towards the door, Mr Durrant
called after him, “Ask the next boy to come in please.”
The door closed and immediately there was a loud
knock.
“Enter!”
In came Anthony Brewer, a fifteen-year-old, fifth-form
boy. Mr Durrant had Brewer’s measure. The teenager thought he was a rebel.
School rules did not apply to him. They were for the drones, the brainwashed
boys, Brewer thought, who mindlessly obeyed the rules. The one’s who propped up
‘the system.’
The housemaster had no time for such juvenile
posturing. Rebellion; even Brewer’s inconsequential kind, had to be crushed.
This was the boy’s third visit to Mr Durrant’s study
that term.
“Stand there, boy. Smoking. Again. This is the second
time this term, Brewer, what have you got to say for yourself?”
He knew this was Brewer’s idea of ‘rebellion’:
smoking. In truth, the stupid boy hated smoking; whenever he puffed away he
felt an almost uncontrollable urge to throw up. But, smoking was against the
rules, so Brewer would carry on lighting up.
The fifteen-year-old had nothing to say; he just
wanted to get on with the caning so later he could show his classmates his
marks and bask in what he fervently believed to be the boys’ admiration.
“Nothing, Sir.”
“Nothing? Why do you insist on smoking on school
premises?”
No answer. Anthony Brewer just stared at the carpet,
willing Mr Durrant to select a cane, bend him over and whack his backside with
it.
“Well? Do you have an addiction to tobacco?”
“Don’t know, Sir.”
“Doh!” exasperated, Mr Durrant said, “Let’s get on
with this.”
Anthony was quite small for his age – don’t they say
smoking stunts your growth? – so Mr Durrant knew the boy could not easily fit
over the back of the armchair.
“You know the drill Brewer, bend over my desk.”
Without further ado, Anthony lay face down across the
large oak desk; stretched his arms out ahead of him and turned his head so his
left cheek rested against the cold desk top. He parted his legs wide so that
his buttocks were perfectly presented for the thrashing he was about to
receive.
He watched as the housemaster made his own
preparations. He tested two whippy rattans from his collection before settling
on a crook-handled cane. He disappeared from Anthony’s view as he moved behind
him ready to lash down the first stroke into his buttocks.
But, something was not right: what did Brewer have
under his trousers?
By way of inspection, Mr Durrant tapped his cane
lightly against Brewer’s stretched bum.
“What’s going on here? Stand up boy.”
Brewer hauled himself to his feet.
“What do you have under your trousers?”
Anthony blushed scarlet; it was another of his
rebellions.
“Undo your trousers, let me see.”
Anthony was in some distress and his breathing became
heavy: did Mr Durrant really want him to take his trousers down?
“Come on boy, unbuckle your belt.”
With fumbling fingers Anthony loosened his belt and
then stopped.
“Undo your trousers boy, let me see.”
Nervously, Anthony unclipped the waist of his trousers
and pulled down the zip, revealing bright green underwear.
“Pull them down further.”
Anthony gulped audibly and let his grey trousers fall
over his thighs, but he gripped on to them to stop them plummeting to his feet.
What kind of underwear was that, Mr Durrant wondered;
did they call it a ‘thong’ or is it a ‘G-string’? Anthony was wearing a garment that held in
his manhood at the front, but only had what appeared to be strings holding them
in; his buttocks were entirely exposed.
“Get dressed, boy, get dressed,” Mr Durrant was both
embarrassed and confused. Why on earth was the boy wearing such underwear to
school?
“Brewer, you know the school rules are that boys must
wear white cotton Y-front briefs; that is the school uniform.”
Silence.
“Well boy, do you know the rules about school uniform
underwear?”
“Yes, Sir. But none of the boys wear white Y-fronts.”
“We’ll see about that,” Mr Durrant retorted, but even
as he said it, he wondered how underpants could be inspected to enforce such a
rule. The only place in school where boys legitimately removed their trousers
was in gym class and considering the PE master’s (unjustified) reputation among
the boys, it would not be wise to ask him to instigate a parade of pants before
every class.
The housemaster appreciated this was not the time to
pursue the matter of illegal underwear. He swished his cane and ordered Brewer
back over the desk.
Anthony resumed his position, lifted his buttocks as
high as possible making them the prominent
feature of his body, and offered them up to his tormentor.
Mr Durrant’s cane rose and fell six times, connecting
with the centre of Anthony’s buttocks. Of course, because he only had one layer
of clothing across his bum, the pain was the worst the boy had ever felt. He
grimaced as each cut bit into his trousers, but he remained steady. In the past
few months he had developed a high threshold of pain.
Mr Durrant wanted the boy out of his study without
delay. “Get up, sign the punishment book and go.”
Anthony closed the study door behind him and slyly
rubbed his thumbs across his bottom. He could feel six welts had risen where
the cane had done its worst. Speedily, he went to the lavatories and inspected
his red raw bottom. Very impressive, he thought, it was the best caning he had
ever had. This should impress the boys.
Picture credit: Unknown
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