Caps rebellion: the aftermath

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

(A St. Francis Independent Grammar School story)

The headmaster gets revenge after the local newspaper reports on a mass caning at his school.

 

The headmaster Dr Henderson-Smith was in his study reading a report in the local Brocklehurst Bugle about his caning of boys for not wearing their school caps. He was furious but not surprised.

He read:

Mass canings at St Francis Grammar

By Kevin Smith

THIRTY-TWO schoolboys at St Francis Grammar, Brocklehurst, were caned one by one -- for not wearing their caps to school.

Housemasters at the school did the caning. Younger boys were given two and three strokes each.

But three sixth-form boys each got six from the headmaster, Dr R. C. Henderson-Smith

The headmaster of the school in Loden Road refused to comment on the mass caning.

Dr Henderson-Smith believes in uniform for the 700 boys of his school, including the distinctive green-and-yellow hooped cap.

One fifth-former told the Bugle, “We were taken by surprise when prefects were posted outside the gates.

“But we know we should wear our caps. We have been warned before.”

An official at the County Council Education Office said: “Corporal punishment and uniform wearing are at the discretion of the head."

Last summer at least 30 boys were caned by Dr Henderson-Smith after they protested that they should be allowed to wear short trousers during the heat wave. Three ring-leaders were publicly caned by the headmaster during morning assembly.

 

Kevin Smith, a former pupil of the school, had written this. Dr Henderson-Smith also knew the story would soon end up in a scabby tabloid national newspaper paper in the next day or so. That had happened last summer when he beat boys, three of them publicly, in a rebellion over school uniform.

That would be Smith’s fault. Dr Henderson-Smith had heard that local newspaper reporters passed on their best stories to the nationals to make themselves extra money.

Dr Henderson-Smith wondered if there was there anything he could do about Smith. The wretched youth was probably extracting revenge for the thrashing the headmaster had given him last year when, aged twenty-one, he had returned to the school on business for his newspaper. (Read that story here.)

That day, despite Kevin’s age, Dr Henderson-Smith administered twelve stingers to the lad’s backside, trousers down, for a prank he had committed on his final day at the school.

Dr Henderson-Smith knew the editor of the newspaper slightly as they were both in the Lions Club. Perhaps he might have a word with him about the way Smith was reporting about his school. Unfortunately, the stories Smith was reporting were true. The editor, pompous ass, might say that asking the paper not to report the truth would be an attack on the free press.

Dr Henderson-Smith met the editor a few days later in the bar of the Albert Hotel. They were both on their second whiskeys when he raised the question of Smith and the report on the school caps.

To the headmaster’s great surprise and gratification the editor told him had received the biggest “post bag” ever after the story was published. Readers were writing in support of the headmaster’s actions. “More power to your elbow,” they were saying. Boys needed more discipline … St Francis was the best school in town.

Flushed with both pride and whisky, Dr Henderson-Smith returned to the subject of Smith.

“Smith! Feckless, idle, indolent, lazy,” the editor snarled, demonstrating his wide vocabulary. “His dresses like a beatnik, is always late and is disrespectful of his seniors at the office.”

The editor took a gulp of his whisky. “He thinks he knows it all,” he concluded.

Dr Henderson-Smith drained his glass. “He used to be a pupil at St Francis, did you know?”

The editor smiled, “Well, you obviously didn’t cane his backside often enough.” It was a joke, but the headmaster flushed, remembering the thrashing he had given Smith recently.

Poor time keeping, badly dressed, disrespectful. Yes, if Smith were still a pupil at St Francis he would have been dealt with by his housemaster long ago. And, if he repeated any of the offences, he would find himself over the armchair in the headmaster’s study.

The two men refilled their glasses. The editor was very talkative now. Smith was a probationer at the newspaper which meant if he didn’t shape up, he would be dismissed. Despite what the editor had just said, he thought Smith was essentially a good young man; he just needed to buck up his ideas a little.

“What he needs is a wake-up call, a short sharp shock,” the editor stressed.

“Nothing that six-of-the-best cannot cure,” the headmaster slurred as he said this. There was a silence between the two men.

“Yes, you’re right. Can I send him to your study, Dr Henderson-Smith?”

The headmaster was not known for his sense of humour, but he joined in. “Oh dear no, much as he needs his backside peppered, but you can come to my study yourself and I’ll gladly let you take one of my canes so you can do the job yourself.”

There was more companionable silence.

“Bloody sound idea, man.”

The following afternoon the headmaster was in a fearful temper. He had been fending off calls from national newspapers all day as news of the caps beatings spread. Then his secretary tapped on his door. “I have the editor of the local newspaper in my office, headmaster.”

God no! Henderson-Smith exploded. Was the blasted Bugle after a follow-up story?

No, it was not. The editor wanted to take the headmaster up on his offer.

“Offer, what offer?”

“To take a cane to put across Smith’s backside.”

Oh dear, the headmaster responded. It had been a joke; perhaps, a little too much whisky had been taken. The suggestion was not meant to be taken seriously.

But, the editor was indeed serious. Embarrassed, the headmaster unlocked the cupboard containing his canes.

“It’s an impressive collection,” the editor said. “May I take a closer look?”

The editor spent a minute or two inspecting the canes, most had crook-handles and were of various thicknesses and lengths.

“Which do you recommend?”

Dr Henderson-Smith tried to remember which one he had used to beat Smith last summer, but could not.

“The heavier, thicker ones are best for older boys.”

It had been more than thirty years since he had left school, but the sight and feel of the canes in the editor’s hands stirred his memories. St Tom’s was a caning school, just like St Francis. His own backside had been bruised many times. As a House prefect, he had also been an enthusiastic beater of younger boys’ bottoms.

The editor left with a suitable cane, but feeling a little self-conscious he hid it under his coat as he exited the school.

Back at the office, his secretary told him a local town councillor had telephoned to complain. The editor sighed: there was nobody quite as pompous as a town councillor, they had no power but believed the Press should treat them as if they were President of the United States.

Reluctantly, he telephoned the councillor to be told that Smith had been to visit him and the reporter had been late, dishevelled in his appearance and that his breath smelt of beer.

That’s it. I will deal with the boy once and for all, the editor was resolute. A summons was sent: “My office: six o’clock.”

The Bugle was a small newspaper and the office was always empty by six in the evening. Smith tapped tentatively on the editor’s office door. He knew he was in trouble about something, but wasn’t sure what. Why did he feel as if he had been summoned to the headmaster’s study?

The editor had a little speech planned. It involved the angry town councillor and the growing catalogue of Smith’s past misdemeanours.

“What am I to do about you?” It was more a statement than a question.

“I saw your former headmaster yesterday and he tells me you have the makings to become a fine young man, but you are headstrong and have trouble with authority (Dr Henderson-Smith hadn’t said this, but editor wanted to shift the blame for what was about to happen). He reckons you need a short sharp shock.”

Kevin stood, ashen faced: did his editor know that Henderson-Smith had caned him?

“You know you are on probation and I will have to sack you if things don’t improve drastically and quickly,” the editor was still speaking.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Dr Henderson-Smith says you might respond to a sound caning. What do you think?”

Kevin was not surprised. After that thrashing, nothing about Dr Henderson-Smith would surprise him.

Was his editor going to send him back to the school? Had they agreed Henderson-Smith would give him another caning?

“What do you think? Would you like to have one last try to save your job?”

Kevin stood his eyes downcast. He was twenty-two years old, an adult, a university graduate, he had a fiancée, he was keen to be married and start a family, and he even owned his own motorbike. He was all of these things, but his editor and that dreadful headmaster wanted to cane his backside as if he were still a thirteen-year-old schoolboy.

And, he had no choice but to let them. No job equalled no future.

He gave the editor the answer he required, “Yes, Sir very much Sir.”

“Good lad. Right decision.” The editor moved to a desk at the other side of the office and extracted the cane from its drawer.

“Dr Henderson-Smith kindly gave me this,” he said as he swished the cane through the air.

Kevin was confused. Was he going to be caned by the editor? He thought he would be going back to St Francis.

“So Smith, shall we give you another chance?”

“Yes please Sir.”

“I want you to bend over that.”

He swished the cane once more and pointed it at a small desk.

Kevin hesitated. He remembered the excruciating pain when Dr Henderson-Smith last thrashed him. He remembered the welts and bruises that lasted for a week or more. He remembered later dodging Cindy, his fiancée; he couldn’t let her know about his humiliation.

“It is entirely your choice, Kevin,” the editor seemed very friendly indeed. “You might not believe me, but this is for your own good.”

Kevin did not believe him. Not at the time. Not while he was bent across the desk as his boss, the editor, lashed the whippy cane into his backside with the strength of a man beating a carpet.

But, later, alone in his room, he began to realise he was on a slippery slope. He was lazy and disrespectful. He was all the things the editor said. But, he had the makings of a really good journalist and one day he might be a star. He needed to get back on track. His editor realised that. It might be unorthodox, but a sound “schoolboy” caning might be just the thing he needed to put him back on the straight and narrow.

“Bend over the desk, Kevin,” the editor swiped the cane through empty air. It was a vicious instrument and in expert hands it could take a boy’s backside off.

Kevin looked over at his boss; a small rather squat middle-aged man. He had spent too many years in hotel bars and his waist was thick and his complexion blotched. His thinning hair stood on end.

Kevin took a deep breath and lent over and stretched his arms out in front of him. It was small and he could easily grip the corners, one with each hand. He closed his eyes and clenched his mouth tight.

Unbidden, Kevin had spread his legs wide to offer up his buttocks as the perfect target. His breath left cloudy patches on the surface of the desk, and its edge cut into his groin as he wriggled to assume a position he would be able to hold throughout the impending thrashing.

It had been a long time since the editor had beaten a boy, but one never loses the knack. The editor flexed the cane, wiped it through his hands and took aim. A long pause increased the tension and in the eerie silence that gripped the empty office. The editor raised the cane high then lashed it hard across Kevin’s bottom, the swish and crack of the cane was explosive.

The lad’s head shot up as the bite of the first stroke travelled across both buttocks.

Immediately, cut number two followed. “Aghhhh!” The whoosh of air had been short and deadly. The crack as cane struck tight trousers filled the room. The soreness spread like fire across Kevin’s well-rounded bottom.

Only then did the editor notice the open window. It looked out into the main street. At this hour any passer-by hurrying home from work could hear him. He tucked the cane under his arm, reached out and pulled the window tight.

The editor returned to his position, a cane’s length to the left of Kevin’s admirably relaxed buttocks. This was not the boy’s first-ever caning (but who could say it would be his last?); he had survived many thrashings at St Francis; he knew the editor’s beating would hurt like crazy, but he could take it. He would have thick welts across his buttocks by the time the editor laid down his rattan cane. The bruises would last several days, but that would be the end of it. Kevin would live.

The cane was once again guided to its selected target, slicing another line of pain into the meaty buttocks, which shuddered in protest. He followed it up, in rapid succession with two more sending waves of agony across the lad’s bum and up and down both of his legs. Kevin moaned softly. Another six-of-the-best was over.

He waited quietly for permission to stand.

The editor was not finished. Sweat drenched the back of his shirt, but he didn’t care, he would not let it deter him from his duty. He gulped in a huge lungful of air, raised his cane above should height and in a controlled frenzy he flogged down six cuts one after another. It was over inside ten seconds.

Kevin yelped as the first cut slashed open his buttocks. He was certain blood was seeping and sticking to his underpants. But, he didn’t have time to worry about that as lash after lash cut deep into his buttocks.

Yelps became wails. Wails became yells and yells became screams. Customers at the burger bar opposite the office exchanged glances. What was that noise? Was a murder in progress?

Kevin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the desk. His feet stamped up and down but the smooth soles of his shoes could not grip the cheap carpet beneath them and his legs slid from behind him. He banged his head up and down on the desktop and a small puddle of sweat and tears formed beneath it. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside as blood rushed through his entire body and tried to exit through his ears.

And then it was over: the most severe version of a “headmaster’s caning” that he had ever endured.

The editor looked on at his junior reporter slumped across the desk, thrashing his body to left and right, gasping for air like some beached dolphin.

“Come on Kevin. It’s over,” the editor replaced the cane in the drawer. He was a man who made his living by words, but just at this moment he was lost for them.

Kevin dragged himself from the desk and stood unsteadily in front of his boss. The pain had been intense agony, but already the raging fire in his bum was cooling. Soon it would be an intense throb, but within an hour or so even that would be gone. His bum would be tender in places for a day or so and he might find it uncomfortable to sit on hard surfaces; but he knew that now the worse was over.

He wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. His breathing was more regular and he was in control of himself.

The editor flashed him a weak smile. “Now go home Kevin. And tomorrow I want you to start working on more stories about the headmaster at St Francis and all the canings he dishes out. Our readers love them.”

Picture credit: Unknown.

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