The exam cheat
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
If I close my eyes I can see everything,
as if I was there. Me, eighteen-years-old, in the headmaster’s study. A
convicted exam cheat.
It’s 1955 and St Michael’s is an
institution steeped in tradition and values: discipline, academic excellence,
and authority.
I stand, awkwardly, a little ashamed,
uncertain. It is summer and outside the sun shines brightly. Inside the study
is gloomy. The walls are decked with dark, wood-panelled wainscoting, and above
that, deep, hunter green wallpaper with a subtle pattern.
A large, ornate fireplace with a heavy
wooden mantelpiece dominates one wall, with a mirror above it.
I stand before the headmaster’s desk. It
is a grand imposing piece of furniture, made of dark, polished mahogany or oak.
Although not substantial in size, it is undoubtedly heavy. It would take a gang
of men to move it from its position, symbolising as it does the authority of
the headmaster and the traditions of the school. There is a leather writing pad
on its surface, and a brass desk lamp with a green glass shade.
The headmaster sits behind the desk and
glares a me. He is in a sturdy, well-cushioned, high-backed leather chair. Behind
me is an armchair that looks like it might be comfortable for visitors, but I
know it also plays a less-comfortable role for pupils in dramas that play out
in the study. The armchair’s back is very high, but its padded arms are just
right to accommodate a boy’s torso, even the most senior like myself.
The headmaster berates me but I don’t
listen. I suppose it’s a mixture of shame and fear that makes me stare over his
shoulder. I see the rack affixed to the wall, with three whippy, well-polished canes
that hang there.
It started one evening, when I was
wandering through the dimly lit passageways of the school. I’m not the sporting
type so the cricket pitch and athletic track hold no attraction. I like to be
on my own and I knew that the school building would probably be empty until it
was time for bed.
By chance as I passed the top of the
passage that goes to the headmaster’s study I noticed his door was ajar. I stood,
listening, I’m not sure what I expected to hear, but in fact I heard nothing. I
was both intrigued and excited; The study was both a place of awe and dread for
pupils, mostly because of the headmaster’s fearsome canes that had seen much
use over the years.
With the proverbial heart in mouth, I
tiptoed closer to the open door. The headmaster was not at home. I peeked from
the door and saw his grand desk, its surface piled with stacks of exam papers,
waiting to be graded. That gave me an idea.
I have no excuse for what I did. I suppose
if I’m honest I would put it down to my own laziness. I studied as little as
possible and always searched for the easiest way to avoid work. I decided I’d
come back to the headmaster’s study one night and peek at the upcoming exam
papers. If I knew the questions in advance I could pass the exam with minimal
effort.
It was surprisingly easy. St Michael’s has
an honour code, of sorts. It is not written down but all pupils and masters
know it. Nobody expects a pupil to break into the headmaster’s study to steal
from it.
After lights out and so under the cover of
darkness, I carefully eased the lock of the headmaster’s study (it was a very
easy thing to do). Once inside with heart pounding with anxiety, I tiptoed to
the desk and rifled through the papers. I carefully noted down the exam
questions on a small piece of paper before making an escape.
I did make the effort to study the stolen
questions and I was well-prepared to ace the exams.
After the exams concluded, the headmaster
began the arduous task of grading the papers. Days passed, and with tremendous
confidence, I was eager to receive his results.
That was until this afternoon and the
headmaster has summoned me to the study. ‘Baldcock,’ he begins, his voice stern
and unyielding. ‘I have received information about your actions prior to the
exams.’
A chill runs down my spine as the
headmaster continues, ‘You have betrayed the trust of this institution and your
fellow pupils.’
The headmaster waves a set of exam papers
from a previous year. The questions are identical to the ones I had stolen. The
headmaster intones, ‘Cheating is a grave offense and will not be tolerated at
St Michael’s.’
I watch as he rises from his throne-like
chair. He is an imposing figure. I don’t suppose he is much older than fifty
and his tall, wiry figure towers over me. His academic gown is made of rich,
black fabric with flowing sleeves, and adorned with the academic regalia denotes
his qualifications and position. A mortarboard, a flat, square cap with a
tassel, rests on top of his head.
He keeps me waiting as he turns his back
and studies the rack on the wall. There are three rattan, whippy canes, each
between three and four-feet long. I can see them clearly and I can’t detect
much difference between them. The headmaster clearly thinks otherwise because
he takes down each in turn and thoughtfully flexes them between his hands.
Maybe one is denser than another. Each cane bends easily; they are maybe
between a quarter and a half inch in circumference. After this, he swipes one
through the air. The cane makes a terrific whoosh as it flies sending a chill
down my spine.
After much deliberation he finds his
weapon of choice and he walks steadily towards the centre of the study. He stops
at the armchair and turns to me. ‘You have
betrayed the trust of your pupils, your teachers, and this institution.
Cheating is an affront to the very values we hold dear at St Michael’s.’
Without warning, he
grips the cane and strikes it against the arm of the chair, making a menacing
sound that echoes through the room. He looks at me through his eyeglasses and
then he removes them. Only now can I see the icy stare of his cold grey eyes.
His face is set grim, he taps the cane against his trouser leg, looks at the
grand leather armchair and them at me. My heart races.
He wobbles the cane,
pointing it at the chair, ‘Bend over the chair.’ A surge of relief sweeps over
me, I had half expected he would instruct me to lower my trousers. I had
committed a heinous crime; I wouldn’t have been surprised to be caned on the
bare. I take a step towards the chair. The arm is large and padded but
nonetheless quite low. I bend my legs and ease myself forward. I arch my back,
tuck my legs into the chair and in so doing raise my bottom high. My groin
presses against the firm structure of the chair’s arm, and my toes rest at an
angle on the carpeted floor.
My nose presses into the seat cushion, a
mixture of dust and stale perspiration tickles my nostrils. Absurdly, I wonder
if I am going to sneeze (as if I don’t have more serious matters to be
concerned about). I cannot see a thing but I hear floorboards creek as the
headmaster seems to be pacing across the study. In time he stops and I sense
him taking up a position close to the chair. This is confirmed when I feel a
slight tap of the cane across my bottom. I cannot see my self, of course, but I
feel my trousers tight against my legs and now fit snuggly around my buttocks.
My underpants seem to have ridden up into my crack.
The tapping continues for a second before
I feel the cane being drawn away from my bum. Before I have much time to think
about it, I hear a tremendous swish, followed by a crack! as the cane connects
with my stretched bottom. There’s an explosion of pain but before I have time
to worry about that the cane lands again, striking about a half-inch below the
first. There’s a double wave of agony with the second cut not quite outdoing the first. It
is rather like throwing a large stone into a pond and then a smaller one.
The pain radiates from my bottom and travels at speed up and down my
legs. Now, the headmaster allows a moment or two for me to feel the full force
of the two swipes. I bite down on my lower lip to stop the gasping ‘Owwwww!’
that my body demands I make.
Then the headmaster gives another double-whack, both stripes lower than
the others. I feel a band of pain a couple of inches wide burning under the
seat of my trousers. It hurts like crazy and I have never experienced such pain
before. I hear heavy breathing behind me and the floorboards creaking once
more. I think the headmaster needs a short rest between his exertions.
This time me time to wriggle and writhe. My knees are bent but that
can’t stop me kicking my legs out behind me as if this will stop the pain
presently shooting up and down them. I wait nervously for the next two. After
those I am stomping my feet, wriggling my hips flailing my arms and now unable
to stop uttering a long stream of ‘aaaaggghhhhhs’
The cane continues to swish behind me. I’ve already taken Six but it
seems the headmaster is not satisfied yet. How can I get him to stop, how can I
say I’m sorry and promise never to cheat again. How can I do this? I can’t. The
headmaster is not interested in hearing my remorse; not yet anyway. My bum
feels like I’ve sat on a hot stove and my caning is not over yet.
Another two bounce of my backside, and by the time twelve strokes
bounce off my backside tears flow freely and snot drips from my nose. I am
eighteen years old but in a couple of minutes the headmaster has reduced me to
a sniveling five-year-old kid.
I hear more creaking floorboards as the headmaster strolls across the
study, then the cupboard door opens and the cane replaced alongside its
companions. The creaking resumes and the headmaster is once again close to me.
‘You may stand,’ he says pompously and utterly hurt and humiliated I struggle
to an upreight position. My backside is alight and even without rubbing my
hands over my cheeks (which I deseperately want to do but know this must wait
until I am away from the study) I can feel several thick welts throbbing under
my white Y-fronts.
I am a beaten boy. A cheat who has disgraced myself and my school. A
cad of the first order. I want to show the headmaster I have recognised this. I
offer him my right hand to shake ‘Thank you sir, I thoroughly deserved that,’ I
say with as much dignity as the present circumstances allow. Surprised by my
gesture, the headmaster reluctantly takes my hand and offers me a weak
handshake. ‘You may leave,’ he says and I made my way unsteadily to the door.
…
I had closed my eyes so I could see
everything, as if I was there. Then, without warning the ringtone of my phone
sings. I check the caller identity, it is my wife, and I know she will be
calling to tell me what time she will be back from the office. I put down the
copy of the story paper I was reading and hope I still have time for a shower
and to change my soiled underpants.
Picture credit: Generated by Artificial Intelligence (A.I.)
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