The Arrogant Sixth-former
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
The Housemaster’s study ought to be a
place of dread for a schoolboy whatever his age. A visit is rarely pleasant. I
never call a boy in for idle chit-chat. There is always a serious reason and
almost invariably the boy leaves me nursing his smarting behind. This is 1965
after all and that is the natural order of things at elite boarding schools
such as St. George’s.
There is occasion, however, when a boy,
invariably an older boy, believes he is a cut above the rest and refuses to be
cowed. One such was Rawlings. Rawlings is a senior boy, he’s in the Sixth, but
he never had the qualities to become a prefect. I think he resents this lack of
elevation and he thinks the rules do not apply to him. It is my job to
disoblige him of this.
That is why this evening I called him to
my study. He arrived late and from the moment his fist banged on the study door
I knew I was going to encounter trouble. I called him to enter and he did so,
standing with his hands in his trouser pockets, on the rug in the middle of
what is a rather small room. I was seated in my leather armchair.
Rawlings had been seen in the town earlier
this afternoon. The town is strictly out of bounds, except for specified
purposes. Rawlings had no right nor reason to be in town. He had broken the
rules. To compound the felony, the headmaster had only two days ago at morning
assembly reminded the school (he took pains to emphasise he included the sixth
form) that the town was out of bounds.
Mr Henry, a junior master, who was in town
on legitimate business spotted Rawlings in his distinctive red blazer when the
boy was in a shop buying pop records. Mr Henry, who is not much older than
Rawlings, knows his duty and reported to me the moment he returned to school.
Rawlings stood on the rug, his hands sunk
into his pockets, with a look of what in the Army we used to call ‘dumb
insolence’ on his face. He really is an arrogant, rebellious, and disobedient
boy. ‘Get your hands out of your pockets,’ I glared at him, and reluctantly,
slowly he withdrew his hands and stood with them clasped behind his back. His
defiance was written large in his posture.
‘You have committed a serious breach of
discipline,’ I lectured, ‘You have disobeyed the headmaster’s orders, and
brought shame and dishonour to your house and to the school.’
He stood, his bright blue eyes staring
blankly into space, as I jawed him. He showed no sign of regret or remorse as I
grew angrier and more indignant. ‘You have shown a complete lack of respect for
me, for your teachers, and for your fellow students. You have wasted your time
and money on a frivolous and vulgar entertainment, instead of devoting
yourselves to your studies.’
I finished by spluttering, ‘What do you
have to say for yourself? Do you have any excuse, any justification, any
apology for your behaviour?’
I was seated in the armchair and Rawlings
stood looking down at me, his arrogance was threatening. ‘Sir, I have nothing
to say,’ he said calmly, ‘except that I am 18 years old, and old enough to go
where I please, and do what I please. I do not see why I should be punished for
something that is perfectly harmless and innocent.’
I am certain that my jaw dropped. The
arrogance of the boy was breathtaking. He continued with what seemed to me to
be a prepared speech. ‘I do not see why the school should have the authority to
forbid me from going to town. I do not see why the school should impose its
outdated and narrow-minded views on pupils, and deprive us of our freedom.’
I had never in my long career as a
schoolmaster been spoken to like this by a pupil. I was aghast, but Rawlings
had not finished and he continued without exhibiting a trace of nerves. ‘I do
not see why you should treat me like a child, when I am soon to leave this
school and enter the world.’
I was stunned, outraged, and insulted by
such defiance and disobedience. The school treats him like a child because he is
a child. He won’t legally become an adult until he reaches the age of 21. And
if the general behaviour of the boys at the school – including the seniors – is
any indication, they are all in need of constant adult supervision. It was my
job, no my duty, to ensure the boys in my charge grew up to become
responsible citizens. And one thing they needed to learn above all was
discipline.
I wasn’t going to stand for Rawlings’s
arrogance. I had no intention to argue politics with the boy. I hauled myself
from the chair and strode across the study to a tall thin cupboard in one
corner. I felt Rawlings stare on my back as I delved into my trouser pocket and
withdrew a ring containing keys. I found the smallest and inserted into the
lock of the cupboard door. I opened it and reached inside. If Rawlings did not
already know what lay within the cupboard, the tell-tale rattle of my
collection of rattan canes would have alerted him. I chose the darkest and
densest and turned to face him.
His bright blue eyes sparkled as I flexed
the rod between my hands. It was a standard curve-handled rattan cane. A little
over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It was a darker brown than
the standard canes we used, this emphasised that it was stouter than the
others. Nonetheless it was supple and made a terrific swooshing noise as I
tested it by swishing it through empty air.
Rawlings lips pursed and he stood, feet
apart, hands clenched behind his back and stared defiantly back at me. I was in
no mood for argument. ‘Take off your blazer, put it on my desk,’ I instructed.
He stood his ground. Was he going to defy me? What had he expected when he
delivered his diatribe? Rawlings knew very well the school had rules and these
rules had to be obeyed, and if they were not obeyed then boys were punished.
Rawlings also must have known that all the power rests with me, representing
the school. My word was law. I was he who must be obeyed.
‘Take off your blazer,’ I repeated
fiercely and wobbled the cane in his direction. He had a decision to make and
he had to make it immediately. Either he obeyed my command and I got on with
the task in hand or he refused. Refusal would mean instant expulsion from the
school. A boy could not be allowed to get away with such defiance of rules. If
one boy was allowed to do so, others would quickly follow and the school would descend
into anarchy.
As Rawlings had himself told me, he was
due to leave the school in a few weeks’ time. If he were to be expelled he
would not be allowed to take examinations and any entry to university would be
blocked. The expulsion would impinge on his career. Who would employ him? No,
Rawlings was no fool. He had made his point, but now surely was the time for
him to see sense and take my instructions.
I watched as slowly he shrugged the blazer
off his shoulders and settled it down on the desk. This done, he looked at me,
the defiance turning to something approaching hatred. ‘Stand behind the chair,’
I wobbled the cane at the leather armchair as if there might be some doubt what
I meant. He shuffled into position. Rawlings was a tall, thin lad and I noticed
his pale grey trousers fitted comfortably at the waist. His white cotton shirt
hid a well-developed chest and arms.
I flexed the cane. ‘Lower your trousers,’
I said. I don’t usually cane a boy (not even senior boys) on his underpants,
but Rawlings had riled me. He needed to be taught a lesson. It had to be
exemplary. He must leave my study this evening knowing who was the boss. He
glared at me with a mixture of anger and contempt, he did not say a word; he
didn’t need to, his message was clear.
‘Enough!’ I roared ‘You have gone too far!
You have crossed the line! You have shown me that you are incorrigible and
irredeemable! You have left me no choice but to administer the most severe
punishment that I can inflict on you. Now, get those trousers down.’
I have never been defied by a schoolboy
and that was not about to change. Seething, Rawlings tackled the waistband of
his trousers. I believe his hands shook as he unbuttoned the flies and let the
heavy trousers slither down his legs.
I tucked the cane under my arm and
advanced towards him. I slipped it into my hand and tapped the back of the
armchair with it. ‘Bend over,’ I growled, genuinely angry with this rascal.
Rawlings stared ahead, pursed his lips and in one smooth continuous athletic
movement he dived over the back of the chair. Arrogant to the last, he reached
his arms forward and clutched hold of the seat cushion. Then he spread his legs
and positioned his bottom on the apex of the chair. Silently he was telling me,
‘Go on. Do your worst. See if you can hurt me.’
The shirt had a long tail and I took my
time deliberately folding it up once, twice, three times until it was half way
up his back. Rawling’s shoulders were broad and his muscles tight. There was no
spare fat on the boy. His buttocks were round and firm and I remembered he was
one of the school’s finest middle-distance runners and he was quite handy in
the swimming pool. The strength of his legs was testimony to this.
I had never caned a boy on his underpants
so felt there was a need for a little extra ritual as this was my debut. The
white cotton Y-front underpants were loose against his buttocks so I took hold
of the elastic waistband. Rawlings’s body flinched. I allowed myself a
half-smile; the wretched boy had supposed I was about to rip down his
underpants so that I might administer his thrashing across bared buttocks.
Believe me I should have liked to have imposed the utmost indignity on the boy,
but I realised a beating on the bare flesh might be misinterpreted in some
circles. I did not wish to become the subject of a story in the Sunday
newspapers.
I did not pull down his underpants, rather
I tugged them so that the cotton fitted the buttocks more snugly. In doing so each
cheek was distinct and lifted and separated. I now had a tremendous target and
I intended to make the most of it.
Rawlings had shut his eyes tight and his
buttocks clenched in anticipation of the pain that would soon be inflicted upon
them. I said, ‘You will count
each stroke aloud, and you will say “Thank you, sir” after each one. If you
fail to do so, or if you move or cry out, the stroke will not count, and you
will receive an extra one. Do you understand?’ He croaked his reply.
I knew I was being a bully, but
what did Rawlings expect? He had tried to defy me. He had been arrogant rebellious,
and disobedient and now he was going to pay for it. I ‘sawed’ the cane across
the centre of his buttocks. I tapped once or twice as I got my eye in and then
quickly raised the cane to shoulder height. He braced himself for the pain. Then,
with all the energy at my disposal I thwacked the cane across the
eighteen-year-old’s cotton-covered buttocks. Whacko! A thick line appeared
across the underpants and it was clear that a welt was already rising. The
thwack of cane connecting with boy’s backside echoed around the small study and
then there was silence.
‘Well!’ I barked.
‘One. Thank you, sir.’ The
resentment dripped from his voice.
I lined the cane across the buttocks, a
half inch or so below the first cut. I let fly. I had never beaten a boy so
hard in my career. I gave it all I had, delivering eleven more strokes with equal force and
precision. Rawlings counted each one, and thanked me, even as his backside
turned into a mass of welts and bruises. He must have felt the pain, but he did
not show it. He did not move, or cry out, or shed a tear. He endured the
punishment with stoicism and dignity, until it was over.
I put down the
cane, and said in a cold voice, ‘Rawlings, you have received your punishment.
You may stand up, and pull up your trousers. And you will apologize to me for
your misbehaviour and your insolence. And you
will promise to never repeat your offence. Do you understand?’
Rawlings stood up, and with
difficulty pulled his trousers up. It was clear he was in great pain. He looked
at me, his bright blue eyes now watery, and said in a clear and defiant voice,
‘Sir, I have received your
punishment. But I do not apologize, and I do not promise. I do not regret what
I did, and I do not think that I did anything wrong. I do not respect your
authority, and I do not accept your views. I do not fear your cane, and I do
not care for your school. I am 18 years old, and I am old enough to go where I
please, and do what I please. And I will do so again, as soon as I get the
chance. This is what I think, and this is what I say. And I do not care what
you or anyone else thinks or says.’
I was
speechless and furious. I had never heard such a bold and brazen speech from a
boy in my life. I felt that Rawlings had not only defied me, but also insulted
me, and challenged me. He wanted to cane him again, or to expel him on the
spot. But I knew that I could not do so.
‘We’ll see
what the headmaster has to say about this,’ I fumed. ‘Get out of my sight.’
I watched with
uncontrolled fury as Rawlings hobbled towards the door. Once he was through it,
I slumped into the armchair and reaching for the drawer of my desk, I retrieved
the whisky bottle I kept there.
Picture credit: Generated
by Artificial Intelligence (A.I.)
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