The Headmaster’s Diary

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

This is a companion piece to the story Twice In One Day (read it here) which is a diary entry made by a sixth-form grammar school boy in 1964 recounting how he and two pals were caned for the first time by their headmaster.

This new story recounts the same incident from the headmaster’s point of view as recorded in his diary.

May 5, 1964

Today has been a rather uneventful day at St. George’s Grammar School in that nothing untoward happened, save for the fact that I was obliged to beat three sixth-form boys. Canings are frequent and each lunchtime finds a queue of miscreants waiting in trepidation outside my study door. Usually, they are junior boys and very occasionally a fifth-former might be in the mix. But having Upper Sixth boys in the line is unheard of.

They had been spotted outside the school premises without permission. Only yesterday at assembly I had impressed on the whole school that leaving without permission would not be tolerated. We are responsible for the well-being of our boys at all times and having them roaming around the town is unacceptable.

So, here we had blatant disregard for my explicit ruling. What could I do? What did they expect?

I summoned them to my study. They stood before me, shoulders slumped, eyes cast downwards, perhaps anticipating the consequence of their actions, each one with an expression that mingled fear and apprehension.

It was with a heavy heart that I explained the gravity of their transgression and the necessity of maintaining discipline within the school. They did not respond and I think this was a silent recognition that they had erred and deserved a punishment.

I firmly believe that caning, when administered judiciously and with compassion, serves a vital role in instilling discipline and responsibility.

I suspect my boys believe that I rather enjoy caning bottoms, but to beat a boy is not a decision I take lightly: it is a necessary measure to correct their behaviour and mould them into responsible citizens. Some may argue that it’s a harsh method, but I firmly believe that it has its place in maintaining discipline and order within our school. The cane can serve as a deterrent and a reminder of the consequences of one’s actions.

I confess that I know very few of the boys at St George’s. It is the nature of my job that I only get to see the star pupils when they receive glittering prizes and the abominably behaved who are sent to me to have their backsides tanned. The vast majority of the boys go unnoticed by me.

I knew nothing of the three boys standing before me save that they were senior boys, all aged eighteen, and therefore not really children at all. Legally they do not become adults until they are twenty-one, but there was little doubt that these were far from boys.

If, for example, you saw Cummings in the street not wearing school uniform you could easily take him for a young office worker or as an undergraduate student in his early twenties. I was made aware of this when he bent across the back of the armchair to offer me his buttocks. They were fine, firm and meaty and presented me with an ample target. So different from the scrawny, pert cheeks I usually see.

As I contemplated administering the caning, I found myself torn between the belief in the efficacy of such measures and a lingering discomfort with the act itself. It is not without some regret that I admit a certain satisfaction in delivering measured strokes to bottoms. The ritualistic nature of it all, the authority it lends, it is almost as if the process is a necessary evil to maintain order and obedience.

I must confess that as I took the cane in hand, I felt a mixture of reluctance and responsibility. It is no secret that I am a firm believer in the value of corporal punishment, when administered judiciously and with the utmost care. The cane has been a symbol of discipline and correction for generations, even with older boys. I couldn't help but think about the value of corporal punishment in an educational setting. While some may argue that it’s cruel and inhumane, I believe it teaches a valuable lesson in responsibility and consequences. These young men must learn that their actions had repercussions, and six hard strokes of the cane would leave a lasting impression.

It is not my wish to cause pain unnecessarily, but rather to guide these young men towards a path of responsibility and respect for authority. In times such as these, when discipline in society seems to be eroding, it becomes our duty as educators to maintain the standards upon which our society is built.

As the headmaster, I recognize the importance of maintaining order and upholding the values of our esteemed institution.

While I do believe in the power of corporal punishment to enforce discipline, today, I must admit, there was an unfamiliar twinge of anticipation as I contemplated administering the caning. I felt a strange mixture of duty and perhaps, I dare say, a hint of satisfaction in the prospect of disciplining them. My belief in the value of corporal punishment is unwavering; it is a time-tested method that has produced generations of respectful young men.

With this in mind, I took up my position to Cummings’s left. He is a tall, broad boy and although the chair is rather large he had some difficulty presenting himself to me and I had to offer instructions. Eventually, he spread his legs and bent his knees and in this attitude he was able to rest his stomach over the apex of the chair’s back. In this way his buttocks were presented at exactly the correct height and angle for strokes from my cane. His trousers rode up against his large, firm buttocks seemingly lifting and separating each cheek. It was a terrific target.

I took my time. It mattered little to me that there were still boys in the passageway waiting their turn. Nor, was I concerned that the lunch hour was nearly at an end. There is always a certain ritual with a headmaster’s caning and I saw no reason to hurry matters. Perhaps Cummings was in no hurry either, hoping to put off the pain for as long as possible.

I stood by the boy, flexed my cane thoughtfully between my hands and swished it a couple of times for good measure. I was aware of Cummings’s two partners in crime standing by the wall watching the proceedings. Call me an old ham if you must but I did enjoy ratcheting up the tension. I sawed the cane across the centre of Cummings’s amble globes and noticed his body tense as it anticipated the first stroke. Tap-tap-tap went my cane as I found my aim. Then, I lifted it to shoulder height, counted silently to three and then returned it with terrific force against the stretched grey trousers inviting me. A white line immediately appeared in the Terylene, or whatever material they make schoolboys’ trousers from these days. I admired my shot. Bingo! It had landed exactly where I had intended.

Cummings’s knees straightened and his feet stomped. It had hurt him. It had hurt him a great deal. I have caned many boys – perhaps hundreds – in my school career and I have learned that you never can tell how a boy will react. Sometimes the smallest, thinnest chap will take a severe beating stoically without the least fuss. Other times a big chunky lad – a rugby forward perhaps – will howl and jump about at the softest touch.

Cummings fell some place in between. My first stroke clearly hurt him and his body wanted to demonstrate just how much pain he felt, but he managed to control himself. He wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction of knowing I had hurt him.

Frankly, I didn’t care. It was clear my first stroke had struck home well. There would certainly be a welt forming underneath his white cotton Y-fronts. By the time I had finished he would have a burning backside and a set of marks that would take many days to fade. And, that’s how it should be. What is the point of going to all this trouble if an exemplary lesson is not learned?

I counted to twenty in my head and then tap-tap-taped his bottom again, this time about an inch below where the first stroke had landed. Crack! Cummings let out a long sigh, wind escaped through clenched teeth, sounding somewhat like one of the steam trains coming into Brocklehurst Station.

After the fourth stroke had landed Cummings was wriggling and writhing over the back of the chair and gripping hold of the seat cushion as if his life depended on it. From my position at his rear, I could see his neck was bright red (as indeed was his bottom) and sweat soaked his shirt collar. Yes, he was feeling this deserved beating. That would teach him to disobey my explicit instructions.

So, three sixth-formers went across my armchair. With measured strokes, I administered the caning, targeting their bottoms to ensure the lesson was not lost on them. As each stroke landed, I noted with satisfaction the involuntary flinches and muffled exclamations, and there was something oddly satisfying in seeing their faces contort with pain.

I administered the caning, careful to strike with enough force to convey the gravity of their actions, yet not so harshly as to cause undue harm. It was not a task I relished, but one I believed was necessary for the greater good of these young men and the school itself.

As they left my study, heads hung low, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction for the pain I had inflicted. I must, of course, clarify that my gratification did not arise from cruelty but from the belief that this experience would steer these young men toward a path of responsibility and adherence to the rules that govern our institution. I want nothing more than for them to grow into honourable members of society.

Picture credit: Unknown

SOURCE

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