Memories: Last boy caned at Eton

 Sebastian Doggart was 13 years old in 1984 when, he believes, he was the last boy ever to be caned at the famous Eton school. 

He shared his experience with readers of the Guardian newspaper in May 2024.

  

One Saturday afternoon, he went into town with an older boy, bought a bottle of Bacardi from a supermarket, and got wasted. He was discovered and punished.

In my penultimate Monday morning “division” – Eton-speak for a class – there came a knock on the door from a member of sixth form select, a group of senior, academically successful boys, who had the privilege of wearing silver buttons on their waistcoats. I would like to believe this boy was David Cameron, who was in his last year at Eton at this point, but I’ll never know. Whoever he was, he called out ceremonially: “Is Doggart in this division?”

I raised my hand, and there was a rumble of “whoos” from the other boys.

“He’s to see the lower master at midday.”

I had to wait in Jack’s dark, dusty entrance hall.

“Come up, boy,” he barked.

I climbed the creaking stairs, and walked into his oak-panelled study. There was an antique wooden chair standing in the middle of the room.

“Remain standing,” he said.

Jack was a tall thin man, in his 60s. He had beady eyes, and thin grey hair tightly combed back, startlingly reminiscent of Peter Cushing’s Star Wars villain Grand Moff Tarkin.

“Doggart,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you realise just how serious this offence is?” Jack pressed.

“Yes, sir.”

“It gives me no pleasure,” he fixed his eyes straight at me, “but I am going to have to beat you.”

“Sir?”

I was taken completely by surprise. I thought flogging had been abolished. I knew that the school’s then headmaster, Eric Anderson, whose lovely wife, Poppy, was my English “beak” (Eton-speak for teacher), had said he did not believe in corporal punishment.

“Take off your jacket,” Jack ordered.

His icy authority was devastating. I removed my tailcoat. In preparation for carrying out his terrible duty, he took off his coat, too.

“Nothing down your trousers?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“A newspaper? A book?”

I touched the flimsy material of my pinstripe trousers, and wished then I had received some warning of what was about to happen. “Nothing, sir.”

From the corner of the room, he picked up a thin brown wooden cane, around 4ft long, and flexed it. My heart began to thump.

“Listen carefully, boy. I want you to start by placing your hands on that chair.”

Haltingly, I turned and put my hands on the back of the chair.

“On the seat, boy. Hands on the seat!”

I complied, placing my palms on the cold dark wood. My backside was now facing directly towards him.

“I am going to give you six strikes,” he explained, “but if you come up, you will receive an extra one. Understand?”

I stared down at my white cuffs. “Yes, sir.” I took a deep breath, and didn’t look back. There was a high, whistling sound and then thwack – searing, stinging pain. I screamed, as my back jolted upwards.

“You came up!” Jack said. “What did I tell you, Doggart? That’ll be one more.”

“I couldn’t help it,” I implored, touching gingerly the burning line across my buttocks.

His eyes fixed on me. “Get back down, boy!”

I bent down, but this time looked back, around my legs. I saw him raise the cane, and instinctively moved my left hand to protect myself.

“Put it back,” he ordered. “I can promise it’ll hurt even more on your hand.”

I obeyed. My breath was shaking. I tried to focus at the isosceles triangle formed by my two hands next to each other.

Whistle, thwack – “Aaaah!” Another burning, biting slash. I leapt up again.

“You’re only hurting yourself, you know,” Jack said.

“But, sir ,” I begged.

“Get back down!”

“Just wait, please.”

“Down!”

I leaned back down, terrified this could go on indefinitely. This time, I placed my hands on the side of the seat. I gripped hard.

Whistle, thwack – the biting pain was there again, I screamed again, but I held on. I stared into the shadowy grain of the chair. How old was it, I wondered?

Thwack.

Five hundred years, like the school, maybe?

Thwack.

How many other boys had stared at the same chair, as its owner had tormented them?

Thwack.

My focus on the wood became so intense I stopped hearing or feeling the impact of the final three lashes.

Jack’s voice jolted me back: “Up, boy!”

I rose unsteadily, my legs shaking. I turned and stared at him blankly. He averted his gaze, walked behind his desk and began writing something.

“Put your tailcoat back on.”

I moved mechanically, still looking at him. I began to feel something I had never felt before, a kind of anger, a white rage. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to shout at him, rebuke him for being so beastly, but nothing came out of my parched throat. His bony hand pushed a piece of paper towards me. “I trust I won’t be seeing you again. Return to your division.”

I clambered gingerly down the stairs, closed the heavy door behind me, and stepped outside into the freezing air of Weston’s Yard. I burst out crying. Tears poured uncontrollably down my burning cheeks.

Picture credit: Unknown.

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