Scholarship boy learns a lesson

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

The headmaster hated scholarship boys and he didn’t make any secret of it. Dr. S. O. Henderson-Smith loved St Francis Independent Grammar School (not always affectionately known as St FIGS) because it was just that: independent. The governors were very traditional: traditional sport, traditional lesson, traditional discipline. But now the new Labour government (Communists, the headmaster called them) had forced all schools to take a certain number of poorer, but bright, pupils.

‘Guttersnipes,’ Henderson-Smith called them without any just cause. They came from working-class homes and didn’t know how to behave, not like the parents of the other pupils who were from the professional and business classes.

Tom Armstrong, was eighteen years old and had won a scholarship to study at the St. FIGS sixth-form. The headmaster didn’t care if he was a genius at maths, he had no breeding.

He was also a rebel: and any hint of non-conformity was something that the boys of ST. FIGS had knocked out of them from the moment they set foot in the school in the first year. Tom was a free-thinker, the school he transferred from was liberal and encouraged discussion, something that made Henderson-Smith’s flesh crawl. This might be 1967 and the youth across the world were in revolt but the boys at St. FIGS obeyed, they did not debate.

Tom’s eagerness to question his masters was not welcomed and he soon found himself on the wrong side of the law. ‘Insolence’ can come in many forms, it can mean downright cheekiness, impertinence, or disrespect. Tom showed none of these traits but he did question the masters’ views and that was to them impudence of the highest order. When he questioned Mr. Frotherington-Aldridge on quadratic equations (and intellectually wiped the floor with him) the master, his ego damaged beyond repair sent him with a note to the headmaster’s study.

Henderson-Smith was only too pleased to deal with the upstart. ‘You are wearing BROWN SHOES!’ the headmaster exclaimed as he examined the boy standing contritely before him. The shock almost floored the headmaster. Only liberals and men who loitered near public lavatories wore brown shoes. Boys at St. FIGS were not allowed to wear them.

The headmaster had much to say to the eighteen-year-old about his ‘attitude’ and it would take many hundreds of words to fully capture his sentiments. Suffice is to say that the boy needed to be taken down a peg or two and it was Henderson-Smith’s duty to do so.

Tom had been at the school long enough to understand he didn’t stand a chance. There was no point arguing with the headmaster; the bigot had made up his mind about Tom and no amount of discussion was going to change it. 

Henderson-Smith finished his diatribe and was ready to get down to action. ‘Take off your blazer and hang it up.’ Tom slipped the jacket off and took it to the hatstand and hung it up alongside four curve-handled rattan canes that hung there. He gulped silently; he had expected to be caned but he had never seen a cane before. Now he saw the weapons up close his heart raced. Each was a little over three-feet long and of various thicknesses. Any one of them could inflict severe pain.

‘Ha!” the headmaster spat as he saw Tom’s reaction. He was going to enjoy himself. ‘Stand in front of my desk,’ he ordered and as Tom did so, the headmaster approached the hatstand. He reached up for the thinnest of the canes and peered at it as if seeing it for the first time. He had his back t the teenager but he knew Tom would be watching him intently. The headmaster flexed the cane in his hands and then swished it through the air a couple of times. Seemingly dissatisfied with his choice he returned it and took down another. He repeated the bending and swishing until he had tested all four. Then, as he had intended all along, he took the longest and stoutest and turned to face Tom, who was standing several feet in front of the desk.

Henderson-Smith approached the boy. ‘Never been caned before,’ he snapped. It wasn’t a question it was a statement of fact. Eighteen-years-old and never been caned. That, to Henderson-Smith just about summed up the state schools: no discipline. ‘No, sir,’ Tom gasped. His head swirled with conflicting emotions. He didn’t think he had done anything wrong and it was unfair for the headmaster to cane him. Tom could object and refuse to be beaten, but he knew Henderson-Smith would love that; it would give him the excuse he wanted to expel him. Tom also knew that dispute its many faults St. FIGS was a good school academically and it would be a good kickstart to his career to graduate from the school.

Also, and for the moment Tom couldn’t understand why, he was fascinated by the idea of being caned; of submitting himself to authority. But, he didn’t relish the pain of a caning or the marks that it would leave on his backside.

Henderson-Smith flexed the cane in his hands. ‘When I give the instruction you will bend over the desk. You will bend over from the position where you are now with your feet slightly apart and your knees straight. You must not grip the desk, instead you should place the palms of your hands firmly on the desk. Henderson-Smith knew that boys often tried to counteract the pain of the cane strokes by squeezing their legs together and gripping the desk. In Tom’s position that would be impossible. Also, since he would be bending over some three feet from the edge of the desk, it would be far more difficult for Tom to endure the impact of the strokes. Henderson-Smith had it planned to perfection.

‘Bend over, Armstrong,’ Henderson-Smith swished the cane through the air. Something like fear gripped Tom, but there was also some excitement, as he manoeuvred into position, with his pals on the desk, his feet apart and his bottom jutting out to the headmaster’s satisfaction.

The headmaster stood behind Tom and then took five paces back, and then walked forward quite quickly, twisting his body forward as he brought the cane down with a loud crack on the seat of Tom’s trousers. Tom endured the stroke with difficulty.  It was instinctive for a boy to grip the desk when he felt the pain of a cane-stroke, but Tom could not do this. He gritted his teeth, gasped and shook his head from right to left and gave out a slight cry of pain. He moved his legs slightly but resumed his position.

Henderson-Smith walked back five paces and again went forward quickly, bringing the cane down hard for a second time. Tom muffled the urge to cry. Two lines throbbed under his cotton Y-fronts and he desperately wanted to jump up and rub away at his backside. Some schoolboy instinct stopped him from doing this. He was hurting and he was hurting a lot but he didn’t want the spiteful headmaster to know. He settled himself as best he could and waited for the sound of footsteps on floorboards to indicated the headmaster was on his way once more.

By the fourth stroke Tom had lost all sense of baring; his backside was raw, his temples throbbed, his throat was dry and the room seemed to be spinning. After the fifth stroke, Tom tears flowed down Tom’s face, but unmoved, the headmaster continued with the sixth and final stroke. Each stroke had made a welt form on Tom’s bottom, and many of them crossed over, adding to the agony. It felt like he had sat on a barbecue grill.

‘That will do, Armstrong,’ the headmaster stated pompously. Tom did not realise that was his cue to stand and he waited, his nerve ends shredded. ‘That will do. You may stand,’ the headmaster stood examining the boy before him. He tucked the cane under his arm and waited. ‘Bah,’ he exclaimed. The boy had no sense of decency. ‘It is customary,’ the headmaster intoned, ‘for a boy who has taken a beating to thank the headmaster and to shake his hand. Like a gentleman.’ He spat the last word, he knew Armstrong could never be a gentleman. The room was still spinning and Tom was experiencing some kind of high (like, he supposed being on drugs) and he just in time stopped himself from giggling at the absurdity of it. The headmaster had humiliated him, had thrashed him soundly and now he expected Tom to show him gratitude. ‘Thank you sir,’ he whispered and offered his hand to the headmaster.

‘Go,’ the headmaster barked once the little ritual had been completed. ‘Don’t forget your blazer,’ he scowled as he watched Tom move delicately across the study. The headmaster replaced the cane on the hatstand and, noticing that it was now after four and the school day over, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a whisky bottle.

Picture credit: Generated by Artificial Intelligence (A.I)

 

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