Not Such a Rebel
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
The headmaster sighed deeply as he sat at
his desk and turned over the pages of the poorly produced magazine. The
Alternative School Magazine, it called itself. The boys did something like this
most years. The Academy had a perfectly good official school magazine that
chronicled the highlights of the year and included some poems and such like
from the boys. It was always well received by the parents and Old Boys.
Of course, that wasn’t enough for some
boys. They wanted to believe that they had no say in what went into the
magazine. It was untrue, of course, the headmaster would argue if any of them
dared to criticise it to his face. They didn’t of course, instead something
akin to an ‘underground network’ operated to produce a tatty excuse for an
alternative view.
The headmaster had been a schoolmaster for
years and he knew that in reality the magazine was harmless albeit unpleasant
in places. There was an article calling for the abolition of corporal
punishment. ‘Must We Stoop To This’ the headline ran above a picture of a
curve-handled cane, not unlike the several he had in a cupboard in his study.
The article was unsigned. A pity, the headmaster thought because if he knew the
culprit he would invite him to this study and give a practical demonstration.
The magazine would do no real harm. There
were proper revolutions going on across Europe. Students were rioting in Paris
and other major cities. The Communists were on the march and before the 1960s
were out the world might be a much different place. But, he would not fool
himself, that was not happening at his grammar school in a provincial town in
England.
He did have one problem. It involved a
poem. As poetry it was doggerel, and not worth a second glance, but its subject
matter could not be ignored. It was an attack on a master and that could not be
tolerated. Mr Wilberfloss taught English and each year he led a group of boys
who put on an entertainment at Christmas. The headmaster personally thought it
was pretty dire stuff; pretentious sketches, many written by Wilberfloss
himself. He was an effete man and the headmaster had many doubts about him and
his suitability to be at a boys’ school.
But the headmaster put those doubts to one
side. He had been attacked in the poem, the writer had expressed his
dissatisfaction with the standard of the production and had criticised
Wilberfloss by name. That could not be tolerated – and it would not be. That
was why at any moment the author of the poem a certain Geoffrey
Weatherley-Chesney would be knocking on his study door.
The headmaster knew the boy to part of a
group who considered themselves ‘intellectuals,’ as opposed to the more
sporting types who tended to get the attention of their fellows. He was almost
as pretentious as his name, the headmaster thought. Pretentious maybe, but
perhaps not very worldly-wise, since he had appended his name to the poem and
unlike the Must We Stoop author could be made answerable for his actions.
Any further thought was interrupted by a
timid knock on the door. ‘Come!’ the headmaster barked imperiously. The door
slowly opened and with great reluctance a head appeared, slowly followed by the
rest of the body of one Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney. He stood awkwardly on the
threshold apparently unsure whether he should enter the room.
‘Don’t dither boy!’ the headmaster
thundered, ‘Close the door. Come stand here.’ He pointed to a spot on the rug
in front of his desk. Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney shuffled into position. The
headmaster knew the boy well, he was in his A-level history class and he was a
good scholar. He would without doubt find a place at a good university and had
a fine career ahead of him. But that was the future, the headmaster had to deal
with the here and now.
‘You know why I sent for you,’ it was a
statement, not a question and Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney, who found his throat
had gone quite dry could only manage a husky ‘Yes sir,’ by way of reply.
‘What have you to say for yourself,’ the
headmaster leaned forward in his chair. He made an imposing figure even when
seated. Standing he was about six-feet-four-inches tall and although in his
fifties he retained some of the muscular body that had served him so well on
the rugby field when he represented his county in his twenties and thirties.
Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney stared blankly
ahead at the wall behind the headmaster. He could not meet the man’s eye. He
had prepared in his head a little speech. It was to be about freedom of speech
and such like. In his head it was a rousing oration that might be delivered to
a crowd of rebels as the revolution began. Now, here in the headmaster’s study
with its panelled walls, glass-fronted bookcases, an open fire, and an array of
chairs; some comfortable and some not, all thoughts of speechifying left him.
He remained silent.
‘Nothing to say, boy,’ the headmaster
sneered, ‘This isn’t like you, you’re usually full of yourself.’ It was true
Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney was unafraid of offering an opinion in class on the
topic under study. His essays were thoughtful and well argued. In many ways
Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney was a model pupil. But, the headmaster knew from
his years of experience sometimes even model pupils overstepped the mark and
needed bringing to heel.
‘Well, Weatherley-Chesney,’ the headmaster
almost stumbled over the boy’s name, it certainly was a mouthful, ‘this is
quite unacceptable. This poem,’ he sneered over the word poem, ‘is
insulting. Not only is it generally insulting, it insults a master at this
school and that will not be tolerated. Do you understand me, boy?’ That time it
was a question and Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney mumbled the required, ‘Yes sir.’
The headmaster rose from his desk. ‘Good.
Look here boy,’ he said mildly, ‘You are not a bad lad and you have many good
qualities as I have said often in our history classes.’ Geoffrey
Weatherley-Chesney looked at the headmaster for the first time since entering
the study. He respected the headmaster and, in a way he couldn’t quite
understand and would never admit such a thing to his fellow pupils, he rather
admired him. He was a fine scholar and had been a great athlete; it was rare to
find a combination of the two in one man.
Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney glowed at the
tribute he received, but was brought up short. ‘But,’ the headmaster walked to
the front of his desk and towered over the boy, ‘You cannot behave like this.
You need to be taken down a peg or two.’ He nodded at an armchair, ‘Turn that
round so that the back is toward you.’ He then paced across the room to a tall,
thin cupboard in the corner. While he delved into his pocket for a key,
Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney manhandled the chair as instructed.
With the task completed he turned to see
the headmaster standing with a long, thick cane in his hand. It was a standard
specimen, exactly like the one photographed in the magazine. It was a little
under four-feet long and as thick as a pencil, with a crooked handle at one
end. The headmaster tucked it under his arm while he closed and locked the
cupboard door.
What little saliva he had in his mouth now
disappeared as the full awfulness of his predicament hit Geoffrey
Weatherley-Chesney. Now would be the time for a true revolution to stand up for
his rights. He was eighteen years old, a school prefect, he was too old and too
important to be caned. He should refuse to be beaten. He had rights.
But then the inevitable command came,
‘Stand behind the chair,’ Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney obeyed without a murmur.
‘Bend over.’ The boy, eighteen years old and a prefect, hesitated for a moment,
not through rebellion but through uncertainty about how precisely one bent over
for a beating. Still uncertain, he submissively lent forward and took hold of
the chair’s arms.
The headmaster watched unimpressed. ‘Right
over boy. Keep your head low. Stick your bottom out. Legs apart.’ There were so
many instructions but eventually Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney was positioned to
the headmaster’s satisfaction, ‘Stay in that position until I say you may
stand.’
Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney had never been
caned, and he might be one of the few at the Academy to say that. He didn’t
know what he should be thinking. Shame at his poor conduct? Embarrassment at
being submissively bent across the back of the chair awaiting a caning?
Resentment that any of this was happening … to him. He couldn’t work out
his feelings; he had never quite felt like this before.
He heard the floorboards creak as the
master he so admired took up position behind him. Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney
was suddenly conscious that his pale-grey trousers had ridden up his buttocks
and into his crotch and he must be presenting the headmaster with a terrific
target for his cane. The headmaster breathed heavily but said nothing as he
made his preparations. He tapped the top six inches of the cane against the
very centre of the boy’s cheeks to find his aim. The boy held his breath, his
buttocks quivered and the muscles in his arms tensed as he gripped the chair
cushion.
The headmaster raised the cane at an angle
away from the buttocks and brought it down with a swish and a slight flick of
the wrist so that it sliced across the bottom. The boy’s body shook like the
rumbling of an earthquake. It hurt! It was pain like he had never before
experienced. He wanted to jump up howling and run though the study rubbing his
buttocks. It was a natural reaction but Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney had another
thought. It wasn’t the usual schoolboy instinct not to let the master caning
you know you were hurt, to be stoical and take it like a man. None of those
thoughts entered his head. Instead, he believed that if he behaved in that
manner he would in some way be letting the headmaster down and he didn’t want
to do that.
He waited, heart thumbing and rear
throbbing for the second cut to land. It did, an inch or so below the first.
The pain was almost beyond his endurance, but he knew, he desperately knew,
that he would not, he must not cry out in pain. But he could not stop his feet
from stomping up and down into the floor. ‘Keep still,’ the headmaster hissed
and Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney steadied himself once more.
To the headmaster it was a caning like so
many he had delivered. As Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney was a senior boy and a
prefect to boot he put a bit more beef into every stroke, but none the less it
was simply all in a day’s work to him. Not so to Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney.
By the time the headmaster gave the command, ‘Stand up,’ the boy’s bottom felt
like it was on fire and had expanded to twice its natural size. He was
breathless and his temples ached almost as much as his bottom. He wanted to rub
and rub his bottom but he would not allow himself to disappoint the headmaster.
He watched through watery eyes the
headmaster replace the cane in the cupboard and found his admiration for the
man had grown. He wanted to say something, to tell the master what he felt but
he simply didn’t know what it was that he felt and he didn’t want to make a
fool of himself by trying.
‘Go and apologise to Mr Wilberfloss and
tell him I have given you Six.’
‘Yes sir,’ Geoffrey Weatherley-Chesney
hobbled towards the door and after three painful steps he turned to the
headmaster and said, ‘Thank you sir,’ and although he didn’t know why, the boy
knew that he meant it.
Picture credit: Sting Pictures
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