A Diplomatic Incident

When Alan Watson and his family were posted to the US Consulate in Sydney,

Australia, it came as a gift from the Gods. They had been in postings in

various armpits of places pretending to be countries, the last one being in

Arab North Africa ('These aren't real countries', Alan had once confided to

his Ambassador, 'these are just Arguments, with their own flags'). It was a

joy to be in a country where you felt welcome and the infrastructure was

right. His wife, Joyce, couldn't have been happier when she saw their new

house and proceeded right off to transform it into a home. Their daughter,

Louise, was 16 now and settled in quickly to school life 'down under' and

her 15 year old brother Tom was a natural at the healthy outdoor sports

opportunities on offer. He could be at the beach within a 4 minute walk, and

was most days. Normally when a vice consul moves the first thing he or his

wife do is install their kids into the local International School. In Sydney

though Joyce got her way. She was a good Catholic and Sydney had first class

catholic schools with really high academic standards and excellent

discipline. In common with most Australian schools they had strict uniform

standards, along the English model and, the kids rapidly learned, they had

retained corporal punishment as an option when it was fading fast elsewhere.

It fascinated them but didn't really seem a realistic threat at their age.

All was well with the move until Tom encountered his first brush with strict

discipline, up close and personal. Classes were small, about twelve kids for

many subjects, and in his second week at school one of his new friends was

spotted smoking. After a really Over The Top lecture from his teacher he has

told he was going to 'get the strap'. Tom had heard it alluded to in breaks

but, to be honest, it seemed a bit of a joke to him once he heard the exact

procedure. Apparently you got up to six whacks across the palms of your

hands with a two foot long leather belt. Hey, he was fifteen. His vision of

a dress belt or similar was that a couple of wallops across your fingers

could possibly sting a bit but, come on, how much could it really hurt ? He

didn't exactly want to discuss it but his mum had given him bare backside

tanning with a wooden paddle up until he was about thirteen and that was

real punishment. His friend obviously knew the procedure for he walked up to

the side of the teacher's desk and held both hands straight out in front at

shoulder height, palms up and side by side so the strap could hit both

hands with a single stroke. The teacher opened the drawer of his desk and

produced 'the strap'. It was the most ferocious thing Tom had ever seen,

dark brown, two feet long, a couple of inches wide, but thick, really thick.

More than a quarter inch and stiff as a board. The last 10 inches or so were

slit so as to make two 'tails'.

The teacher stood to the side of his rather nervous pupil and moved the cuff

of his blazer up a bit so that it wouldn't get in the way then raised the

strap up over his shoulder and brought it cracking down. When the first

stroke landed the kid let out a, barely suppressed, 'yipe' and his hands

flew down. Gingerly he put them in place again for three more. At the end of

it his face was scarlet and his hands were obviously killing him but he

didn't cry or make much noise. The teacher lectured on a bit about the evils

of tobacco and made it clear there would be a lot more where that came from

if anyone else thought they could flout school rules. Six weeks later Tom

found he was in trouble. He had failed to hand in a homework assignment in

math and kind of hoped that the teacher would not notice. You can't pull

that stunt in a small class. The teacher pulled his belt out from his desk,

this one was pretty much identical to the other Tom had seen except for it's

tan color, and he told Tom to choose between 'getting the strap' or

detention. Not a tough choice. He took detention. His pals didn't let up for

ten days; only wimps chose detention apparently, he would need to think it

through next time it seemed.

Three months later Tom had a bad day, a very bad day. Discipline was good in

the school but you can only put so much pressure on natural teenage

exuberance before it is squeezed out to the path of least resistance. In

St. Aquina's School the course of least resistance was the handful of lady

faculty members (with the notable exception of Miss Thornton, who could

swing a strap with the best of them and had eyes in the back of her head),

in particular the trainee teachers, known as 'student teachers'. These

tended to be 21 or 22 year olds and one in particular, a student teacher of

French, Miss Williams, was the fairest game of the lot. She was hesitant

when confronted with challenge and adolescent boys smell fear the way

Alsatians and Parking Police officers do. They react to it in much the same

way too; Miss Williams had had a month of absolute misery with Tom's class,

she had completely lost control and authority. It embarrassed her to admit as

much but, when her last class had ended up with notebooks flying through the

air and loud, open, defiant cheek, she owned up to herself that her French

class looked like Beirut on a quiet night. She told Mr. Barclay who agreed

that it was intolerable, that the students who did want to learn were being

deprived of an education, all the sorts of things teachers are expected to

say. What he did not do was offer to come along and address the class, tick

them off, as Miss Williams had requested. 'No, you let me handle it my way;

say nothing, wait until there is a really serious problem, then, once you

see who the ringleader is, come and see me. I'll sort him out. I'll put an

end to this once and for all, believe me.'. He said this with a grim

determination and Miss Williams most certainly did believe him. She had a

delicious vision of him 'sorting her out' but got a grip back on reality

instantly.

Tom had played little part in the ragging of Miss Williams, it had seemed a

bit juvenile, but his reputation had still not fully got over his perceived

cowardice in running from the strap and, hey, it looked like a safe enough

sport. It had been ongoing for four weeks and nothing untoward had happened

to anyone else. After twenty minutes of sheer hell Miss Williams had really

had it when, with the worst timing in the world, Tom Watson decided to toss

in his ten cents worth. In the bedlam that the class had become he got up

from his seat and pushed the end of a classmates seat off balance bringing

the classmate, his desk and the contents of his desk crashing to the ground.

Miss Williams cracked. It was as if she was having a nervous breakdown, she

screeched , burst into tears, and fled the room, slamming the door behind

her. An ominous hush descended over the class. They sensed, instinctively,

that this wasn't a safe haven for fifteen year old schoolboys any longer.

Seven or eight minutes later their concerns were vindicated. A red faced

Miss Williams came into the classroom followed by a tense looking Mr.

Barclay. The class was silent but the debris of their earlier nonsense was

as clear an inditement as a smoking gun. They expected exhortations, a

scalding lecture, dire threats, claims bitter of disappointment, the whole

Guilt Trip of collective nagging. What they actually got was a bit more

surprising.

Mr. Barclay said little but what he did say got through. 'I am going to

thrash you, boy, for disgraceful behavior towards a teacher, and a lady at

that' he pointed to Tom with the biggest belt in History, it was nearly

three inches wide, split into three tails and as stiff as plywood. 'Further,

if I hear so much as a whisper of complaint again, I will line you all up',

he made a sweeping movement towards the whole class, 'and thrash each and

every single one of you. Is that clear ?'. There was a shamefaced nodding of

heads as everyone, except a flustered Tom, breathed a sigh of relief. He

motioned for Tom to stand to his side. It dawned on Tom that he was going to

get probably the hardest strapping of the school that year and that it was

going to be witnessed not only by his class but also by a 21 year old who

had been a schoolgirl herself not so long ago. He started to protest but

barely got a word out. 'You're getting a good strapping Watson, protest it

or try to escape by moving your hands or whatever and, when I am finished

with you you'll go to the Headmaster for another six'. Tom got the definite

impression this was probably not legal but that it wouldn't make a jot of a

difference. He held his hands out parallel and looked Mr. Barclay in the eye.

That strap went over his shoulder and he really put his all into the first

stroke which landed diagonally across both of Tom's outstretched hands. The

agony was instant. The tails of the strap had forced his hands to fly down

towards his waist and a scalding pain, like putting the palms of both hands

on a hotplate and holding them there, shot through them up to his elbows.

Tom yelled out, despite himself. He could hardly find the courage to put his

hands back up to be burned again. A long half minute passed as Tom sensed

the scalding heat turn to the almost rythmic throbbing which only a Scottish

Lochgelly Tawse can produce. At last he put his hands back out. Try as he

might he could not look Mr. Barclay in the eye. He knew that if he saw that

strap coming down again he wouldn't be able to hold his hands in place. As

it was they shook like an alcoholic's. Barclay waited until they became

fairly stationary then brought the three tailed strap cracking down again.

The sound mimicked a starting pistol and the rapt class of adolescents

watched every detail as Tom yelped and put his hands under their opposite

armpits. Tears came out of the corner of both of his eyes and his face was

beaming scarlet.

There was a shocked silence in the class. They had thought it quite funny to

watch the Yank get a leathering but this was worse than they were accustomed

to. Slowly Tom put his hands out for the third stroke, really trembling now.

The third stroke cracked over the already scarlet hands and Tom screamed and

started bawling as he put his hands back under each armpit. His face was

drenched in tears and his hands throbbed in such agony that he was virtually

running on the spot as he jumped from one foot to the other to disperse the

pain. He had had hard spankings with his mothers paddle, bare butt, one was

a twenty five-er, but nothing was close to this. Mr. Barclay simply said,

'Come on boy, you were keen enough to earn this, you should be keen to get

it over with.' Try as he might Tom simply could not put his hands back out

for more straps with that belt. 'You know what I said about boys who refuse

the belt ?'. Tom panicked. He couldn't take the belt so they told him that

if he didn't take the belt they would belt him more ? There was logic here ?

He was in agony and a mass of confusion. He just plain couldn't put his hands

out again, but if he didn't....

Barclay sensed he had strapped harder than even he had intended. He wouldn't

go through with the six he had planned earlier but he was rather painted

into a corner. He couldn't not strap him, at least one more stroke. He would

lose face. It was also clear Watson couldn't hold his hand out again. His

compromise was to say. 'OK, this is the best I can do, bend over, touch your

toes and I'll give you one more on your bum.' Tom didn't need to be told

twice. In a flash he was grabbing his ankles and praying this nightmare

would end. Mr. Barclay lifted the back of Tom's blazer and told him to

straighten his knees. The entire class got a picture postcard of Tom's tight

behind, underwear line showing clear as day, and watched in awe as Mr.

Barclay slapped the final stroke right on target. The strap landed with a

dull thud, first on Tom's left cheek but, a fraction of a second later, the

three tails landed, on his right cheek. Tom screamed to wake the dead and

launched into space with two throbbing, stinging hands clasped to two

burning buttocks. He howled his apology. Barclay didn't even let him clean

up. He sent him straight back to sit, ever so gingerly, back on his hard

plastic chair. He said very little more. Actions speak louder than words.

Miss Williams had no more trouble with Tom's class.

When Tom got home he went straight to the bathroom to examine the damage in

the mirror. His hands looked as is someone had put a wide red paintbrush

across them and they still throbbed intolerably, as if he had been strapped

only five minutes ago, but as he pulled his Calvin's down the three fingers

of the tawse tail were as plainly defined as day. The edges of each strap

finger were raised out from his behind and looked like they would leave

really nasty bruises. He heard him Mom calling from downstairs. She had been

on the telephone when he had arrived. She didn't seem happy. When Tom got

downstairs he soon learned why. She had been speaking to Mr. Barclay. She had

stopped off at the drawer in the kitchen where she kept her wooden spoons,

spatulas and carving knives. Seemed it was where she had put the trusty oak

paddle when the removals guys had unpacked it, with a bit of a laugh. When

his Mum slapped that old paddle into her left hand, hard, Tom realized that

this day wasn't over by a long shot yet....