Looking Back
By Limey
Looking back to my time as a
boy at boarding school on the south coast of England in the
1950's, I'm sure I was a candidate for many more whippings than I
actually got. Academically bright, too late I now realise,
to my disgust, that I was also a very spoilt, self-centred,
conceited, know-it-all, type. Many of my school masters
must have longed to get my bottom tightly over a desk, and, with
a hard pliant cane, to give it a wristy six, or eight,
'cracks!!', of the very best. That actually would have done
me a world of good. But it never happened, because I never
really broke the rules badly enough to give them the opportunity.
When I was 15, a new Headmaster arrived. The senior English
master had made me the editor of the school magazine. But
that year I was also taking the School Certificate government
exams. And I told myself that I wasn't going to do the two
chores. This was a bad cop-out, because I could have
managed both assignments quite well, the magazine and the exams,
had I chosen to exert myself. But I, the lordly Derek
Mills, chose not to exert myself.
The result was, first, a weak showing in the exams. (I came fifth
in the form, whereas I was used to holding the first or second
place) -- and, second, a pretty poor magazine issue too.
Naturally, the new Headmaster, Mr. Stevenson, was
disturbed. The magazine was something of a 'shop window' of
the whole school. The third-rate quality of the first issue
under his Headmastership made him look bad, and everybody else
too. He complained mildly to my Father about it, when they
happened to meet that summer.
When my Dad told me about this conversation, I coloured up and
got angry. "I had the School Cert. exams to think
about," I blustered. "I couldn't spend time on
the magazine, too." My Dad shook his head. He
knew better. Then I chose to forget about the whole thing,
as being beneath my notice, the great Derek Mills, champion of
the world . . .
However, going back to school that Autumn term, now in the Lower
Sixth form, I was given an immediate cold douche. I was
astonished to find that my name was not included in the
Headmaster's list of newly-made prefects. Astonished -- and
devastated! Looking back, I'd have to say this was the
worst shock of my life. All my friends had been made
prefects -- but not I! I was suddenly the black sheep of
the flock -- and all my school life I'd been used to being the
white sheep! I was crushed, humiliated, mortified.
Particularly as the months went by, and other boys, junior to me,
were announced as prefects, but never Derek Mills!
I was totally bewildered and embarrassed. I couldn't understand
it. Looking back, it seems unbelievable that I never put
two and two together, that I never connected the two things --
that is, the Head's chat with my Father in the summer about the
poor magazine, and my non- promotion at school. In truth,
my arrogance and stupidity were such that I'd wiped the whole
thing out of my mind. So things went from bad to
worse. I adopted an attitude of bravado towards the masters
-- which resulted in my being slippered by one of them, very hard
and long, in my pyjamas. At the age of 16! I got up,
all six feet of me, from my bending position over the bed,
after six or so, and told him, "I've had enough!"
"Get down again, Mills!", he said. And he gave me
another six, with the heel. I don't know which hurt the
more -- my pride or my backside!
And then, sure enough, the ultimate degradation happened!
Achh! Stupidly, I was guilty of horseplay at the wrong time
in the dormitory. The Head happened to come in on it. He
excused the other lads involved, and made me the scapegoat.
To my horror, for the first time in my life, at the interview in
his study next morning, he actually seized the chance to give me
an undignified and very severe cane-tanning, over a chair. (And
he followed a peculiar ritual in doing this. I'll describe
the details in a moment). My cup of chagrin and humiliation
was indeed full and flowing over!
Such was the atmosphere that I did not go on for the expected
second year in the Sixth form. Instead, I left school
prematurely, taking a mean-ish clerical job in the world of
work. It was not the best finale to my six years at the
school.
Looking back, I have often wondered what might have been changed,
done differently, done better?
Two things, I think. God forbid that I should be critical
of my Dad, but in my childhood and youth, probably out of
misplaced kindness, he did let me get away with far too much
without proper punishment. We did have a token three-tailed
strap, kept in the family room, but I remember feeling it only
once, when Dad administered it in a wild rage all over my clothed
body, about the age of eight. He never again spanked me for
anything -- whatever I did wrong, even, say, fighting with my two
sisters.
For another example, I remember from time to time he would catch
me reading in bed, after lights out, which he'd strictly
forbidden. (My Mother used to let me stay in bed till midday next
day -- I really was "spoiled rotten"!) Anyway, as
my Father would open my bedroom door, finding the light still on
late at night, and me reading some novel or other, I would be
caught red- handed. Heart thumping, blushing, breath-taken,
I fully expected a well-earned thrashing. But it never
happened. Instead of getting me out of bed, taking down my
pyjama trousers, and giving my bottom a good spanking or
strapping, Dad would just put the light out and go on. I
was relieved in one way, but kind of disappointed in another . .
. After all, I'd failed to receive the punishment I really
deserved, for direct disobedience . . .
So again, what might have been done differently as I entered my
last year at school? Here are the two things.
Firstly, after his talk with the Head that time, and my
blustering attitude, I think that might have been the opportunity
for Dad really to straighten me out, to give me a number one
thrashing with the strap, on the grounds that my laziness had let
the whole family down.
Then, secondly, after my tanning, I think he might have said
something to me like this: "Now, Derek, that's not the
end of your punishment. When you get back to school, you're
going to go to see Mr. Stevenson immediately, whether you like it
or not, and you're going to give him your humble apology for
doing such a miserable job on the school magazine last
term. Do you understand? Further, and this is
important, I want you to be sure to ask him to give you a sound
caning! Remember that -- "a sound caning." The
thrashing you've just had from me is for letting me and your
family down. But you've also let Mt. Stevenson and the
school down. And you deserve a thorough beating for that.
You might as well admit it. Right?" Reluctantly,
I would have had to agree, even though I knew Mr. Stevenson was
in a class by himself as a beater of boys.
Back at school, then, I might have sought an early appointment
with the Head. I would have turned up for it wearing, not
my regular school trousers, but only my thin, tight, brief rugby
shorts, no underpants, to show that I meant business. I
would have said, in all sincerity, "Sir, I've come to
apologise for the terrible job I did on the magazine last
term. I know it was bad, and there's no excuse for
it. I was just lazy. My Father has already given me a
thrashing, for letting him down, and the family, and
myself. But I also let you down, and the
school. I need to be punished for that too, to teach me a
proper lesson, so that I don't make the same mistake again.
So, if you wouldn't mind too much, sir, could you please give me
a really sound caning? My Father thinks I should have one,
and so do I."
Looking back, I think Mr. Stevenson might have smiled, after a
speech like this. I think he might have said something
like, "A good man, your Father, Mills, if I may say
so. All right, I accept your apology, but I agree you do
deserve punishment, and that it's likely to do you quite a bit of
good. Your first beating, is it? I see you've come
dressed for it -- or rather, undressed for it! Good.
O.K., take off your blazer. Come round to the back of this
chair. Pull up your shorts. Get your hips right over
the chair back, with your hands down on the lower front
legs. Straighten your legs. And widen them.
Hollow your back. Grip the chair with your knees. And
put your bottom up as high and tight as you can get it.
That's right. Now don't move until I tell you.
Remember this position you're in now, you'll need to come back to
it." (This I wouldn't understand till a few moments
later.) "This is going to hurt. I'm giving
you eight."
Looking back, I would have seen him take off his own coat, then
select the supple senior rod from his bookcase, what time I would
have tugged up my shorts at the back to their absolute tightest
with one hand, revealing a quarter of my naked buttocks, before
replacing the hand on the chair leg. Then I would have
waited, for the first rifle-shot-like "CRRRAAACCKK!!"
-- and the excruciating, blinding, white-hot pain across my
behind a second later. (No messing around, by the way, in
those days in the English schools. This kind of beating
would indeed have been typical of many thousands, in schools up
and down the Island, every year.)
This hypothetical caning of mine would then have followed the
ritual of the actual caning which Mr. Stevenson administered to
me following my fooling around in the dormitory, which I
mentioned earlier. After the first stroke, he would have
startled me by telling me, as he did in fact, to stand up from
the chair, and to take a walk around his desk! My hands
would be clawing at my rear end. After the tour of the
desk, he would then have had me resume my position over the
chair, shorts again pulled right up. After a few words of
admonition -- "Legs wider, Mills, get your bottom right
over" --he would then give me my second whack -- this
followed by another rising from the punishment chair, another
tour of his desk, back arched, and again the re-assuming of the
position.
This, I learned, was usually Mr. Stevenson's personal, specialist
routine, or ceremony, of caning, whenever he had the time to do
it. He was a maestro at it. I have never heard of
anyone else's using this procedure, but I had to admit it was
very effective. The getting up, head back, face grimacing,
hands clasped to the bottom, the walkabout, feet doing a pas de
deux -- then the slow, deliberate, arranging of oneself (by now,
pretty expertly), in a sharp convex curve over the back of the
low chair again.
This ritualistic routine, repeated after each tremendous
cane-thwack, really made a leisurely, memorable meal of the whole
punishment session, so far as the boy was concerned. It
extended the time of the caning, of course, so that each of the
eight instalments of agony could build up to its individual
intense crescendo. Also, I have no doubt, the eight
writhing reels round his desk, then the eight bendings over, and
the eight practised re-offerings of the tight bum -- practice, of
course, making perfect! -- gave eight separate sets of
humiliation to the culprit, and eight separate lots of personal
satisfaction, rather than just the initial one, to a professional
caner like Mr. Stevenson.
At the end of this prolonged six-minute "minuet", then
-- or "reel" might indeed be the more accurate word! --
after the eighth stroke, I would finally have staggered up from
the chair for the last time, at his command. Sniffing
tearfully, I would be gingerly rubbing my bottom, now
artistically and thoroughly whipped, by a powerful
virtuoso. (The weals, concentrated round my underbum,
lasted all of three weeks.) He might have said,
"Well done, Derek! Now that's over and done
with. We'll say no more about it. We'll do much
better on the magazine this term, right? You may get dressed now,
wash up, and then go to your class." Then he would have
shaken me warmly by the hand, and opened his study door for me to
leave -- with the memory of a lifetime.
And, incidentally, looking back, I think something much better
might have happened, if I'd had that kind of maturity, that kind
of strength of character, to apologise to my Headmaster and to
ask for my caning, as decent manners certainly required at the
time. Perhaps I might have seen the name "Mills"
on the next list of school prefects, and thus stayed at school
for the crucial extra year . . . Who knows?
Whatever -- we live and learn, do we not, looking back?