THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS

Author: John Crouch sixbest675@aol.com

Beyond the tall windows of the library was a heavy silence. Grey white light. The stillness that only comes with a heavy blanket of snow over the landscape.

Within the library the only sounds a scratching pen nib, the occasional cough or throat clearing, the rustle of turning pages and a chair leg scraping the floor as it’s occupant shifted in his seat.

Thompson, his face slightly flushed, gazed down at the centre fold of latest top shelf acquisition concealed as usual within the pages of a larger and more innocent book. As prefect he had the boring task of supervising the fifteen boys around the room doing their prep. Despite the apparent peace of the scene there was a tension in the air. The minutes ticked by agonisingly slowly and from time to time Thompson glanced at his wristwatch laid down on the top corner of the table.

Finally his glance was rewarded by the fact that the appointed time had come and gone by a whole three minutes.

Thompson stood up and as was the custom of the Halsteadians announced:

"Men, that concludes prep’ -but stay in your seats there is other business tonight"

Books closed, papers shuffled a murmur of secret communication between the boys.Thompsonclosed the heavy book concealing his magazine as he did so. From beneathit he produced a folded sheet of paper. There was now complete silence within the library.

He smoothed out the sheet, glanced at it and turned it face down onto the table beside the book. He turned and from a small circular table to one side picked up a small wickerwork basket, like a breadbasket and placed it on the front of his table. Within it could be seen a number of slips of paper.

"Come and get your slips". He said. Pandemonium ensued for a moment until Thompson barked;

"SIT DOWN, all of you. Now, one at a time starting with the nearest and on’t get up before the boy in front of you is back in his seat!"

There was a clattering as they returned to their seats. A pause, then Davies Junior, as the nearest, rose walked to the desk, burrowed into the basket with his hand, selected a slip and returned to his place and sat down. The process continued until Fisher, furthest to the back of the room walked forward and took his slip and returned to his place. Thompson frowned down at the five remaining slips wondering which numbers they contained but aware that tradition demanded that there were always twenty slips.

The earlier tension in the room was as nothing to the atmosphere now.

Thompson turned up the paper and placed it before him.

"Number one" he said looking up and around the room.

"Me Thompson". Askew. His husky reply giving no clue to whether he was relieved to be first or horrified. All eyes were upon Thompson. He read from the sheet:

"Blue book six, questions, four right or fail. Failure " he paused to heighten the tension, "six cane, bare bum"

Askew had failed the Blue Book the first time as a new boy. It was no great surprise to him when he couldn’t get the medals right for Brigadier Oliver, one of the Governors, name the school medical officer or remember who was allowed to cross the grass quadrangle rather than stick to the path. He failed.

Thompson referred again to the paper.

"Fourteen?".

"Me Thompson". Brownlow stood up. Tall, wiry, athletic. Askew looked scared.

Brownlow walked over to Thompson’s table pausing on the way to select a thick cane from the selection of implements laid out ready. He swished it menacingly as he waited for Askew.

Askew came to the table. His face white and drawn. Brownlow nodded his head as a signal that he was waiting. Askew reached down, unfastened his trousers and they slid down to his ankles. Brownlow, impatient as ever, moved round behind him and with the cane still in his hand managed to grasp the waist band of Askew’s "Y" fronts and slide them down, none too kindly, to round his knees. Straightening up again Brownlow placed his hand on the back of Askew’s neck and pushed him down over the table. He folded back the hem and shirt tails until he had a clear view of Askew’s bottom. Tap tap. Askew fought for calm and to control his breathing. It was almost exactly a year since he had been beaten.

THWISH, the cane flew forward, THWACK.......a full blooded long swing and a follow through like a golfer.

"AAAAAAH" momentary pause, then SWISH.......THWACK..... "OOOOOWWW". Brownlow was always impatient, always wanting to get on to the next thing, wasting time. The others watched with awful anticipation as the cane rose and fell, no pauses between now. Thwish.....thwack. The six delivered finally without any slackening of their force, laid in with arm and shoulder . Askew seeming diminished now, smaller as he tried vainly to squeeze himself to safety within the very table itself. Thwish......THWACH........ "AHHHHHHH, Oh God, OOOOOWWWW!"

Askew hauled himself up, fighting the temptation to grab his cheeks and comfort them, fighting for his dignity despite the "Y"s around his knees and this audience to his squealing. He proffered his hand and shook hands with Brownlow. "Thank you Brownlow" through gritted teeth. He struggled to pull up his clothing and shuffled back to his place even as he did so. A silence. Seeming to wake from some dream Thompson licked his dry lips and said;

"Two"?

"Me Thompson". Roberts, almost sounding eager. Thompson read from the list.

" General knowledge, minimum, eighty percent to pass" the pause, " failure-a dozen, cane" another shorter pause "oh" a disappointed tone "trousers up for eight; over pants for last four".

"Whose got number eight?"

"Me, Thompson". Oliver, once a fearsome rugby fullback in the first fifteen. Now he moved across the library his limp quite noticeable despite the efforts he made to conceal it. He and Brownlow passed in opposite directions; Oliver smiled as they met and took the thick cane from Brownlow. He swished it as he moved on to the front table, an effortless flick of his meaty forearm producing a loud swishing sound. He stood then at the table, leaning slightly toward it and resting one hand on it. From time to time he swished the cane.

The questions were fairly simple. Two capital cities, a couple of easy chemical formulae, a book title by Kipling, an exotic fruit, the origin of a well worn quotation, Trivial Pursuit might have been harder....and yet, was it the menace of that swishing cane or something else? Roberts managed to miss the pass mark. The others groaned out loud at his misses and smiled for him at his successes. There was no need to finish all the questions. No one in the room missed the point at which his required percentage ceased to be possible.

Least of all Roberts who immediately upon being told "wrong" for the final time necessary moved smartly into position, lowered himself across the table and grasped the far edge.

" Bottom out boy, higher, feet further apart, legs straight!" . Roberts complied with each command.

The grey trousered seat was beautifully presented. The first shot came quickly, a high swing and huge follow through and after what seemed a small delay a crack like a pistol shot! "OOOOOOOUWWWWWW!" Roberts, bucked, seemed for a moment on the point of rising, twisted his head round toward his tormentor, shock, surprise and pleading written all over his face......"I thought......" but what ever he had thought he now thought better of and settled back gripping the far table side like a man possessed. Oliver, looked down choosing the exact spot, swung and once again a huge CRACK echoed round the room. Roberts hissed out the breath that he had held and gasped in the next. The others watched in fascinated terror. At this rate he wouldn’t make it.

SWISH.............CRACK..........."Ahhhhhhhhhh oughhhhhhhhhh" Roberts now collapsed across the table, his upper body taking all his weight, his head flew up and then sank slowly back, his legs bending up from the knee almost parallel with the floor " Oh please Oliver.....please........"

But Oliver might not have heard him. Each stroke was as hard and as accurate, biting through the flannel of the trousers which proved no defence at all. Now with a deadly rhythm the work progressed and just four later Roberts, his arse exploding with fire, no longer bucked and threw up his head at each cut but stayed in position grim and determined to get through his ordeal. Like a cross country runner he had reached the threshold, the plateau and now each further cut blended with those before. The heat and the pain rising with each, but at least for now his dignity intact. Before the ninth, his trousers were released and lowered. Now, the hisses and yelps as he exhaled and inhaled gave way to agonised groans. The room around him, this audience , his whereabouts, his being, had faded from his senses there was only intense sensation, humiliation a strange defensive world of his own and nothing beyond the sounds and cruel sensations as the cane swished and bit, swished and bit over the thin tight pants. The final two were as consistent as all the others. Swish.....crack.........they hardly interrupted the choking noises that now wracked his body. At last it was done. Roberts, having lost count even before his trousers came down, stayed down. When Oliver commanded him to stand it was as if he was being woken from a dream. He barely dared to lower these mental defences, fearing somehow a trick to make him more vulnerable........and then resume...

Finally he did so. Feeling the blood return to his thrashed buttocks. Feeling new levels of pain as the shock wore off. As if just patting and straightening his trouser seat he tried to ease away the pressure of the fabric across the deep wheals he knew to be there. He shook hands as tradition requires " Thank you Oliver "he said his voice still barely a whisper, distrustful that it would betray him.

The others watched in silence as he walked back to his seat like a sleepwalker. Lowered himself cautiously onto the seat, winced as his tortured backside met the hard wood squab. Oliver, a smile playing on his face, returned the cane to the side table and returned to his seat.

Thompson, two efforts to clear his throat and find his voice..

"Number three?"

A moments silence, no reply, Thompson frowning, fearful of some silly mistake in the preparations, then

"Mine Thompson".

Fisher from the back of the room, seeming surprised somehow although each boy had known his number from the outset.

Thompson looked again at the paper "Translation Latin to English, five minutes, allowed.........failure four trousered......" a groan of protest from the room most loudly from Roberts....then four bare......." A collective ahhh seemed to signal approval. Thompson walked over to Fisher and handed him the printed text. " Time starts now, I see you have pen and paper. He returned quickly to the table and to note the time upon his watch.

Fisher read quickly through the text. A few words jumped out at him immediately and for a moment he thought he might be up to this task and escape. But a couple of vias and a piscaes weren’t proving too helpful. Even with a couple more words solved and a wild guess at the general theme it was, he knew quite hopeless, just as it had been intended to be when some wiseacre dreamt it up. Hurriedly he scribbled down his best shot at it and even as he looked at it and realised that his time was all but up, he was already preparing himself for the worst.

"Time up". Thompson looking intrigued. "Handforth, you set the beastly thing, go and look."

Handforth rose and walked over. Leaning close over Fishers shoulder he peered down at the "translation".

"Well?" from Thompson. "Well quite witty for a desperate dunce but completely wrong I am afraid". But Handforth’s voice betrayed the fact that this outcome suited him very well. He returned to his place.

"Eighteen?" Thompson looked round "yes you might look smug Handforth, you would have stood in for him if Fisher had succeeded. Handforth looked startled, he had never seen that happen. Thompson looked around him......

"Me Thompson". Welsh, tall and slim, a squash player with house ties to prove it. Fisher thought a moment of his quick reflexes and strong arms. Well accuracy wouldn’t be a problem, he thought.

They arrived by the table together. Fisher bent over it.

" No Fisher" said Welsh "over here" he indicated a clear space "you’ll touch your toes."

From the collection Welsh had selected a thinner, long, crook handled cane. Yellow with age and whippy with use. A collectors item among canes.

Fisher, a little flustered, rose from the table and made for the spot. He reached down for his ankles in a fluid movement that at once shot out his neat backside. Welsh moved behind him and made a great show of moving the sides and tail of the jacket out of the way, fussing and folding until the jacket was turned back almost half way up Fisher’s back.

"Ready boy!". It wasn’t really a question. Moving back a few long paces, Welsh seemed to pause and study the target before him. Then with a squeal and squeak of shoes upon the polished wood floor he leapt forward. It was the style he displayed when returning match winning "impossible" shots from the back wall of the squash court. Speed, balance, eye and co-ordination. Here it was even more effective. THWISHHHH..........squeal of rubber soles as he hit his mark.......follow through and......THWACK...........

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh........" despite his best plans Fisher’s head rose and the cry left him like a coyote in the wild. The pain fizzed through his backside, rose and burst upward to his brain. Hell! It hurt like fire!

Welsh returned to his starting point. Again the pause as he weighed up the target. Again the squeaking feet and CRACKKKKKKK........Fisher half way risen his face a rictus of pain. Welsh placed his hand firmly at the base of his neck and pushed him slowly and gently back down into position. Fishers hands grasped for his ankles just above the foot where there was already a pressure mark from holding on so tightly.

He stayed down for three and four. A pause. Fisher remained in position.

Then Welsh, moved behind him and guided him upright. Hands around him, he swiftly released belt, top button and fly of Fishers trousers which fell down pathetically around his ankles. Then Fisher seeming only now to remember what had to follow, pulled down the crisp white "Y" fronts himself. He touched his toes once again. Welsh again arranged the jacket out of the way. He moved away. Frowning he returned, turned Fisher a few degrees about so that his target was just as he wanted it. The firm shapely cheeks were now fully visible to the rest of the class as well. As were the four red lines neatly and closely spaced across the silky whiteness of the buttocks.

Welsh paced out his run once more and the room held it’s collective breath.

The shoes squeaked as before and Fisher tried desperately to gauge the moment of impact against the rhythm of approach. SWISHHHHHHH...............THWACK......a deeper red line formed instantly among the existing ones ....AHHHHHh....OOOOWWWW! Fisher nodded his head desperately from side to side seeming to deny what was what happening to him. Welsh returning quietly to his starting place and beginning again his deadly run up.....But perhaps the floor had been waxed or Welsh had been tiring because as he reached his stopping point he seemed, just for an instant, to loose his footing, but the action was a continuous one and couldn’t be stopped. THWISHHHHHHH......ThwacK........a groan from the room......Fisher up and jumping about clasping himself and dancing desperately from foot to foot...for a moment the room filled with disapproval at Fisher. But then he calmed. Shook his head and with resignation resumed his place. A further murmur as the blue red wheal came into view. Below the arse cheeks at the top of the thighs, horribly low by anyone’s standards even those of Pugh, the Latin master, contemptuously called "blind Pugh". Welsh looked startled then ashamed. "I say Fisher, I........" but there was nothing to be done.

Welsh couldn’t meet another eye in that room as he paced out his approach, turned and moved in. If Fisher had imagined that he might get off lightly he was mistaken. This time without mishap the squeal of braking shoe was followed as before by the SWIISSSSHHHHH......and the loudest CRACK....to date. The line crossed the earlier ones at an angle, standing out already as the brightest and producing even more vivid marking on that pale skin at each intersection of the lines. Fisher howled, slumping down almost into a crouch as he absorbed the pain. Welsh. impassive was at the start of his run again. He paused whilst Fisher regained his composure and rose back into position. The run, the squeal, the swish and THWACKKKKKK....another diagonal neatly and accurately finishing the work. Fisher clutching wildly at his arse and turning slowly toward Welsh: Welsh, his anger at his earlier mistake now worked out upon his victim, seeming to return to earth from some other place He shakes with Fisher who thanks him. He apologises for the low one but in his smile Fisher realises that he is not sincere. They return to their places.

"Five?" quizzes Thompson, looking around and then reading the task quickly to himself (this time a diabolic algebraic conundrum), before announcing it to, handsome blond Hopkins, whose turn it is to present his meaty arse........

Much later, having negotiated snow banked, slippery roads Askew was at home in his favourite chair, a scotch at his elbow. He smiled as his wife said;

"I’m so pleased that you enjoy your re-unions still and thank heavens we wives don’t have to attend. All that talk of cars and careers would bore us to tears".

Askew smiled, thinking that fifteen still attending, out of the original twenty was a pretty good count. They were all busy professionals in their middle to late thirties hardly surprising that some dropped out and two were abroad anyway and would return. Thompson was a good organiser and his country pile was made to measure. Besides, he thought, his wife was right. Some of them had almost been reduced to tears!

(Another tale from regular contributor JC of West London)