I had been living at the orphanage for several years when I learned that a family had decided to adopt me. I was 8 years old at the time and was overjoyed at the prospect of living in a private house, with parents and siblings.
When the day came that I was to be collected, I stood, anxiously twisting my little cap, worrying that my prospective parents had changed their minds. My eyes grew large when I saw a long, black car roll up in front of the main building, a driver emerged and rushed to open the passenger door. A tall, heavy-set man emerged and briskly strode up the stairs towards where Mr. Roberts, the Director, and I stood waiting
"Ah, Dr. Harris," the Director exclaimed, "good morning. Young Patrick is ready and anxious to join your family. Arent you, Patrick?" His heavy hand slapped me hard across the back.
"Yes, sir," I gulped, looking up at the imposing figure of my new father.
"Well, then, come along," Dr. Harris snapped curtly. He unceremoniously gripped my ear, exchanged a few last words with the Director, and then marched me towards the car. The driver opened the car door and my new father propelled me into the back seat with a powerful slap across my bottom. Then he came in and sat next to me.
"Very well, Charles," he said to the driver, a young, dark-skinned man in a grey uniform, "lets take this rascal home." The driver chuckled, started the engine and sped off.
I sat on the soft leather and admired the cars interior. The leather seat was so smooth it caressed my bare thighs most deliciously. I shifted back and forth to increase that feeling when Dr. Harris said "Stop wriggling, boy," and slapped me hard across each thigh. I looked down and saw clear, red imprints of his hand on each thigh and started to cry.
"Stop that noise, you stupid child," Dr. Harris shouted at me. "Just wait until we get you home. I will give you reason to bawl." Two more hard slaps accompanied these words.
It was not the beginning I had envisioned. But gradually my curiosity took hold of me again. We drove along a gravel driveway and arrived at the main entrance of a large mansion. It was a spectacular house. I stood and stared, then looked about to see vast areas of lawn and gardens. But I did not have much time to take it all in; I was pushed roughly up the stairs and into the house.
"Robert! James!" my new father called and after a moment two boys came rushing down some stairs. "Boys, I want you to meet your new brother. As you know he is an orphan so you will have to be patient with him. He probably cant read or write and his behaviour, from what I have seen so far, is atrocious. Maybe you can help me with his education."
Robert appeared to be 14 or 15 years old, James probably around 17. They stood and grinned at me.
"What a scrawny little runt," James laughed. "And look at his clothes!"
I wore the usual orphanage uniform of grey short-sleeved shirt and grey shorts, grey stockings and black espadrilles. I didnt see anything wrong with any of it.
"Hes outgrown his little shorts when he was 5, it seems," Robert grinned.
Both Robert and James wore neat, blue long trousers and a yellow jersey over white dress shirts. They looked very elegant.
"Never mind his clothes," their father said with a smile. "These are the clothes orphans normally wear and young Patrick will continue wearing them until he has accommodated his behaviour to our standards." Then he turned to me.
"Patrick, you will go upstairs with Robert and James. They will show you your room and give you instructions as to your duties while in this house. Follow their instructions closely because I dont want to hear any complaints from them. If I do, you will be punished. Is that understood?"
"Y-yes, sir," I mumbled, somewhat overwhelmed by these developments.
As we walked upstairs, I ventured a question. "Where is your mother?"
James stopped, turned to me and slapped my face so hard I thought I would tumble back down the stairs. "Dont you dare ask stupid questions," he shouted at me. "We dont talk about her."
My face burned when we reached the third floor. But when James had walked ahead and was out of earshot, Robert moved close to me and whispered in my ear, "She ran away and left us. So father and James dont like to be reminded of her. I suggest you dont mention her any more."
"Well, come one," James urged as he opened the door to a room at the far end of the hall. "This is your room, orphan boy. Better get used to it. Youll be spending quite some time in here."
It was a small, dark room with a tiny window high up on the wall. A low cot, a small wooden desk and bench and a chest of drawers were the only furniture.
"Youre going to stay in here until we call you," James said smartly. "Ill leave you a textbook my father says you should study. Well be back in an hour and see what you have accomplished. Just wait until you miss a word or a spelling. You have no idea how hard our father deals with lazy boys your age."
Robert gave me a knowing wink and made a slashing gesture with the flat of his hand. I wondered what that meant, but imagined it was nothing good. I opened the textbook I had been given and started to read. It was an English grammar with funny-looking diagrams. I had never seen these before and tried to figure out their meaning. After the mornings excitement my eyes quickly glazed over and I stretched out on the cot.
A sharp pain on my leg woke me up. I sat up, at first bewildered as to where I was, then looked up at the tall figure of my "father." He just raised his hand to slap my legs again when I quickly jumped up.
"You lazy brat!" he snarled at me. "You were told to study for one hour and what do you do? You go to sleep. But wait, I have something here that is guaranteed to keep you awake." He left me standing on shaky legs with burning thighs, but returned very soon holding an impressive-looking cane. He stopped in front of me, holding the cane under my nose.
"You will now take down your shorts and kneel on your bed, knees apart, head down. You will get 8 strokes and I hope they will teach you to obey orders in the future."
I stood there for a moment but he slapped me hard across the face and I quickly unbuttoned and pushed down my shorts exposing my bare bottom to the mans gaze. Then I assumed the position on my bed as he had indicated. I felt foolish and embarrassed in front of this stranger who was now going to whip me with that awful-looking cane.
But the pain the cane produced was much worse. Not that we had never experienced a canes bite at the orphanage, on the contrary, it had been an almost daily experience, but it never was as excruciating as this one. Each stroke was laid on low down where buttock joined thigh and the accumulation of welts in that restricted area became more and more unbearable. I screamed at each stroke but my father simply ignored this.
After 4 or 5 terrible slashers, I rolled over and lay sideways on the cot, knees draw up and holding my burning behind.
"You will have to learn to maintain your punishment position," Dr. Harris, or rather "father," said casually. "Now we will start from number one and I suggest you take them properly. Now get back and kneel the way you were told, stupid boy."
I struggled up and knelt again, my flaming bottom invitingly stretched towards the man with the cane. From then on, my screams became louder and louder until I was roaring in agony. After 3 more strokes, my father called James from downstairs to join us.
"James, please hold this scamp in place. He howls and carries on, his bottom sways back and forth and I cant land the cane properly."
The older lad complied willingly, stood by my head and grasped me by the waist. "You will start again?" he asked with a laugh.
"Hes had 7 strokes already," my father explained, "because I had to restart the caning once before. So I will be lenient with the child just this once and just give him another 5. We will see how he behaves later in the day. If necessary, you can always give him a few extra. It wont do to be too soft on him."
So I received further 5 hot, stinging cuts across the lower buttocks and I was close to fainting. When it was over they let me up and I stood, shorts around my ankles, blubbering like a five-year-old. And I was almost twelve! I was so ashamed I couldnt look up at their faces as father and son stood inspecting me.
"Pull up your shorts and get back to work."