'I'm afraid that I can see no alternative to expulsion, headmaster - and the boy's housemaster agrees with me on this.' George Fairbrother, the assistant headmaster of St Anselm's public school sighed as he said those words. He greatly regretted to see any pupil expelled, yet alone an intelligent boy who was due to take his A Levels in a year's time and was expected to take up a place at Oxford.
Dr Kitson, a tall greyhaired man in his mid-fifties who looked every inch a public school headmaster, looked up from the housemaster's report concerning the boy's offences which he had been studying intently for the past ten minutes. 'I must admit, this is a very serious case,' he said. 'It's bad enough to creep into the house studies during the lunch-hour on the lookout for money to steal - but to use that stolen cash to bet on racehorses makes the crime even worse. I can't imagine what came over young Trumpington.'
'I can only offer the thought that Simon Trumpington may have become addicted to gambling,' said Mr Fairbrother. 'It seems that he had been frequenting the betting shop in the town for some time and had gambled away the whole of his termly allowance from his parents. Hence his pilfering.'
'I know for a fact that Trumpington is now extremely contrite,' said the headmaster. 'He has offered to pay back the money stolen from his next term's allowance and accept any punishment I care to give him.'
'I don't imagine the boy expects expulsion to be among those possible punishments,' interjected Mr Fairbrother. 'Yet any other sanction is quite inadequate for such a serious offence. Opinion in the staff room is quite united on this.'
'The boy's whole future will be jeopardised, you know,' said the headmaster. 'If only there was some other way to deal with him. When I first took up this post twenty years ago, I suppose I would have been expected to flog a boy for such an offence. I've been perusing the punishment records and I see that it's eighteen and a half years since I last wielded the birch. On that occasion I flogged two fifth-formers for the offence of extortion.'
'Extortion?' said the assistant headmaster, a quizzical look on his face. He had only been on the staff of St Anselm's for three years and had no knowledge of the once notorious 'protection racket' case of nearly two decades before.
'Jarrold and Farringdon, two hefty rugger players, were terrorising some of the younger boys and extorting cash from them. It was a case of pay up or be beaten up. Flogging was a very salutary punishment in their case. It took them down a peg or two and I think the humiliation was even worse than the pain as far as those two arrogant bullies were concerned. I've not flogged anyone since then, although the punishment is still on the statute book as it were. I regard the cane as more than adequate for the general run of offences - although I don't use that instrument as frequently as in the past.'
'Our St Anselm's pupils certainly consider you to be an expert practitioner with the cane,' said Mr Fairbrother, smiling. 'However, it's a revelation to hear that you are also adept with the birchrod.'
'As I said, a flogging has not been ordered for some eighteen and a half years. And I very much doubt that the birch will ever be used again at St Anselm's. Floggings really belong back in the Victorian age.'
'I'm sure you're right, headmaster. But if Simon Trumpington was offered the choice of expulsion or a flogging, perhaps he would willingly accept the latter,' said Mr Fairbrother with a twinkle in his eye. 'I should so hate to see his future blighted over what may well be a temporary aberration...'
Dr Kitson leant back in his chair, deep in thought. He was not relishing the prospect of expelling the schoolboy thief; yet on the other hand a mere caning (of which Trumpington had received more than his fair share in the past) seemed to be quite inadequate considering the gravity of the offence.
'Alright George, you win. If Trumpington is prepared to take a flogging, along with being gated for the remainder of the term, he can remain at St Anselm's. It will be his own choice. Would you please ask his housemaster to inform the boy of my decision. And could you also ask the groundsman to pop in and see me?'
* * *
'A flogging sir?' said Simon Trumpington, involuntarily blushing. 'Would I have to take my trousers down?'
'So I am led to believe,' said the boy's housemaster, Mr Gathercole. 'You will also be gated for the rest of term and will of course be expected to pay back the monies you purloined.'
'And Dr Kitson says that if I don't accept a flogging I shall be thrown out the school?'
'You will be packing your bags and returning home this week, Trumpington. I imagine your parents will receive quite a shock when you turn up a month before the end of term.'
Simon Trumpington stood staring dejectedly at the polished wooden floor of Mr Gathercole's study. 'I feel so ashamed of myself, sir,' he said. 'I know it's wrong to steal, but it's even worse stealing from my classmates. Perhaps I do deserve to be flogged. But I'm afraid it may hurt too much...'
'Come, come Simon,' purred Mr Gathercole in a fatherly tone. 'You've been caned by Dr Kitson in the past. You survived the ordeal, didn't you? I'm sure the birch is no worse than the cane.'
'Will you be there to see my punishment sir?' said Simon, still looking extremely worried.
'I'm sure Dr Kitson will want me to attend as a witness, together with the assistant headmaster. Try to be a brave boy and face up to it like a man. You've done wrong and must pay the price. But afterwards the slate will be wiped clean and you can make a fresh start. You can concentrate on getting good marks in your A Levels - I'm sure you've got a great future ahead of you.'
'Yes sir - you're right sir. Please tell the headmaster that I will take a flogging as ordered.'
* * *
Ernest Dane, the school groundsman, had been in the employ of St Anselm's even longer than the headmaster. However, when he received word that he was to prepare a couple of fresh birchrods to the 'school specification' the grizzled artisan was somewhat taken aback. He had not been called upon to fashion a birch for nearly twenty years and he had to search his memory to recall just what the school specification for such an instrument was.
When Ernest Dane had started work at St Anselm's, more than forty years ago, the then head groundsman had been required to make up birches several times a term. A grove of saplings in a distant corner of the grounds supplied the raw material and Ernest Dane had learnt the art of choosing the most pliant young branches and fashioning them into a lethal rod from a man who had learnt it in turn from his own superior many years earlier.
Sucking at his pipe, Ernest Dane strolled over to the birch grove secateurs in hand and cut a supply of suitable branches. As he set to work stripping away the leaves, he found himself wondering why he was having to perform this arcane task, for surely the cane had long superseded the birch at St Anselm's. Perhaps these birchrods were intended as exhibits in the long planned school museum, in which case he resolved to make a good job of them.
* * *
Dr Kitson had suddenly realised that although the birch had not actually been abolished at St Anselm's the original Victorian 'birching block' had long ago been disposed of. The ancient wooden assemblage had been in poor condition when last used eighteen and a half years before, and had since been consigned to a November the Fifth bonfire. He therefore decided that it would be best if the flogging took place in the gymnasium, where a vaulting horse could substitute for the block.
The groundsman had prepared two excellent four-foot long birchrods, each with a taped handle and wide spray of twiggy branches at the business end. Dr Kitson placed the rods in a bucket of tepid water to ensure that the implements maintained their suppleness and did not dry out before the 'execution'. This event was scheduled for that same evening, in the interval between the end of afternoon lessons and the first sitting of tea, when St Anselm's pupils engaged themselves in hobbies and recreation.
Simon Trumpington had been feeling increasingly nervous in the hours since he had agreed to accept a flogging. At the time this had appeared to be a much better option than expulsion, but now he wasn't so sure. 'Flogging' - why, the word sounded like a term out of Nelson's navy, to be mentioned in the same breath as 'keelhauling' and 'hanging at the yard arm.' He knew that he would have to bare his backside for the punishment, but he had no idea of the size of the birch, of how many strokes he was to receive, or how much it would hurt. At least a caning was a known quantity, with the offender being permitted the dignity of his trousers.
Simon found it very difficult to concentrate on his lessons that afternoon and was upbraided several times by masters for his inattention. When the bell rang for the end of school the boy felt his knees turning to jelly as he made his miserable way to the gymnasium. A prefect had been stationed at the double doors, to warn off any curious spectators, and Simon saw that a compact vaulting horse had been set out in the centre of the floor. A tall metal bucket had been placed alongside this apparatus, holding what appeared to be two large bundles of branches.
Mr Fairbrother, the assistant headmaster, and Mr Gathercole, Simon's housemaster, were ready and waiting, although the headmaster was nowhere to be seen. 'I'm afraid Dr Kitson has been delayed, Trumpington,' said the housemaster. 'However, he should be along soon. You may wish to remove your blazer and trousers in the meantime.'
Blushing with embarrassment, Simon took of his blazer and then began fumbling with the belt of his grey flannel trousers. He could not stop his eyes gravitating towards the sturdy leather- covered vaulting horse and the tall bucket with its peculiar contents. He carefully folded his trousers and placed the garment in a neat heap on the floor with his blazer. The chill air in the high-ceilinged gymnasium wafted about his bare legs and he felt lost and vulnerable as he awaited the arrival of the headmaster.
Suddenly the double doors swung open and Dr Kitson arrived in the full panoply of a public school headmaster, complete with hooded academic gown and mortar board. 'Let us commence proceedings, gentlemen! Trumpington, remove your underpants and then position yourself across the horse. Mr Fairbrother and Mr Gathercole, please take a firm grip on Trumpington's wrists and ankles.'
'They don't have to hold me sir,' said Simon. 'I won't give you any trouble.'
'You'd best let me be the judge of that, Trumpington,' said the headmaster, sternly. Once the schoolboy was stretched across the heavy vaulting horse, his wrists and ankles securely held and his shirt tail tucked out of the way to reveal the creamy flesh of his well-rounded backside, Dr Kitson pronounced sentence.
'You are guilty of gross dishonesty, Trumpington. You also went out of bounds to a betting shop. You must consider yourself extremely lucky not to have been expelled. I shall now give you twelve cuts of the birchrod.'
Simon Trumpington gritted his teeth as he awaited the first stroke and attempted to console himself. Twelve did not sound too bad - he had suffered nine strokes of the cane on one occasion and not even shed a tear. There was the sound of dripping water from the bucket as the headmaster pulled out a glistening four-foot birchrod. He walked away from the vaulting horse to shake off the excess moisture and then took up position directly behind the now visibly trembling schoolboy.
Dr Kitson noted that Trumpington possessed almost translucently white skin almost and mused to himself that following eight cuts of the birch this whiteness would become an angry scarlet. . 'He'll certainly have some impressive stripes to display in the showers after games,' thought Dr Kitson as he lifted the birch for the first cut.
Simon Trumpington heard a whooshing noise, followed by a splattering sound as the wide spray of twiggy birch branches lashed down hard across both of his bum cheeks. At first he felt a sense of relief: these flimsy twigs did not sting nearly as painfully as a cane would across the bare flesh. On the other hand, the birch covered a much larger area and after five more strokes had been delivered Simon began to think that he might have preferred the cane after all. With each cut the stinging pain grew in intensity - a pain that now blazed across the entire area of his buttocks with an incandescent heat.
Dr Kitson threw down birch number one and took hold of the second rod. The great disadvantage of the birch was the way that small pieces of twig broke off on impact and flew about the room - one reason why it was wise to keep a fresh rod in reserve. On the other hand, it had to be admitted that flogging was a very salutary punishment. Quite apart from the pain, there was a degree of humiliation involved for a boy in having to take down his trousers and underpants and offer his bare bottom for chastisement.
The first half dozen cuts had made quite an impression on Trumpington's ivory-white flesh, turning it a fierce red. The headmaster had heard the boy grunt and then start to sob as the flogging progressed, and he complimented himself upon his wisdom in appointing two 'holders-down'. 'WHOOSH-SPLAT!' For the seventh time the birch twigs descended upon Simon Trumpington's now extremely tender backside. His buttocks felt as though they had caught fire and he began to struggle against the strong adult hands that were gripping his wrists and ankles. 'WHOOSH-SPLAT! WHOOSH-SPLAT!' The burning pain was now almost beyond endurance and Simon ceased struggling and began to weep uncontrollably, the salty tears rolling down his face and falling onto the polished wooden floor of the gymnasium.
This boy needs to learn that crime does not pay, the headmaster thought to himself, and did not spare the rod as thrice more the ominous sound of sharp twigs biting into schoolboy flesh echoed about the gymnasium. A dozen hefty cuts from the big four-foot birchrods had left the wretched schoolboy's backside in a very sorry state. The whole area of his seat and the tops of his thighs were glowing a fiery red and the injured flesh was festooned with myriad tiny bruises from the prickly birch twigs. There were also several glistening spots of blood where the surface of the skin had been broken.
Simon felt a little giddy as he rose from the horse, dried his tearstained eyes and began to dress. The pain of the flogging had been terrible and his backside still felt extremely sore, but all in all he was glad that he had come through the ordeal and been spared the ignominy of expulsion.
The schoolboy was still feeling sharp twinges of pain from his injured backside as he hobbled into the dining hall for tea. He joined a group of his classmates at one of the long refectory tables, grimacing as his well-flogged backside made contact with the hard wood of the benchseat. Although he was not aware of the fact, Simon Trumpington would go down in history as the last boy to be flogged at St Anselm's.