Continuing Pancake Day
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Ash Wednesday, by Paul Crewe.
In the spring of 1990 I was a tall thirteen year old, a pupil at a prep school in Middle England. Like most boys I was a "Day-boy", but there were a few kids who slept over during the week, using a large house across the road. Of the 200 pupils at school, about 10 were boarders. We boys all wore bright red blazers with the school badge on the breast pocket, and grey shorts. Our long grey socks had red tops which turned over, and had to be held up by elastic garters. Michael Wilkins was my best friend. He lived nearby and was in the same form.
In February !990 we decided to provide pancakes for our families. Michael had two younger brothers, Jeremy then aged 11 and Howard 6, and I had a little sister - Mary - who was 7. Pancake Day is always held on a Tuesday, and our parents were delighted with our services. Jeremy and Mary had each received a good slippering, with lots of stinging smacks on their legs. The next day, as we walked to school, both Michael and I stared at Jeremy's bare thighs. We were grateful that we didn't get our legs smacked any more - older children received the cane on their bottom. Jeremy came to school with us, but Mary and Howard were taken to infant school by Mrs Wilkins. Overnight his bruises had turned purple, and now Jeremy was clearly displaying numerous impressions of his mother's fingers, and each leg had a big blurred patch, which Jeremy was very conscious of. The patches itched, as I knew from bitter experience, and Jeremy would stoop occasionally to rub at them. This only drew even more attention from passing adults - all of whom wore an approving grin.
In our class was a new boy, Graham. He had been at the school for a few weeks, his family had recently moved into the area. Graham was quiet, and although we had all been kind to him he had not made many friends. Today, however he was the centre of attention. As soon as we entered the school playground we spotted him, or more accurately, the grey stain on his forehead. "What are you playing?" Michael asked. "Today is Ash Wednesday" Graham replied "and true Christians mark their foreheads with ash." This was news to us, but it sounded fun. "Where did you get the ash?" I asked. "My dad put it on for me before breakfast" Graham explained. "Cool" Michael smiled "Let's get some ash" "I know, there's a coal fireplace in the Headmaster's office" "How do we get in?" Michael snapped "No, too risky, let's try the science lab" "There's no fireplace in there" I said as I gave Michael a shove. "True, but we can burn some paper" "No need" I realised "Those pans we used to boil water had loads of soot on them" "Soot is black" Michael shoved me back "We want grey ash" "We could burn one of those splints to make ash" I suggested "The science lab is out of bounds" Graham announced. "We know that" I grinned "But we have to get caught first" And so three boys raced to the main entrance of the school. "What do you want?" asked the prefect. "Need the toilet" Michael muttered as he pushed past the boy who was guarding the door. "What about you?" asked the ruffled prefect. "I need to go, too" I answered as Michael disappeared down the corridor. "You can wait until he comes out" ruled the prefect. There was no way round this, if we pushed past the prefect he would tell on us. Miserably Graham and I walked along the wall of the school building, waiting for Michael to return. "Will he go in alone?" Graham wondered. "No, too risky, and no fun" I considered. Michael did return to us within a minute. "The science room door was locked" he declared. Graham and I looked at each other. This was probably a lie by Michael, but it enabled us to all concede defeat without losing face. "Let's try the kitchens" said Graham "they might have some ash in the dustbins" "The gardener!" I suddenly yelled "He burnt all those leaves last autumn. There must be some trace of the bonfire" The three pilgrims set off again, this time heading for the gardener's yard, another fascinating place, again out of bounds to schoolboys. By now the school yard was packed with boys, all identically clad in red blazers and grey shorts. Most were running around after balls or stood talking in small groups. A few were wrestling and tugging each other. The runners & wrestlers had more sagging socks than the gossips, but in the cold February air, socks were quickly pulled up. The gardener's yard was an enclosed area created by the rear of the school, several garages, and a high wall. There was only one way in, a big gate at the end of a muddy driveway. The bonfire site was a patch of bare ground outside the gate, along the drive. We paddled through the mud and reached our destination. "Excellent" called Michael, as he kicked the wet black surface to reveal dry grey ash. I kicked a patch too, and found a handful of ash. Graham stood on the driveway, keeping watch I thought. Good man. Brrrr Brrrr Brrrr. The school bell sounded. At the front of school 200 boys lined up in form groups. "Quick, rub some on" I said, grabbing a handful. "We will be late for registration" Graham wailed. "Not if we go in through the back door" Michael observed, as he rubbed his forehead. So the three pals charged up the lane, and shot in through the open rear door. As he ran I glanced into an open door on the left, and saw the cook hard at work. She was not looking in our direction. At the end of this forbidden passageway was a door onto the main corridor, and we joined the procession of pupils marching obediently to their form-rooms.
"Michael, Paul, what have you been up to?" asked Miss Hanson, our form teacher. "What do you mean, Miss?" enquired the innocent Michael. "Your face is filthy" "It's ash, Miss" Michael proudly explained, "It is Ash Wednesday" "Suddenly found religion, have you?" "Yes Miss, I was confirmed last year" This was true, most boys of our age had attended confirmation classes on Sundays for weeks, and were now eligible to receive the sacraments. "Oh, I see" she backed down. "Take your seats for registration." Three boys with huge grins proudly walked through the stunned form.
Our desks were old-fashioned, two metal frames separated by wooden panels, Victorian. The seat was part of the desk. They were hinged and spring-loaded, and rose up as the boy stood. He had to put an arm behind him to lower it when he sat down. Each desk had two little castors on the front, and they could be wheeled around the room. Most of the time they were arranged in neat rows, five lines of four, every boy able to get out either side, except the kids next to the walls. The teacher could walk up and down, cross the room at the back, and creep up on you with no warning. Many a boy had been dragged to his feet by a sharp tug on an ear, pushed over his lid whilst the seat sprung out of the way, and soundly smacked with a slipper on his surprised shorts. Explanations followed, if none had been given during the spanking. SMACK "Don't" SMACK "drop" SMACK "Pencil" SMACK "Shavings" SMACK "on" SMACK "the" SMACK "floor" SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. "Sit"
Just as we reached our seats the door flew open. We sat. The cook appeared, red-faced, 240 pounds of fuming human bulk. "Those boys" she scowled "They paddled all that mud through my passageway"
"Which boys?" asked Miss Hanson.
"The ones who ran in through the back door" squealed the cook "They've made a trail of filthy footprints right up to this door."
"Boys" Miss Hanson looked at the silent class of 20 identically clad young men "Did any of you come in through the back door?"
Silence prevailed.
"Boys," she tried again "stand up if you came in through the back door today"
Nobody moved. Our code dictated that once caught we own up and take our punishment. But we were not caught yet. Only the crime had been detected, not the culprits.
"I'll find them" announced the cook "Their shoes will point them out"
I looked at my shoes. There was black ash and brown mud on the sides of both heels. I stood up. Michael instantly followed. Graham did not.
"Well Paul, explain" Miss Hanson demanded. Her voice indicating the anger at (a) the crime (b) the delay in confession (c) the upstaging by the cook.
"We needed some ash" my voice trembled. I knew what was coming.
"The bell rang, and we would have been late for registration" Michael tried to soften the blow. Ha, more like blows.
"Thank you, cook, I will deal with this" Miss Hanson attempted to regain her authority.
"Who's going to clean my floor?" the cook was milking the situation.
"These two will be along in a minute, could you go and get mops ready" Miss Hanson won.
"I'll wait for them, if you don't mind, wouldn't want them to get lost, and the kitchen is out of bounds to unsupervised boys." Oh God, cook wants to watch us get it.
"Yes, of course" Miss Hanson conceded that point, and determined to take out her frustrations on us.
"Come out here" She said, coldly. Michael and I walked to the front of the class. Being out of bounds is dealt with at form-teacher level. Going off-site is more serious, and the Headteacher would be involved.
"Well, seeing as you wish to display your faith to the world, I think it appropriate to display the effect of your convictions" Miss Hanson was good with words. The double meaning of convictions was clear to us. "The bible tells adults not to spare the rod" Miss Hanson had me worried "And today you need to show everyone that you follow the bible's teaching" I didn't like where this was leading "So I shall cane you, four strokes on the backs of your legs"
"Oh God, No Miss, please, Not that" We both screamed, tears flowing already. "Hang up your blazers" Miss Hanson demanded. Cook stood by the door, arms folded, smug grin on her plump face. Teachers at our school have realised that kids carry pens in their blazers. When bending over for the cane, the pens drop out. So every classroom has several coat-hooks, just for the soon-to-be-punished pupils to hang up their blazers. Michael & I were not ready to be punished yet, at least, not with the most hated punishment in the school arsenal. Most minor classroom incidents only get a slippering. Up to four slaps over grey shorts, it is hot, noisy, effective. Boys accept it grudgingly because we respect the rules even though we've broken them. A smack restores order, ends the incident. More serious matters get the cane. The cane is a fearsome weapon. When given over grey shorts it bites, stings, heats our poor bottoms causing hot stripes and itchy bruises. The sting is much worse when the headteacher lowers our uniform shorts and plain white underwear to swish our bare bums. But only the Head can make us strip. Class teachers have an alternative target, our defenceless legs. The thighs are not as muscular as the buttocks, and the cane digs in deeper. The bruises last longer, and it stings much more, probably due to the constricted skin. It is February, and icy, and our exposed parts have withdrawn as much blood as possible to retain heat. The skin is very sensitive when chilled. And the worst part, the whole world can see the results. Other teachers grin, kids taunt, and parents add. A caning in school often means a spanking at home, parents support the school.
"Please Miss, do it on our shorts" I tried again, crying openly. "Miss, please, it's not fair" Michael sobbed. "Why not?" Miss Hanson had to check. It did not delay her in collecting the cane from it's hook by the blackboard. Michael glanced at Graham, still sitting angelic at his desk. "It wasn't that serious" Michael was taking a risk "We didn't mean any harm" "I know we shouldn't have come in that way" Maybe this would work, I thought "And we do deserve punishment. But not on our legs" I leaned forward, and clutched at my thighs to simulate pain. Miss Hanson was not budging. "Bend over now, or I'll make it six each" She raised the cane high above her right shoulder. One final gambit "Couldn't you send us to the Head?" I asked. The ultimate sanction. We knew that a trip to the Head would mean shorts down for the cane. SWISH "OWWWWW" SWISH "ARRRRRHHH" Miss Hanson didn't bother to speak. Her reply was a sharp swipe of the cane across the side of my left thigh, then a back-handed swish across Michael's right one. A nice movement, the cook, smiled, as Miss twisted her body in graceful, powerful, scything action. We hung up our blazers. Both of us pulled our shorts up our waists as high as possible, now resigned to the caning, we might escape some shame if the marks were high enough to be hidden by our shorts when we stood up. And we were wearing our winter length shorts, 6 inch leg, reaching half-way down the thighs. We rolled the hems up, to expose more leg for smacking, inviting Miss to aim for the fleshier upper parts. The white inner lining of our shorts appeared as we rolled, and when completed we looked utterly ridiculous - two thirteen year old boys wearing grey pullovers and grey shorts, with the legs rolled up as if we were about to go paddling in a deep stream. Not for us the cool flow of mountain spring water to take away the sweat of a summer's day, and cleanse the grassy stains from our tender skin. No, for us it was the horrid length of vicious rattan, the screaming bite of hurtful rod to scorch the skin and cleanse our souls. "Bend over my desk, side by side" Miss Hanson ordered. We complied in tearful silence.
Seventeen pairs of thirteen year old eyes stared at our neatly presented bottoms. Short pants are so smart when stretched over a tightly bent bottom. The ironed seams radiate from the centre of the waistband, and travel in two crisp lines to the hem, which was now rolled up by this penitent posture. Far below was the curve of our knees, and the tightly stretched stocking with it's bulky turn-over and elegant red top. In between was an expanse of slightly sun-tanned white skin. Even in the winter our legs retained some colour. Mostly white, but a hint of brown, and some blue due to the cold. Now, an angry red stripe was creeping round from my left flank, threatening to overwhelm the terrified skin. One pair of eyes was not staring. Graham was sure to be looking at the floor. His place was here, next to us, taking his share. We hated him for that, at this moment I wanted to scream out that he was guilty as well, perhaps Miss would let us off, and only thrash him? Fat chance. I held my tongue as tightly as I held the far edge of the desk. Graham would get his later. SWISH "Ow. OW. OWWWW" My first cut arrived with no advance warning. God it hurts worse than I thought, more than I remembered. Thankfully it was high, almost on the edge of the hitched shorts. SWISH. Did she miss, or was that for Michael. "OWWWW" Michael answered my unspoken question. It is amazing how time becomes extended when one is being caned. Each second seems to be an eternity. The mind races, the moment is recorded in fantastic detail. SWISH "OOOOOH" Nothing minute about that stroke. This sure stings, I thought, almost surreal. Another high cut, slightly lower than the first, maybe, but out of sight. Not bad. Then the pain came in force. Very bad. SWISH "Ouch" Michael was suffering as much as I was. Both of us were crying openly. Tears were normally extracted only as a last resort in school. Never when slippered, only by weaklings when caned in class. But this was different. None of our classmates would mind tears for this. They understood the difference. SWISH SWISH "Ow" "Ow" Miss was enjoying this. She sliced us across the lower thighs, just above the knee. Pain was joined by sadness. Miss had led us on, teasing us by caning high, only to devastate us with a low cut. No way to hide that, and right on the tendons, it would hurt when we walked. It hurt now. "Please, no" I wept. SWISH SWISH "Ouch" I sobbed. "Ouch" Michael sobbed. The last two strokes were also cruelly low, about two inches above the knee, clear to all who wanted to see. And there were plenty who would want to see. Still, it was finally over. We just had to wait for the order to get up. SWISH SWISH "Miss, Miss, you said four!" we both screamed, turning to look at her in painful cheated surprise. "That was before you chose to argue with me" Miss was still angry "Then I said Six" "But we've now had six" I counted the sideways swipe. "No, one to go" Miss corrected. She was right, as strokes are only valid if given whilst bending over. That swipe was not a proper stroke, it was just to get us moving. We have to demonstrate that we accept the penalty by bending over. SWISH "Owwwwwww" I can't take any more, and leap off the desk, dancing around the room, clutching my stinging thighs. To the watching class I must look like the hunched Rumplestiltskin, dancing round his fire in the forest. But my fire follows me, burning my legs and torturing my steps. No princess would hear of my song, a song of little smacked boy. On and on the dance progressed, fingers kneading one leg and then the other, hopping from foot to foot, mucus dripping from my nose, mixing with the tears, and making drips on the polished wooden floor. Amidst the wailing a voice speaks, but I know not what it says.
When I calmed sufficiently to focus my eyes, Michael has also been on the war-dance. He is now collapsed by the window, curled in a foetal position, holding his legs and weeping. His last stroke must have been delivered as I pranced, but I didn't register it. The door opened. "I've cleaned the floor, ma'am" stated the kitchen assistant, holding a mop handle and pulling a yellow bucket on castors. "Well, that looks like the end of that, then." Cook declared as she walked out. I wished it was the end. My legs were stinging, and the marks would take days to fade. I rolled my shorts down, and felt the weals below the hem. Three were easily visible, and one was questionable. The cuts on the left leg were higher than those on the right, Miss had delivered them at something of an angle, and the tip of the cane had caught me on two of the strokes. "You moved." Miss was not giving any quarter. "Sorry Miss" we both muttered. "Stand in the corner until after registration" Thank God for that. She could have repeated the last stroke, even added two more. We shot into our corners. Hands on head, grey pullovers rising up to reveal white vest and grey shirts out of position - they should be tucked into shorts at all times. The dancing around had ruffled our clothing. One of my socks was slowly descending, and my tie was tugged up. The white painted wall was a comfort, I could feel the throbbing in my legs as the blood flowed round, inspecting the damage from the inside. Seventeen pairs of eyes inspected it from the outside. One pair took a glance. Graham had mixed thoughts, I was sure. The register was called. An unnecessary act, as all twenty of us were here, but a ritual never missed. The form teacher spoke our name, the boy rose to his feet, answered "Yes, Miss" and waited for a nod before sitting down.
Michael and I answered from our corners. When Graham's name was called, we both turned our heads slightly, just enough to throw an angry glare. The gesture was not wasted on the seventeen innocents.
After registration we filed out to assembly. Strict silence in the corridor, and then sit cross-legged on the hall floor. Oh God, cross legged. Having retrieved our blazers and tucked in our shirts, Michael & I were allowed to join the end of the line, not in our normal alphabetical order, but in the rear, in disgrace. Our class was last in, and we were last in line. All the other teachers and children watched our procession to the back of the room. Most noticed our freshly whipped thighs and tear-stained faces. Some heard the pained mutterings as we sat down.
Assembly dragged on. Stand up for the Head to come in, sit down for his welcome speech. Stand up to sing the hymn, sit for announcements, stand up when the Head leaves, then file out to our first lesson. This was unpleasant at the best of times, there was never enough room on the floor, and kids would be squashed up, tread on your fingers or toes, or lean on you. Today was agony, the stripes on the back of my legs throbbed constantly, the ones on the back of my knees hurt most, especially when I had to rise. And every kid in the hall trying to catch a glimpse. I used my hanky to clean my face as best I could.
Today we went back to our own room, for an hour of Maths. 60 minutes of unpleasant work, when all we wanted was to get out, rub our legs, and throttle Graham. Finally 10:30 arrived, and playtime began.
Graham was waiting for us at the bottom of the steps. "Are you alright?" he asked. "Why didn't you own up?" Michael snarled "She never looked at me" Graham looked surprised. "But you were with us" I felt my temper rising. "So" "So you should have owned up" Michael was also getting short. "Why?" Graham seemed genuinely puzzled "I never kicked the ashes." "But you walked up the drive, and stood in the mud" I snapped. "And you came in the back door." Michael reminded him. "And at THIS school, we don't let our friends carry the can for us" I boasted. "OK, sorry guys." Graham looked down. "Next time, I'll own up." "We're not done with this time, pal" Michael stared at Graham. "But it's over, surely she isn't going to cane you any more?" "True, but you've got yours coming" I observed. "No way, I can't own up now, she'll kill me" "If she doesn't, we will" Michael was serious. "I can't, I've never been caned, not even on the hand. That beating would destroy me." Graham began to cry. "Up to you, mate" I snarled "either you get six cuts today, or we get you tonight." "And if we have to sort you out, every kid in the school will learn what a coward you are, and you'll have no friends here at all" Michael added.
Brrrr, Brrrr, Brrrr. The bell rang to end playtime, and 200 boys lined up for second lesson.
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To be Continued in Graham's dare. Your thoughts are welcomed.