At the age of 12 I was sent to St Barnabas Boarding School for Boys. A family bereavement meant starting a week later than the other lads. By then, friendships and alliances had well and truly been forged. I felt very much the outsider.
Shipman was the Head Boy. 18 years old, built like an ox and captain of the rugby first XV. His study was beside the junior dormitory. The housemaster left the day to day routine to Shipman. On my third morning the Head Boy declared that my bed had not been made properly. He took me into his study. I had to bend over and grab hold of a radiator pipe. He then administered one stroke of the cane to my pyjama covered rump. It stung like crazy for a minute or more before subsiding into a warm, glowing sensation. Shipman used a thin malacca cane. It left a pink welt on tender flesh.
Small for my age, I was constantly bullied. I also had to cope with homesickness, the death of a much loved grandparent, and the onset of puberty.
During my second week at that spartan place Perkins sent for me. Without waiting to be told, I bent over and gripped that water pipe. My stomach churning.
"You duffer!", the Head Boy laughed gently as he gently pulled me upright and steered me into a chair. "I don't want to beat you, we just need to have a talk".
Shipman knew I was being bullied and asked for the names of the boys responsible. I slowly shook my head. Schoolboy honour was all-important, to 'sneak' unforgiveable. Shipman observed that I had taken a beating well unlike the bullies he had to deal with. Those were the first words of praise I had received since arriving at St Barnabas and I felt a new warmth. Just for a moment I stopped feeling scared. Then Shipman suggested a plan of action. Reluctantly I agreed to it and immediately felt fearful again.
The next morning I was in the midst of a scrum of small boys on our way back from the bathrooms. Shipman was standing in the doorway to the dorm. The look on his face bode trouble. The boys stopped chattering and stood looking up at him.
"I have just checked your lockers", Shipman said ominously, "And LOOK what I found in one loathsome boy's locker". With a flourish he produced a half empty packet of Capstan cigarettes and a box of matches.
"Will the boy responsible step forward or do I have to beat the lot of you?" There was a general shuffling of small feet but then a sigh of surprise and relief when I took two paces forward.
"Boy!" Shipman said grimly, "Come with me!"
He took me into his study and left the door slightly open so proceedings would be audible to the eavesdroppers.
"Undo the cord and drop those pjs, the Head Boy bellowed. "I want to be sure you feel this". I did as he commanded , then bent over and clutched the pipe. Shipman stuffed his none too clean handkerchief into my mouth and whispered "Bite hard on this". The butterflies in my tummy were in full flight.
Whap! Whap!! Whap!!! Whap!!!! Whap!!!!! WHAP!!!!!!
Shipman had delivered six hard cuts to my young boy's bottom, Rapid Fire. Usually, a caner waits a few seconds between strokes allowing the pain to decrease a little but Rapid Fire meant I did not feel the full effect until after the sixth stroke. A searing hurt engulfed my small bottom, leaving it in flames. My knees buckled with the savage pain of it but Shipman held me tight until the worst was over. Very gently he pulled my pants back up over my still blazing backside.
"Go to a bathroom and clean yourself up", the Head Boy commanded for the benefit of the unseen audience.
I made my way there followed by a procession of small boys. Once inside the bathroom I dropped my pants . There was a gasp of admiration from the boys when they saw my impressive stripes.
"He made you bleed" - this from one of my tormentors.
"What did it feel like?" asked another.
"You mean the stick?" I asked, playing to my audience. "Well, Shipman did his best and I must admit he did tickle my bum".
The beating transformed me from outcast to hero. Every boy wanted me to be HIS friend. News of the flogging quickly spread. It was a Saturday so there were plenty of opportunities to show off my stripes. One senior boy took me aside for a private viewing. He cupped my bum cheeks in his big hand and gently fingered the welts. The opportunity for _s_e_x_ual connection was there but he did not take advantage of my innocence.
Shipman's plan had exceeded even his expectations. It was a classic case of the end justifying the means. What I did not know beforehand was the Head Boy intended using a senior cane, more suitable for a beefy 16 year old. On my slender bottom the marks it left were truly awe inspiring. He caned me bare so he could place the strokes without overlapping. Striking a fresh cane welt would have been torture and Shipman was too kind-hearted to do that. The Capstans and matches belonged to the Head Boy.
From then on, whenever Shipman had to beat me I always dropped my pants. It was meant as a compliment. I really think the Head Boy quite liked me for doing that.