We were given lines and detentions; we were made to work for fixed periods of time; we had to go for cross country runs and take cold showers; we were gated, locked up on the premises and forced to live the most restricted of lives, and on every possible opportunity our bottoms were beaten with canes or the soles of heavy gymshoes. I'd like to think that there was never a school with a more punitive regime than ours, but I don't think we were especially hard done by.
But there was one punishment which was special: the Whacking List. This was saved for desperate characters, or for those times when particular displeasure had been incurred. Those sentenced to it lived for a week or longer under the most repressive regime some sadistic bastard in the past could come up with.
The rules went something like this:
"Whacking List Rules
1. All gating rules apply.
2. Bedtime is 8.30pm.
3. Meals will be eaten in silence.
4. All jacket buttons must be done up at all times.
5. The tuck shop is out of bounds.
6. All showers will be taken cold.
7. Infringement of any rule will be punished with corporal punishment of at least 4 strokes.
8. Offences normally punished with corporal punishment will attract a caning on the bare buttocks.
9. All prefects have caning rights.
10. If more than 3 beatings are incurred in one day, a head prefect's beating of at least 6 strokes on the bare buttocks will be administered on the following day. If more than 10 beatings are incurred in a week, the period on the list will be extended by one week, during which all beatings will be with a cane on the bare buttocks."
My history of punishments was a variable one. Sometimes, for weeks at a time, I was Mr Clean, did nothing to break any of the many rules and suffered no worse than a half-hour work session for having dirty shoes. But then other times something would get into me, opportunities for mischief would present themselves that I just couldn't resist and I'd end up with a backside like a technicolor ploughed field and spending most of my free time picking up litter or cleaning prefects' rugger boots.
My fourteenth birthday started the sequence that was to lead to me being placed on the dreaded List. Boys' birthdays were celebrated in two ways: if we had a PT lesson that day, his kit would be muddied so that he would have to do the lesson in the nude and end up getting his bare bottom slippered for our entertainment; and then, after lights out, his genitals would be painted with ink (if he was popular) or boot polish (if he wasn't). Fortunately, I was in the ink category.
I got the usual crop of cards that morning. Little did my loving relations know that by sending a card hoping that I would have a splendid day and many happy returns, and enclosing a generous postal order, they were blowing any hope I had of keeping it quiet, and sentencing me to a painful whacking and the ordeal of having my bollocks painted with permanent blue.
Actually, I'd been lucky. This was the first time in three years that my birthday fell on a PT day, and I'd enjoyed seeing my friends bending over, stark naked, for their dose of the slipper, so I couldn't complain.
Sure enough, when I collected my shorts from my peg there was a dirty great muddy footprint across the back. Madman did his usual imitation of someone who has been deeply offended and made me strip them off. Doing a PT lesson with not a stitch of clothing on is a weird experience. I wasn't bothered about being naked – at least twice a day we had to change and none of us cared about the rest seeing us with nothing on – but vaulting, climbing ropes, playing gym soccer seemed bizarre with a prick and two balls flopping about between my thighs. But the moment couldn't be put off for ever.
"Time for your treatment, Hendry," Madman announced. He made me stand in the centre circle, then bend over and grip my ankles. Of course, all the rest of the form crowded round to where they could see my rear end. Madman went out to the changing room to fetch the slipper, but when he came back I could see that it wasn't a slipper. Instead he had a wooden bat about twice the size of a table tennis bat. Looking back now, I think this must have been a Jokari bat. I suspect that when this game was popular many thousands of fathers discovered what a good implement it could be for disciplining their sons, but I doubt if many of those boys received their dose of it across their naked bottoms and with all their friends watching.
"You're very privileged, Hendry. I found this in an old locker and was just about to throw it out when I thought of a use for it. You can be the first to taste it."
Madman never held back when whacking us and he didn't hold back now. The blade of the bat connected with my bottom with a crack that echoed off the walls. I think I yelled. The instant acid fire that covered my backside was like nothing I'd ever felt before. I hardly felt the second, my bum was already burning so much. The third doubled, trebled the agony. I leapt up, clutching at the inferno in my backside.
"Oh dear, oh dear," I heard him say. "We all know the penalty for standing up too soon, don't we? Shall I give him a penalty whack, lads?" And the form, my friends, all shouted, "Go on, sir. Give him another."
So I had to bend over again for the fourth whack with that terrible bat. It was like an explosion in the muscles of my bum, and it went on exploding after he let me up and all the time I was painfully getting dressed and it was still exploding all through French and I could still feel it as a solid, fierce heat in both cheeks of my backside when we went in for lunch.
An interesting postscript to this bit of the story is that when I was looking for a prep school for my own son I discovered that Madman – or Mr Donnellan, as I had to force myself to call him - was now a headmaster. I had little hesitation in choosing the school for Christopher. In due course he told me that the bat was still in operation and much feared amongst all his friends. He told me that he himself had been whacked five times with it, twice with a full six whacks on his bare bottom. My estimate of my son's bravery went up immensely.
It was egg and chips for tea that night – everyone's favourite.
We sat at tables of six and when given the signal three boys would go up to the serving counter and return with two meals, one for themselves, the other for a friend. It was possible sometimes for more than three boys to go up, bring back two meals and eat them both. It was my birthday, it was egg and chips – I couldn't resist. Of course, you had to hide the second meal on your lap, a perilous tactic.
Today, I nearly got away with it. I finished the first meal at a gallop and was leaning back in my chair to bring out the second when a prefect called Scudder happened to look across and see me doing it. He practically charged down the room, whipped the plate away from me and snapped," My study – straight afterwards."
It was a caning. Only three and he didn't even pull my shirt out of my trousers, but it still stung and there were three neat stripes across my bum when I went up to the washroom to check. Of course, in our school, as in many others, I suspect, there was nothing better than a neat set of weals across a boy's bottom for improving his prestige with his fellows. Given the amount of caning that went on, anything less than six wasn't worth looking at. A decent five-barred gate – five parallel weals with the sixth crossing them – would bring a few admiring glances in the shower, especially if it had been applied 'bareback', without clothes to diffuse the effect. But a chap who had taken a dozen with his pants down could guarantee at least a week of respect.
Come lights out and I knew that all my friends were itching to get at my tackle. The ink was kept in Roker's bedside locker and every one of us had been through this – apart from the few lucky sods whose birthdays were in the holidays. I once spent a holiday with Mutter and his people. He confided that he didn't like having his birthday in the holiday because he missed out on having his balls inked. I offered to do it for him and he did go along with it, but it wasn't the same without the chase and the fight to hold him down.
There was a kind of convention about this. You had to put up a struggle, but in the end you gave in and had your balls inked. They came for me about ten minutes after the lights were put out. I jumped out of bed and made a run for it. There was a chase – over beds and such like – until I thought of making it more exciting by heading out of the dorm. The passage was empty, so I dived into the dorm opposite. A dozen surprised second formers thought this was hilarious, me being chased by half the third form dorm. So of course they joined in. There was a massive fight which ended, needless to say, with me, helpless, being dragged back into my own dorm.
And that's when Savage arrived.
As a senior prefect he had caning rights – in fact, he had his cane with him, anticipating trouble on his duty rounds. I half expected him to order, "Pyjamas off," before we trooped down to the washroom. Ragging after lights out was one of the five offences that could be punished with a cane on the bare bottom without permission from a master. The others were bullying, fighting, smoking and skiving chapel.
There were fifteen of us, lined up along the front of the showers. Eight from our dorm and seven second formers. We had to step up one at a time and bend over with our heads under a basin and hanging on to the taps so our hands were up out of the way. My opinion of Savage went up quite a bit when it became clear that he was only giving us four. For charging about like that in the wrong dorm he'd have been within his rights to give us six with our pants down so this came close to a let-off.
Mind you, he lay on pretty _d_a_m_n_ hard. There wasn't one of us that didn't squeal a bit. A cane with just pyjamas on hurts nearly as much as with nothing on. In fact, till you've had a beating on the bare bum you'd think there was hardly any difference. Even Hicks and Grey yelled a bit, and I'd seen them take some serious thrashings without a sound.
When he called me out, Roker and a couple of the others tried to tell him that it wasn't my fault because they were trying to get me, but it cut no ice – as I knew it wouldn't. Still, I appreciated the effort. They could have said nothing.
Of course, my bottom was still tender from the two whackings I'd had that day and each of the four stripes stung like hell. I think I yelled for all of them. I know I was rubbing myself like mad as I went back into the line.
There weren't very many after that, though the whole caning session must have lasted a good half hour because he took his time and let each stroke sink in before he gave the next. We all trudged back to bed, some of us still rubbing our behinds. Savage followed us up the passage and called out "Good night", and then there was the sound of his boots heading off towards the prefects' common room.
I lay there in the dark feeling the four stinging lines across my bum. And then, like a thunderbolt, I realised .....
I'd been whacked three times!
And that meant I'd be visiting Price tomorrow. It wasn't only if you were on the Whacking List that you got a head prefect's caning if you notched up three whackings in a day.
And that was when they pounced on me. I'd forgotten my inking – but my friends hadn't. They calculated that, after caning us, Savage would reckon on us being good little boys and staying in bed. And they were right.
In no time, my bedclothes were ripped back and I was pinioned to the bed. My trousers were hauled off and Roker was wanking me into a hard-on. And then the ink was painted on, a good dark coating round my balls and the shaft of my prick for good measure. And then, as an extra, they turned me over and painted blue lines along all seven of the stripes.
My summons to see Price came during prep. I'd been waiting all day. Had I been worrying about it? You _f_u_c_k_ing bet I had! It's no joke being summoned to see the head prefect when you know that he can thrash the backside off you any time he wants – and now he was definitely going to want to thrash mine. I was, as my friend Grey put it so sensitively, dead meat.
I was ordered to present myself in formal punishment kit, which meant games shorts – and nothing else. It wasn't cold but I was shivering when I presented myself at his study.
He was a frightening looking chap: dark hair and olive skin, so he looked foreign. He was in the First XV, and all the other teams as well. I'd seen him in the shower a couple of times and he was really muscular and hard-looking. Legend had it that the old man had once caned him every day for a week. None of us could see how anyone could endure that, so maybe it was just fantasy. On the other hand, the old man was a right bastard. Every time Price had me up in front of him, telling me off, I pictured him, stripped off, over the old man's sofa with his backside covered in stripes. I'd have loved to see that. He'd caned me several times, including twice on the bare bottom, so I knew I was going to be seriously suffering before very long.
The punishment book was open on the table in front of him and I could see that my page had nearly reached the bottom. "Explain yesterday's three whackings, Hendry," he said and leaned back in his chair, fixing his eyes on my face. The look on his face said as clearly as anything, It doesn't matter what you say, I'm going to lash your arse till you _f_u_c_k_ing howl.
"It was my birthday, so two of them were because the others were getting me for my birthday, and the other one was for having two teas but I wouldn't have done that either if it wasn't my birthday."
"So. It was your birthday."
"Yes, Price."
"That makes a bit of difference. But it's not just yesterday I want to see you about. Look at this." He spun the book round so that it was facing me. "How many times have you had to be beaten this year?"
"I don't know, Price."
"Count them then." The writing on the page was swimming in front of my eyes, but I managed it somehow.
"Eleven, Price."
"And how many times have you been beaten that aren't recorded?"
"I don't know, Price."
"Guess. You must have some idea."
I pretended to think. Maybe the crack in the ceiling above the window would give me a clue. "Five?"
"We were talking about you this morning. We estimate that you've had about the same number again that aren't in the book. Is that possible?"
"Yes, Price." I knew jolly well that it was more than possible.
"So that's nearly two dozen beatings you've had. And it doesn't seem to have taught you anything because here you are yesterday – on your birthday – getting three more."
"Yes, Price."
"So what do you think I should do now?"
"I don't know, Price. Cane me?"
"Oh I'm going to do that all right. But will that be enough?"
"Yes, Price."
"Wrong answer. Try 'no, Price'."
"No, Price." He grinned.
"No indeed. What we've decided is to put you on the List for a week. Let's see how you like some serious whacking for a few days."
I could feel my heart thumping and the blood was roaring in my ears. "Anything to say?"
"No, Price," was all I could manage.
"Good. Let's get on with it." Then in quick order two chairs were put together back to back, I had to kneel on the nearer one, push my shorts down to my knees and bend over the backs till my elbows were resting on the other seat, arms folded. I was naked from the knees upwards with my backside up in the air for him to do what he liked with. Of all the positions we were put into to be beaten this was the most effective, and the one I chose nine times out of ten when eventually I got to be a prefect myself. It means that the boy is at the right height, his bottom is presented tightly stretched, the buttocks pulled slightly apart, provided he isn't carrying too much flab, and his hands are well out of the way.
"What the bloody hell is this?" And I knew what he meant immediately. I'd tried two or three times during the day to scrub the ink off – specially off my balls – but it was permanent blue, you weren't meant to be able to get it off quickly. In the tension of my interview with Price I'd forgotten all about the lines of blue across my bum. "I thought Savage caned you all before they could ink your balls."
"Yes, Price."
"So who did this to you?"
"I don't know, Price."
Without warning, his hand slapped me, hard, on the left cheek of my bum. "Don't be ridiculous. Who was it?"
"I can't tell you, Price."
He thought for a moment. "Very well." I was allowed to get down off the chairs and pull up my shorts. Then I was parked outside in the passage in the classic 'nose, toes and those' position while he walked purposefully away towards our form room. (For those unlucky enough not to know about 'nose, toes and those', I should explain that hands had to be placed on top of the head, and nose, toes and penis had to be touching the wall). I was left wondering what the hell was going on. Actually, I had a pretty good idea and was proved right when he returned with Grey in tow.
We were taken inside and Grey was put over the chairs and given eight real crackers with the cane. Price didn't make him drop his trousers, but he pulled his shirt out and delivered each stroke from back by the fireplace, putting his full force into it so that it landed with a crack like a gun going off. Grey had a good solid backside and I'd seen him take some pretty serious whackings without a sound. This time, though, every stroke made him squeal and after the first few he was wriggling over the chairbacks so that Price had to wait for him to be still before launching into the next.
When it was over he climbed down with his hands clutching at his rear end and his face twisted with the pain. I was quite hoping that he would be made to stay while I was caned: I wouldn't feel so alone and abandoned that way. But no chance. He was packed off back to prep, still rubbing the seat of his trousers.
And then there was no more putting off my session over the chairs. Shorts down, stretched right over the backs with my bum in the air. I felt Price lay the last foot of the cane against my flesh to take aim and to let me know where it was going to hurt. He stepped back – there was an almighty long pause – his boot stamped on the floor – I just had time to hear the swish of the cane through the air – my backside exploded and the first line of fire was slicing into me. I yelled of course – and went on yelling as the cane sliced into my defenceless flesh again and again. I lost count, but afterwards Grey counted ten swollen weals across my bum. After each one I thought I could not bear any more and that the pain could get no worse. It did, but somehow I did bear it.
I climbed down, trying desperately not to show him how much he had hurt me, but now, he reminded me, I was on the Whacking List and beatings like that were going to be an everyday occurrence.