By the morning a good deal of the pain was gone, though my backside was still throbbing and warm. I was determined now to get through the rest of the week without any more discomfort. I showered in cold water, I made sure that all the buttons were done up on my jacket, I even cleaned my shoes before breakfast. During breakfast itself I maintained complete silence, even though a couple of my friends spoke to me. This wasn't an attempt to get me into trouble – the state of my rear end ensured that they took my predicament seriously. Partly it was forgetfulness, and partly sympathy.
At the end of the meal there were announcements, as there were every morning. There was stuff about fetching this week's linen, some second formers were in trouble and had to report to Pritchett to have a slipper applied to their bottoms, and then Price stood up.
"There will be a special practice for the Colts fifteen after school. I want to see Hendry in my study immediately afterwards."
We stood for grace. My mind was racing. He wasn't, surely, going to cane me again. What for? I went straight to his study, my friends' good wishes following me. I didn't know what he was going to do, but I waited in the right position anyway, pressing myself against the wall and putting my hands on top of my head. Boys were passing to and fro and I could almost hear their thoughts about the fate that awaited me inside.
He came after only five minutes and ushered me inside. "Jacket off," he said, and reached for the cane that was lying on the mantelpiece. My heart was thumping and I felt sick. He _f_u_c_k_ing was going to cane me. The usual two chairs were in position and any minute now I was going to be bending over them to be beaten.
"You received four beatings yesterday, in addition to the beating I gave you for having three beatings the day before. Is that right?"
"Yes, Price."
"And what do the Whacking List rules say about getting three beatings in a day?"
"You get the cane."
"Two strokes per beating. Which means you're getting eight. Anything to say before I cane you?"
There were many things I could say. But most of them would have earned me extra strokes, and none of them would have got me off even a part of the beating. "No, Price."
"Good. Over the chairs then, please. Trousers and underpants down."
"Oh, please, not on my bare bum."
"You know the rules. 'At least six strokes on the bare buttocks'."
"I know, but can't I keep my pants on, at least?"
"Not a chance, Hendry. And you're on the verge of getting extra for delaying the beating."
I had no choice. I got up on to the chair, pushed down my trousers and underpants and bent over. Yesterday's weals were tingling across the full width of my bottom. I wasn't ready when the first stroke lashed down across my suffering flesh and I yelled. But I kept still and he steadily delivered the eight strokes, about ten seconds apart – hard – low – covering the already tender part of my bum. I think I yelled for all eight. I'd like to think I managed one or two without a sound, but I'm pretty sure I didn't.
As I climbed down my backside was stinging and burning even worse than yesterday at its worst. I pulled up my pants and trousers and that seemed to concentrate the fire even worse. It was as though someone was pressing red hot wire into my flesh and holding it there.
Lessons were a nightmare. At break my friends wanted to see the marks he had made across my flesh, but I was still suffering too much to display the stripes. By lunchtime my bottom was burning a little less fiercely but sitting down was still torture. We had a full hour to pass before lessons recommenced. I went to the common room and tried to read, standing at the window.
"Bear up, old chap." It was Hicks and Gay. They had a new packet of toffees and surreptitiously I popped one into my mouth and chewed it slowly. My first pleasure for two days.
But the prefects seemed to be staying away from me. As I knew already, if they chose to they could always find an excuse for beating me, so if no prefects came near me it was because they were letting me off for a while.
Afternoon lessons were English, double Art – the best afternoon of the week, and by the end of it I had been able, for a few minutes anyway, to forget the state of my bottom and get on with the work.
And then it was rugby practice. We changed into kit and charged down to the pitch below the terrace where we practised. The practice was taken by Savage and Pritchett who were both big cheeses in the First XV.
I enjoyed it. I always did enjoy rugby – even the tough fitness practices when we ran up and down the pitch doing press-ups and knee jerks as they shouted at us – and sometimes applied a gymshoe to the thinly clad bottoms of boys who weren't keeping up. I almost forgot the trouble I was in. Only 'almost', however, as the two prefects kept up a stream of references to the whackings I'd had and the ones I was going to get. But they didn't whack me – in fact, they didn't whack anybody – and I was duly grateful.
But it wasn't going to last. The clock on the pavilion was saying five o'clock when they sent everyone off to the showers with a warning not to be late for tea.
"Hendry."
"Yes, Savage?"
"Your kicking needs a bit of practice. Five punts for touch from here."
I kicked the five balls as far as I could down the touchline – and then, of course, I had to run round and bring them back again. The clock said ten past five.
"Just a couple more."
"But I'll be late."
"That's all right." So I kicked them – collected up the balls – five fifteen. And then I had to take the balls back to the pavilion. Twenty past.
"And don't forget your shower," warned Pritchett.
"I'll be late," I complained.
"No. You've still got time."
"Give me a note," I begged.
"You won't need it. Run."
I ran. Up over the terrace, round to the back door (boots off, neatly in the rack), up the stairs to the washroom. I had a choice. If I had a shower I would be late for tea - definitely. That would mean a whacking. If I didn't have a shower, I would be on time for tea but there was a slim chance that a prefect would find out and then I'd be caned with my pants down. I was a gambler. A possible caning was a better chance than a definite dose of the slipper. I pulled my clothes on and dashed down the stairs –
and slap into Pritchett.
"Have you had a shower, Hendry?"
"Yes, Pritchett."
"Show me your hands." I held them out. They were filthy. His hand flashed out and gripped me firmly by the ear. "Are you lying to me, Hendry?"
"Yes, Pritchett."
Without letting go of my ear he marched me back up to the washroom. "Strip," he ordered, and turned on the shower. I undressed, my guts churning, and he made me stand under the freezing water and scrub off every trace of mud. "Now," he said. "I'm going to fetch a cane. When I get back you will still be under the shower, is that understood?"
"Yes, Pritchett."
Naturally, I didn't actually stand under the water till I heard his boots on the stairs and then he arrived with the horribly familiar cane in his grasp. He didn't let me dry myself but made me bend over and grip my ankles. Still wet and now freezing cold, I waited for the cane to slash down across my bottom.
I'm fairly sure that this was the first time Pritchett had ever used a cane. So where he learned to make it sting so much I have no idea. I discovered later that the junior prefects had been practising on each other. It felt as though each stroke was slicing deep into the meat of my bum. I suppose I yelled. I've no idea really because my mind was fully occupied with the terrible agony he was making. It was six, each one powerful, low down, close together, so that when I stood up it felt like a strap of fire had fastened itself to my flesh and couldn't be rubbed off.
A year later, when Pritchett was head prefect, a record number of boys were put on the Whacking List, including one terrible week when the whole of our dormitory was listed. In those seven days hundreds of beatings were handed out and we were unanimous in saying that Pritchett was the worst wielder of a cane we had ever encountered. The worst, that is, from our point of view: there was no doubting his skill or the effectiveness of the thrashings he handed out.
He left me to dry myself and get dressed. Needless to say, I was then late for tea. Standish was the prefect on duty and he promised me a dose of the slipper when I presented myself at his study immediately after the meal. As I stood outside his study, pressed against the wall in the usual way, I could feel each individual weal of Pritchett's caning, still burning into me.
Standish was a decent chap. The only beatings I'd from him up to now had been pretty feeble. Now he made me bend over the table and whacked me with a good run up and slapped the gymshoe really hard across the taut seat of my trousers. If I hadn't had a bareback caning less than half an hour ago it wouldn't have been too bad, but the whole of my bottom was now tender as hell and the slipper set me on fire all over again.
For the second day running I had to sit through two hours of prep with my bottom exploding underneath me and every time I moved a fresh bruise or section of weal came into contact with the hard seat and I winced again. I was still warm and throbbing when we were released.
Supper was the usual brief affair: a hymn and a prayer from the master on duty, followed by cocoa and biscuits. I was just finishing my cocoa, lingering out the moment before I had to go to bed when Roker, another of the senior prefects, put a hand on my shoulder and informed me that I was wanted in his study as soon as I'd changed into my pyjamas.
My heart sank. What had I done now? I had no idea, but was fairly sure I'd end up feeling a cane across my bottom again. And this was the third of the day so tomorrow would start with me over Price's chairs – again. And, it suddenly occurred to me, this would be my tenth beating since being put on the List – and that meant a second week of torture. Even worse torture, since every whacking would be a caning on my poor bare backside.
I went down just in my pyjamas: I didn't see the point of putting a dressing gown on when the first thing he would make me do was take it off. I knocked the door and went in when the call came. There were three of them there: Roker, Jackman and Scudder. Two chairs were put ready for me to bend over – and the cane was on the table, handy for when they came to the moment.
"Why aren't you wearing a dressing gown?" demanded Jackman.
"I didn't think – " I began.
"Exactly!" said Scudder. "You never do think, Hendry, do you? And that's why you're on the List."
"Go and put it on," said Roker. "And that will cost you four extra strokes."
I doubled away to the dorm and pulled on my dressing gown, cursing under my breath. They were obviously out for a bit of sport, and my backside would suffer for it. I'd had the same dressing gown since I was eleven and it was way too small for me, another reason why I hadn't put it on.
Back in the study, they surveyed me critically. "That's better," said Roker. "Remove your dressing gown, please." I would have made some comment, but knew that I was in grave danger and any wrong move would be taken out on my rear end. "And your pyjama jacket." I took it off, dropping it on the floor on top of my dressing gown, and stood facing them bare chested.
"Let's deal with the dressing gown item first," Roker went on. "Over the chairs. I think you know the way to do it." Scudder chuckled at this, but I saw nothing to laugh at. I stepped out of my slippers and climbed on to the chairs, folded my arms and bent over in the approved manner. My bottom, now the highest part of my body, was still reminding me of the whackings I'd had just recently and Roker smoothed the worn cloth so it was taut. I hated the feel of his hand on me, but there was nothing I could do about it.
The next second the cane lashed down across me, right on the centre of both buttocks. I yelled with the shock of it, and then yelled again as it lashed down a second time along exactly the same line. The third was pretty close to the same line and the last one hit it again. There was a thin line of the most intense pain from one side of my bottom to the other.
One of the many debates that we frequently had about corporal punishment was whether it was worse to have all the strokes along the same line, so the pain was more intense; or spread out, so that the whole of your bottom was affected. Our headmaster, who doesn't really feature in this story, used to get the best of both worlds when giving a full dozen by applying two 'five-barred gates' exactly on top of each other so that the pain of each weal was doubled. Needless to say, not many men had the skill to apply a cane with such accuracy. We put it down to the amount of practice he had had.
"All right. You can get up." Painfully, I pushed myself upright and climbed down off the chairs. I had managed to get my face back under control and I refused to rub at the pain, but the bastard knew he had hurt me.
"Now," he said, as though they were finally getting down to business. "How would you describe the state of your locker?"
Oh _s_h_i_t_! They'd been in my locker. I tried frantically to remember where I'd hidden my fags. Occasionally, when I had no choice, I had to leave them there rather than in the cunning hiding place I'd found. I thought I was safe - as far as fags were concerned, at least.
"Not very good, Roker."
"In fact, would you describe it as a _s_h_i_t_-pit?"
"No, Roker."
"We would. One of the worst _s_h_i_t_-pits we've ever seen."
"That's right," Scudder backed him up.
"It's only a bit untidy," I tried.
Scudder didn't reply – just picked up the cane and flexed it between his fists. "Back over the chairs."
I opened my mouth to argue, but knew that it would do no good, so I went back over the chairs. Head down on my folded arms on one chair, knees braced apart on the other, backside up in the air with my pyjamas good and tight across them.
You'd have said that Scudder was definitely of the 'spread-them-across-the-target' persuasion, except that I think he was trying to land them close together. He just wasn't a very good shot, but he made up in viciousness what he lacked in accuracy. My God, that cane stung like the very devil, especially when it caught one of the many tender weals that were already criss-crossing my backside. I yelled for most of them, meanwhile begging and praying that I could hold still and not give them any reason for lengthening it out.
"Get up." I hauled myself upright, still refusing to rub at myself till I got outside. I turned round and there was Jackman holding a copy of Tiger.
"What's this?" he asked.
"It looks like Tiger, Jackman," I said.
"Watch it, Hendry, or I'll do you for insolence. What was it doing in your locker?"
I could think of several clever answers to a stupid question like that, but my backside was sore enough already. "I don't know, Jackman."
"Which comics are you allowed, Hendry?"
"Eagle, Jackman."
"Any others?"
"No, Jackman."
"In fact, possession of any other comics is a beating offence, isn't it?"
This rule always seemed to us the most unfair of the many unfair rules that we were subjected to. I know now that Eagle was meant to be a moral alternative to other comics, but why possession of them should mean an automatic beating I could never fathom. The rule was almost universally ignored. Victor, Tiger, Lion and (hanging on) The Hotspur were always available in our common room. Similarly, this was the first occasion I had ever heard of a boy actually being beaten for possessing an unsuitable comic.
"Yes, Jackman."
"Then you'd better get those trousers off and bend over the chairs again."
I pulled the cord of my pyjamas, let them fall and kicked them on to the pile of my other clothes. I was naked, facing three prefects who were intent on torturing my bottom till I broke down. But I was pretty _f_u_c_k_ing determined that they weren't going to succeed.
I climbed back on to the chairs for the third time and stretched over the backs. There was something peculiarly terrifying about being stripped off completely, there, in their study, stretched over a pair of chairs, with my rear end already flaming hot.
Jackman must have been practising with the cane because all six strokes landed within less than an inch and felt as though he was cutting deep into the meat. Yell? Of course I _f_u_c_k_ing yelled. And every stroke was greeted with comments of appreciation and advice from Scudder and Roker. Once Roker came and felt the weals that were swelling up on my bottom, his hand lingering over the scalding flesh, and when it was over they wouldn't let me up till all three of them had felt the warmth coming off me. At that moment I felt as though I had been reduced to nothing but a lump of meat and that came closer to making me blub than any amount of pain from a beating would.
It is a fact not often remarked on that many boys could be reduced to tears by a telling off or some other part of the ritual who could endure a serious thrashing in almost silence. I remember once hearing our headmaster claim that he had never made a boy cry with his cane, though many boys – including me – had been reduced to tears without a single stroke being applied to their bottoms.
"Get up." Once again I climbed off the chairs and turned to face them. Roker was holding my pack of cards. Needless to say, cards were not allowed; possession was a foolproof way of getting yourself caned. My heart died inside me – I had more beating to get through yet.
"Explain these to me," Roker said.
It was as though I was outside myself and I heard myself say, "Well, you have 52 pieces of cardboard, and they have pictures on them and you can play games with them."
He put the cards down on the table, next to the cane, and the next second his hand had flashed out and smacked me hard across the side of my face. The sudden pain made me yelp and my hand went up to the place. His jaw had gone hard and his eyes were burning with anger. You _f_u_c_k_ing idiot, I thought, cursing my stupidity.
None of them said any more. I was dead. I knew it and so did they. Jackman and Scudder got another chair and placed it next to the one I'd been kneeling on, and then out came the two big dictionaries, one on each chair. I'd heard of this – everyone had – but very few people had actually had it.
"Oh please," I pleaded, "not Hayward's Straddle. Come on, I don't deserve that."
Roker had picked up the cane again and now he tapped the end of it on the chairbacks. He didn't have to say anything, I was going over the chairs whether I deserved it or not.
Now, not only was I stretched over the chairbacks so that my bottom was ideally placed and I couldn't easily get up, but my knees were stretched apart, my genitals were hanging loose in the clear air between my thighs and my buttocks were pulled apart so that it felt as though the cane was going to land smack across my arsehole. I had never felt so exposed, so ripped open, so humiliated in all my life.
Roker's brother was in my form and he told me later that his brother had been caned like this by Hayward himself. Stripped off, stretched over the chairs and a full dozen well laid on. I wish I'd known that before he caned me: I could have borne it a little easier, I think.
And then the cane sliced down, singing, and cracked across my already suffering flesh. "Aah! Oh Jesus," I heard myself almost shriek.
"Enjoy that, did you, Hendry?" he said. I didn't reply. I couldn't. It felt as though the cane had cut me in half. When I bent over I thought nothing could increase the pain I was feeling already, but this was intolerable.
Crack! the second landed almost on the same line, and I think I screamed again. A long, long pause to let the agony really sink in then –
Crack! the third lashed into the same area and I couldn't bear it any longer. I struggled to get up, my hands frantically clutching for the pain. I had to get down off those _f_u_c_k_ing chairs and stop him hitting me any more.
But it was hopeless. Jackman and Scudder gripped my arms and forced me back into position. I struggled but they held me securely. My knees were all over the place, anywhere but on the dictionaries and Roker hoisted me back into place by gripping me firmly by the balls, bodily lifting me.
And then he started caning me again. I don't know how many more times he hit me. There wasn't a thought in my head now about taking it bravely. I was so far out of control that I didn't know what I was doing. No more detachment and watching myself take the thrashing; I was in there, suffering, howling, blubbing, snot bubbling out of my nose. I probably pissed myself, but I don't want to think about that. And my poor backside was slowly set on fire with lines of acid burning so intense I would never have believed it.
It seemed to be going on for ever, as though this was how the world was going to be for the rest of my life. And then he stopped. But Scudder and Jackman still held me bent over and my bottom was screaming and exploding with the agony. It must have been five minutes before my howling and blubbing died down. Of course, it wasn't helped by them taking turns to run their hands over the weals and down into my groin, making comments about how well-hung I was for such a miserable little _s_h_i_t_.
But it did stop eventually and they let me up, actually steadying me as I clambered down off the chairs, as if they were concerned for my safety. But then they made me stand there, hands on head, still leaking tears from my eyes and snot from my nose, while they handed out the final lecture. I couldn't pay attention to what they said. The only thing in my world at that moment was the searing, extraordinary pain across my bottom.
When finally they let me go I wanted to just grab my clothes and run, but they made me put my pyjamas back on and then the dressing gown, and then, at long, long last, I was allowed to limp out. By now I had recovered a little of my self-respect and refused to rub myself till I was out in the corridor.