(Usual disclaimers apply. This is fiction although the writer did attend a Commonwealth secondary school at a time when corporal punishment was used with some regularity).
The English teacher turned and reached for another exercise book. Form 3c were seated at desks in front of him. A dog-eared copy of 'Oliver Twist' lay open on each desk. The text was heavy going for the last period on a sunny Friday afternoon, Windows were closed so the classroom had the usual smell of chalk dust and the far less pleasant odour of unwashed bodies. 'Bath Night' was just once a week on Saturdays - that's how it was in the early 1950s.
Mr Williamson was tall, athletic and not yet 30. He fretted with the heat which was aggravated by the black gown he wore. 'Willy' as the lads called him behind his back, was an inspirational teacher. His poetry readings could make the least imaginative boy's hair stand on end. Passionate about language, he had the rare gift of being able to pass on his love for English to the boys in his care.
The teacher tutted with annoyance. Young Baxter whose homework he was marking had only managed to come up with one sentence. Worse, there were three spelling mistakes. 'I've warned him so many times' thought Mr Williamson. He paused and then wrote '0/10. See me after class' in neat copperplate on the offending page and shut the book. He got up from his desk and returned the exercise books to the boys.
Clive Baxter was 13 years old. The fair headed lad was intelligent but lacking in self discipline. He never achieved his full potential and was lazy, self-centred. Baxter's mother spoiled him which probably contributed to his poor attitude. His father had died when he was an infant and she treated her only son like an equal. The boy opened his book and read what the teacher had written. 'Just another telling off' he thought and shrugged his thin shoulders.
The 'Silent Reading' period eventually came to an end with the welcome ringing of the last bell of the day. The boys cleared their desks, slamming them shut.
"Quietly!" barked Mr Williamson as chairs were upturned on top of desks and the boys hurried out of the classroom. Clive Baxter stayed behind, waiting in front of the English teacher's desk.
"Close the door will you Baxter?" the man said and the youngster obliged. Mr Williamson stood up and removed both the gown which he hated and his sports jacket. Slowly he rolled up his shirt sleeves. Baxter, who had been expecting a reprimand was surprised by his teacher's actions. The boy's stomach turned to ice when Mr Williamson reached to the top of the blackboard and retrieved a thin, rattan cane.
"Take the chair off that desk" the teacher said in his deep voice. The boy did as he was told. "Now bend over it".
When Baxter was in position the man inspected his well-rounded target, tightly encased in its uniform serge. He lifted the cane high and then brought it down across the boy's taut buttocks. 5 more strokes followed at 10 second intervals. The teacher did not hold back, putting all his considerable force into each stroke.
This was the first time young Baxter had been caned. Unlike other lads he had never even suffered a parental spanking. His mother thought spanking was barbaric. Now, unimaginable hurt was being inflicted on his virgin backside. He had to bite his tongue so as not to cry out. Tears flooded his eyes as waves of pain caused by the powerful assault to his rear threatened to overwhelm him. Time lost all meaning for the hapless boy. The thrashing seemed unending but in reality took little more than a minute.
Countless boys had endured the same testing ritual which had served schools well for over a hundred years. Baxter was paying a just penalty for being lazy, disrespectful and failing to achieve his true potential. Despite his misery the boy realised the 'rightness' of what was being done to him.
It was over at last. The teacher silently handed his pupil a handkerchief so Baxter could dry his eyes. Mr Williamson adjusted his shirt sleeves and pulled on his jacket. He put the gown over one arm. The boy gave him back the damp linen.
"Thank you Baxter. Good afternoon".
"Good afternoon, Sir".
The teacher sighed as he put the cane back on top of the blackboard ledge. 'I do hope that got through to him', he thought. Mr Williamson disliked the term 'corporal punishment', preferring to think of caning as 'corporal correction'. He felt that described much more accurately what the ritual was all about.
The youngster left the school grounds and walked home. As usual. it took him 20 minutes. His mother was in the kitchen with a glass of milk and cookies. Clive knew that if he told her about the caning or showed her the state of his backside, she would immediately withdraw him from that school. So, he said nothing and even managed not to wince when sitting down. He thought of Mr Williamson with affection. He had been the first person who had cared enough to bring him to account. 'Old Willy's got a bloody good arm' the boy thought admiringly and then got on with his homework, writing an essay about 'Oliver Twist'. He managed two pages and even checked the big words in his Pocket Oxford Dictionary.
That was the afternoon Clive Baxter began to grow up. From then on at school he soaked up knowledge like a sponge. He managed to get a decent education and went on to make a success of his life as an adult. The defining event, that caning. took place back in the 1950s. Of course these days boys are spared any such unpleasantness - bad behaviour is rewarded with a 'holiday' called suspension. Teachers struggle to maintain order in the classroom. The boys have the upper hand and they know it. Mr Willamson's 'corporal correction' has long been consigned to the pages of history books - more's the pity.