It was December 1985 and I was about to head home at the end of my first term at Downing College, Cambridge. I was sitting in my first year reflecting on how the first term, Michaelmas term, had gone. Like most first year undergraduates it had been an amazing experience with so many new things to experience and new people to meet.
However I was acutely aware that certain of my experiences were mine alone and were unknown to my fellow undergraduates.
Six months before I had been completing my A levels at a minor public school. The school had reasonable academic strengths with a good mix of sports. It had, even during my time, become broader in its intake of middle class boys. Corporal punishment had been dropped in 1980 just at the age when I may have been subject to it, although I was a pretty well behaved boy. Most of the masters had high concerns for our well-being.
By 17 and the A levels that summer I was desperate to get to Cambridge: my father had been at Pembroke and everyone who had gone there from the school seemed to have a great time. Like all obsessions at 17 I was utterly fixated by the idea and the 2As and a B which Downing had offered me. I had been worried that my English literature A level could let me down: I needed to get an A and the English master, Mr Symons seemed disinterested in our progress.
Symons was also my house master and as a senior boy I spent a fair amount of time in his study where I began to realise how much he liked to drink. During my last year I noted his frequent trips to the kitchens for drink at all times of night. My room was near his study and it was here, one fateful evening in May, that my passion for the A developed in a plan to look at the English papers which I knew had arrived while Symons was off searching for drink. I knew from experience he left his door on the latch during his sorties.
That night I slipped in while he was in the kitchens and managed to find out the key information: the characters of the Shakespeare plays who were the subject of the questions and the themes questions in the modern books section of the A level paper.
That was the key and by October I found myself at Cambridge University. Downing was a great college. Within days I had met excellent people, found out more about girls than ever before, rowed and joined the seconds rugby and football. Early on I met Mr Simpson. He was a young research fellow, about 28. He was not yet a "Dr" and was young at heart, playing occasional rugby with us followed by boozy evenings in his rooms. Young fellows often lived in College and his free alcohol proved a great hit. I also found out that he had gone to the same school as me in the seventies.
One evening in late October, at another boozy evening in his rooms, the inevitable "truth" game had been suggested. Incredibly relaxed, drunk and not a little risque I blurted out that I had cheated on something important in the past. I thought nothing more of it as everyone else hinted at _s_e_x_ual impropriety, the odd theft.
A few days later I received a note in my pigeonhole from Mr Simpson to see him before Hall. I duly bounded in but he seemed much more reserved than normal. He asked me to sit down. He said he had been shocked about my revelation of cheating not just because of what I had said but because he had kept in touch with our old school and knew many of the teachers remaining. One was a contemporary of his. Simpson explained, in grave tones, that Mr Symons had just been suspended because an enquiry had been held regarding the A level English literature papers. An on-the-spot check in June by the examining board had indicated lax security of papers. The school had hushed it up and the examining board had said that the higher grades on the paper would not be affected. Simpson said he had been to the College Office and checked my application form, predicted grades and my final result. Then he asked me directly if I had cheated.
I was so stunned I said nothing at first and dropped my head.
"I will take that as a yes".
I was shattered about the indiscretion and that this man knew about it. Simpson said nothing for five minutes, seemingly deep in thought.
"I have a choice Sykes. I can turn you in to the school and the examining board. But I am not sure that would be good for the school, the board and you."
"Yes Sir" I replied. I felt as if I was back at school.
"Sykes. If this had happened when I was at school, you know I think the school would have hushed it up then. But I know for certain that the miscreant would have been punished for what he did."
There was another long pause. "Sykes. Do you accept that you should be punished for cheating?".
"Yes Sir - but I want to stay at Cambridge, sir. Please". My voice was quivering as all I could see was doom about me.
Then in a matter of fact way, Simpson stood up. He moved over to me and dragged me up. "Sykes. I am going to offer you a way out. I think you put the school's reputation in jeopardy through your foolishness. I should really tell Downing and have you thrown out. But that would also reflect badly on the school. If this had happened 10 years ago you would have been beaten and kept under watchful eye until it was thought you had been properly punished. Here's the deal. If we act as if this is 1975 I am happy to dish out to you what you would have got and keep an eye on you for the first of the term".
I looked at him in disbelief. "You mean, er, cane me for this...and then forget about it".
His face darkened: "You are not listening to me Sykes. First, any caning would be, as we used to call it, a trio, the maximum punishment allowed and I would have to monitor your progress here for transgressions. It would be like, in effect, having an extra term from school here."
I could not believe this but perhaps there was something in it. "Yes sir. What is a trio sir?".
"It was the harshest beating allowed. A boy would be caned over three different evenings by his housemaster. The first evening he would be caned in his school uniform and receive twelve strokes. Two days later he would return and be caned in his rugby or football shorts and receive another twelve. Two days later would be the final session. Depending on the master the twelve strokes would be administered with the boy wearing either swimming trunks or, occasionally, bare."
"It sounds to me as we were fortunate it was banned" I half-joked. That was a mistake.
"I got in once Sykes. Yes, it hurt hard but it did me a lot of good. Your behaviour has been disgraceful and you don't deserve that chance."
He was angry and cursed under his breath.
"I am not going to mess around Sykes. This is my final word. Tomorrow night is a major Hall. You can give your excuses. The choice is yours. If you arrive here at 7pm prompt, bring you sixth form school jacket, tie and trousers - I know you will have kept it for reunions here. If you are not here at 7pm you know what I will do. Now get out."
Within seconds I was sitting in my first year room in complete shock unable to comprehend the evening's events. My first feeling was a sick one of being so close to being found out and losing my place at Cambridge. How could I guarantee that Simpson, whom I barely knew, did not just want to thrash me because he liked to do so, and then turn me in?
I decided before I slept that I had to trust him. In the morning I then turned to the punishment he had in mind. It sounded very painful but then Simpson had taken it and no doubt a thousand other boys before me at the school: it could not be that bad could it?
My mind was made up. I put my old school clothes in a rucksack and made the short journey across the courtyard to Simpson's rooms.
I heard a local clock strike seven and knocked on the door. Simpson opened it.
"So, you have made your decision. You can change in my study."
I walked into his study and closed the door. I was shaking as I heard some movement of furniture next door. I looked at myself in the mirror. It was if the past six months had not happened: blazer, school time (a neater knot than it was when I was there mind) and black school trousers.
I went out in the small hall and knocked.
"Enter."
I walked in gingerly. Simpson had cleared a space in his main room. A heavy chair was placed in the middle. Simpson was wearing his suit but had put on his fellow's gown. More, to me anyway, amazing was that he was holding a long cane in his right hand.
"Stand in front of the chair".
I did so and placed my hands behind my back.
"Andrew Sykes. You are here because you have broken the school's rules. Not any old rules but fundamental and very serious rules which affect the school's reputation. You have cheated in examinations. I have decided that the appropriate punishment is the maximum permitted under the school's corporal punishment procedure: you will receive a trio of canings."
This formality unnerved me even more.
"You will now receive twelve strokes of the cane across your backside. You will count the strokes as you are punished. If I do not hear you call out the number of the stroke we revert to stroke one. Do you understand Sykes?"
"Yes Sir".
"Bend Over".
Somehow I could not believe the order to "bend over". It happened to characters in the Dandy and Beano at their schools of catapults and stink bombs. Now it was happening to me.
I had seen enough cartoons to guess what I had to do. I moved slowly forward to the seat of the chair and placed both knees upon it. Then I leaned forward over the top of the very solid chair. Slowly I positioned my arms down the back of the chair becoming ever conscious that my backside was rising to the position where I would be caned.
"Do you accept you deserve to be punished in this way, Sykes?"
More ceremony. "Yes Sir".
I felt a twitch at the end of the blazer and I was suddenly aware that the cane was a substantial and swaying instrument, here being used to flick the ends of my blazer up to lie on my back. I was acutely aware of my backside now being exposed.
I shivered as the cane, now somehow more substantial than it looked in Simpson's hand was being subtly placed on my backside. Simpson must be taking aim.
"I want you to count down from five to one".
I was hanging on with some trepidation and so this request left me even more surprised but adrenalin dictated I could call out the numbers. As I reached "two" and then "one" my heart raced. The cane had been relatively still during this period. I sensed it had now been lifted from my backside.
The sound of the cane swishing through the air was much louder than I expected. Then came a hard sound. My backside had been caned. I moved with the cane, like a golf stroke, before realising I had a very sharp pain on my rear end.
"One sir".
As I looked down at the floor disbelieving I was being caned I became aware the cane had returned to my backside, again to take aim. Swish, crack and "two sir" followed.
Stroke six really hurt and I had to suppress a cry before biting my lip and saying "six sir". After that the pain seemed to heat up my backside and saying the number of the stroke became more difficult. But I became, like the stubborn schoolboy I had found difficult to leave behind, determined not to get extra strokes.
After "Eleven sir" there was a longer gap than normal which made things worse as the stinging set in. I sensed Simpson had taken a few paces back. I lowered my head. In doing so, I could see his feet move which made the anticipation all the worst. I was not wrong. There was an even louder swish and crack than before. I had to hold tightly to the back of the chair before stuttering, "twelve sir".
I did not want to get up and after the formality of pre-caning I was not sure of the form.
"Get up Sykes. You have been caned twelve times - your punishment for this evening is over".
Standing up was a slow process. I staggered back a little as my blazer fell gently back.
"You took your punishment well Sykes. It must be hurting. I will see you in two days' time at 7pm. You need only bring your college football shorts. Go and change and leave quietly."
Simpson then held out his hand. I looked at him: he was inscrutable which made me feel he was right to do this to me in a business-like way. I shook his hand and went into his study.
Changing back to jeans took some minutes. I did not want to look but I noted from the boxers I changed that there were some faint red marks.
As I crossed the courtyard I could hear the Hall dinner chatter. A world away from the schoolroom situation of a few minutes before. Back in my room, I lay on my front since I was sure it would be difficult to sit down - just as the comic characters experienced. Lying on my bed, I cried a little. I then looked down to see my college football shorts lying on the floor with the rest of my kit. They were the standard nylon type which covered only to the bottom of the buttocks. I closed my eyes in dread at the little protection they would provide. At least these twelves strokes had been across school trousers and boxer shorts.
I dropped my head. Two days to go.
I would like to continue this story. Let me know if you have any comments:
peterthomasbrown1@yahoo. co. uk