My father was always late home from his work and one of the earliest things I could remember was lying in bed, where my mum had sent me, waiting for the sounds of his arrival. I never heard my dad, because I must have dozed off. The next thing I knew was the bedclothes being pulled off me and my dad standing over me.
Before I was properly awake my dad had me draped over his knees with his hand resting on my thinly clad bottom. I'd forgotten what I'd done – come in late from playing, broken a window, been cheeky to old Mrs Curtis next door – something like that. With my face inches from the carpet and my bottom turned up for him to operate on, my dad gave me the lecture he thought I needed: how disappointed he was – how boys had to be taught wrong from right – how it was going to hurt me as much as him – and so on.
And then he smacked me. I had no idea how many times he hit me that first time, but I was howling by the time he let me up. My father was definitely from the "whack 'em long and hard" school rather than the "six of the best" variety. When I climbed back into bed my rear end felt like a furnace and no amount of rubbing would put the fire out.
I must have been about seven that first time, because soon after that I went up into Mr Duckworth's class. And soon after that he decided that I needed something more than the flat of his hand. He tried a slipper, but that was too soft to hurt much (and my opinion of Dennis the Menace went right down). And then he discovered my mum's round-backed ebony hairbrush. My God! that hurt.
For the next two and a half years I was treated to almost weekly sessions with that heavy wooden brush slamming into my bottom while I lay helplessly across my father's knees. Sometimes I watched my mother brushing out her hair with it and wondered how she could do it, knowing that the wooden back of the brush had created such agony in my bottom.
Mr Duckworth had a strap and a cane and kept them in full view the whole time. With over thirty little boys to keep under control they were in constant use. The strap was used to keep them working. Any boy who sat looking out of the window (though sky was all they could see) or who whispered to his neighbour or who got more than half his sums wrong was called out to the front and had to hold up his left hand for two good cracks of the strap. It didn't hurt terribly because he never really put much force into it. Just enough to get our attention.
The cane was for boys who were naughty in any way. The first time I got it was for fighting with a lad called Chris Rampton. He sent us in from the yard and told us to stand by the blackboard. When the class came in from playtime he told them how bad we had been then picked his cane up. I had to go first and was made to bend over the front desk with my feet off the floor and my backside perched over the front edge. I had to hang my arms down either side of Simon Pine's legs and Simon had to rest on my shoulders so I couldn't get up. My short trousers were pulled tight over the round muscles of my bottom and then he pulled my shirt clear of the waistband and delivered four solid strokes. Each one was like an explosion going off in my trousers. I yelled a bit, but not like Chris, who was blubbing when he stood up. I suppose he wasn't so used to having his arse whacked.
After school I showed all my mates the marks the cane had made across my bum. I was proud as Punch of them. Chris wouldn't show his so we all ragged him about blubbing when he was caned. That night I wasn't so proud. In all innocence I told my dad about it. Ten minutes later I was in pyjamas and draped over his knees and the hairbrush was slamming into my already tender flesh.
"Let's see what kind of job he did," my dad said and before I knew it he'd hauled down my trousers and his fingers were tracing the weals across my burning skin. "Not a bad job," he said. "Though in my day you'd have got six at least. Are you going to get the stick again?"
"No, dad," I said.
"You better not," he said. "If I find out you've had the stick at school, this is what you'll get."
And the brush slapped down again and again on my bare bottom till I was howling and struggling to escape. And that taught me to keep my mouth shut.
All of us got the cane. There was no way you could escape it. When my turn came round I'd take my swishes as bravely as I could, show off my marks on the way home, and try to make sure that my dad never found out. The strap was much more frequent. I lost all count of the times I was strapped. Most of us were philosophical about it. It was part of growing up a boy. I wasn't the worst: Lou Mortimer got the strap nearly every day and the cane three or four times a week. I wasn't far behind him though.
Every so often, dad would say, "You had the stick lately?"
"No, dad," I'd say.
Once he made me drop my pants and show him whether I'd been caned or not. Fortunately, that time he was satisfied that I'd been behaving myself, which was a miracle because Quackers had caned me at the end of the previous week and I was sure the marks wouldn't have gone. The following day he caned about half the class, me included, and I went home dreading my dad asking me again.
Much, much more serious was getting the cane from Mr Evans, the headmaster. Ooh, he was vicious that man. For a start off, he made the cane sting a hell of a lot more than Quackers did, and you could reckon on having the weals for a good fortnight, but he also made you take a letter home to tell your dad that you'd been caned. And you know what that meant in my case.
Old Jonesy at the corner shop came up and told Mr. Evans that he'd caught Lou Mortimer nicking sweets. He had Lou out in front of every boy in the school and lectured him - and us – till Lou was half blubbing. Then he had a strap and gave him six across each hand as hard as he could. Lou couldn't keep his hands up for that much and Mr Duckworth had to hold his wrists so he couldn't move them out of the way. He was really screaming, but then he had to bend over and Mr Duckworth held him bent over tight. Mr Evans pulled Lou's shirt out of his trousers and gave him six more absolute corkers.
Where I was sitting I had a grandstand view of Lou's backside and it was kind of fascinating the way the cane whistled through the air and then cracked like a whip as it connected. Lou just about lifted the roof. He didn't take any of the six without howling. We thought it was great entertainment. And even better next day when Lou showed us what his dad's buckle strap had done to his arse. That was the first time I ever saw a beating draw blood from a kid's bottom.
The worst caning I got from Mr Evans is funny to think about now, but it was no _f_u_c_k_ing joke at the time. It happened soon after my tenth birthday, after we'd been in Quackers' class nearly three years.
We used to go swimming once a week at the old baths. This was a real treat and we all looked forward to it. The boys went first, and then the girls turned up an hour later. The changing rooms were separated from the pool itself by a long wall with gaps at either end. We just hung our togs up on hooks and when we'd finished swimming we peeled off our raggy old trunks and got dressed.
While we were dressing we could hear the girls coming out of their changing room on the other side of the pool, and I don't think I was the only lad who liked the feeling of being there, stark naked, listening to them squealing and laughing as they got in the water. Sometimes we would grab a kid who'd just taken his trunks off and pretend to push him out through one of the gaps so the girls could see his prick – but it was just messing about. Mr Duckworth got narked occasionally and then one or two kids would get the cane when we were back in class, but nothing serious.
One day we were messing about like boys do in changing rooms – grabbing each other's balls and such-like – when Mark Hendry, who was my best pal, dared me to walk out round the wall on the side of the pool with nothing on. I must have been crazy, but I said I would if he would. Neither of us had a stitch on. The dare was to walk out one of the gaps, down the side of the pool and back in the other end.
We kind of held on to each other to make sure that both of us went or neither; counted one, two, three, and out we went, waving our pricks at the astonished girls and then turning round and shoving our bums out at them. We were scampering down the side of the bath, heading for the safety of the gap, when we were brought up sharp by Mr Duckworth himself. I felt as though I'd been kicked in the guts and I clamped my hands over my no longer quite so private parts.
"Hendry and Dormer," he said. "Well, well, well."
All the way back to school I was thinking about the caning we were going to get. It was going to be six of the best for certain. It was always playtime as soon as we got back from swimming, but today Mr Duckworth made me and Mark stand outside Mr Evans' office – so suddenly, it was ten times worse. The bell went for the end of play and then everything went quiet gradually as the classes came in and got back to work.
Eventually Mr Evans arrived, went into his office and came out carrying the cane that both of us knew would turn our bottoms to flaming jelly. "Follow me," he ordered and we trailed sadly after him down the corridor, up the stairs and into the top hall. And there were all the boys – every boy in the school – assembled to see us beaten. He led us up on to the stage and we had to stand there in front of him, looking out over the sea of faces. I could feel the blood pounding in my head and my guts were churning. I was terrified.
"These two dirty little boys," Mr Evans started, "thought it would be amusing to parade themselves in their birthday suits at the swimming baths this morning in front of the girls. Let's see if they still think it's amusing. Get undressed, boys."
I thought I hadn't heard him right. I looked at him and then panic really started to fill me up inside and the sight of some of my friends grinning all over their faces made it ten times worse.
"Come along, lads. Get those clothes off."
Maybe, I thought - maybe he didn't mean – I kicked off my plimsolls and saw that Mark was doing the same. I pulled my shirt off over my head and let it fall on the stage at my feet. My face was burning with the shame of it. And then there was nothing for it but to unbutton my trousers, let them slide down to the floor and step out of them. Mark wasn't wearing underpants and now he was naked. But I still had the final humiliation to go.
"Pants off, Dormer."
I peeled down my drawers and stepped out of them too. I clutched my hands over my genitals and hung my head, unable to bear seeing all those boys' faces looking up at me. But Evans wasn't satisfied with that.
"Heads up, lads. And hands on your heads. It's not as if you minded showing yourselves off this morning, is it?"
I obeyed, but dying inside as I did it.
"And now, boys, lets see if they think my cane across their bare bottoms is amusing. Hendry, come to the table."
I watched horrified as Mark went to the table and lay down over it. Evans made him hang his arms down the far side and grip the legs. He was a wiry kid and his bottom was hard with muscle and the base of his spine was a bony triangle just above the cleft in his bum.
"Now, lads, I'm going to give these boys six of the very best. And they're both old enough to lie still and take their punishment like men, so every time they move so I can't carry on with their beating, they'll get an extra stroke."
I watched Evans take aim and then step back. He swung the cane back and held it poised behind his shoulder, then threw himself forward lashing it in almost horizontally. I couldn't watch the actual impact, but then Mark screamed and there was a sort of gasp from all the watching boys. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the headmaster step back again and launch himself into the second stroke. I could actually hear the cane sing through the air before it cracked into Mark's rear end. Mark screamed again, a high-pitched yell of pain that went right through me.
"Lie still, Hendry," snapped Evans. "That's an extra stroke."
"Oh, sir," Mark wailed. "No more please."
"And that's another extra. Lie down over the table." I managed to look as Mark got back into position. The two weals across his bottom were thin and vivid dark red. "That's better. You've got six to come still, Hendry."
There was a kind of groan from somewhere in the hall and I could see that not many boys were grinning any longer and certainly none of our mates who'd been put in the front row.
Mark's whipping seemed to take an age, punctuated by those terrible cracks of the cane and his screaming. Somehow, he earned another extra stroke, so he ended up getting nine of the worst strokes with a cane I'd ever seen. I'd heard boys yell for a beating before, plenty of times, but never like this. There was panic and horror in his screams that showed just how terrible the agony was. I wanted it to be over for him, but on the other hand, the quicker he was finished the sooner it would be my turn.
His bottom seemed to be completely striped across with red and black weals. He had to force himself upright and then limped off to the side where Evans told him to stand. He just stood there, tears streaming down his face and his hands uselessly rubbing at his backside.
"Dormer. Come to the table please."
I stepped forward. My heart was pounding in my chest and I couldn't feel my feet moving at all. I reached over the side of the table and took a really good grip on the legs. This meant I was stretched over the table with my bottom perched up in just the right position for him to do whatever he liked to me. Oh please, I was praying, let me take it braver than Mark did. Please don't make me move so I get extra.
It was far and away the worst caning I'd had up to that time – and worse than all but a couple I got in the rest of my life. All my best intentions meant nothing as that thin, whippy length of cane sliced into my poor defenceless bottom. I must have stood up, or wriggled too much, or something because somehow I earned two extra strokes. I've no idea whether I screamed like Mark or whether I just yelled. They told me that I made a hell of a noise, but I don't remember doing it. Nothing existed but my poor suffering bottom and the hellish lashing of the cane. It seemed to be cutting me in half and filling the muscles with the most intense burning pain. It was so bad that I could never have imagined such a thing.
The only mercy was that, when it was over and he told me to stand up, my eyes were dry. Yelling meant nothing, but I was glad he hadn't made me blub. I thought that at least there was a part of me that the cane hadn't defeated. I stood beside Mark rubbing my backside while the rest of the boys filed out back to their classes.
And then the bastard stood right in front of the two of us, holding the cane that had beaten us in front of his chest so we could see it, bending it right round into a semi-circle.
"There now, boys. Did you find my cane across your bare backsides amusing?"
"No, sir," we muttered.
"Good. And do you still think it was amusing to parade your disgusting nakedness in front of the girls?"
"No, sir."
"Then I assume we can take it that there'll be no repeat of today's exhibition. Am I right?"
"Yes, sir." My bum was hurting so much I'd have agreed with anything.
"Get dressed."
We pulled on our clothes while he stood over us and occasionally swished the cane through the air to remind us that he was still there, and that he might be thinking of giving us a touch or two more. The pressure of my pants and then my trousers made the burning worse if anything, but at least my agony was decently hidden.
"Go and stand outside my office," he ordered. And then, because he must have seen the renewed terror in our faces. "No, you delinquents, I'm not going to cane you any more, though I don't say you don't deserve it. You can wait for the letters to your parents to be ready."
We stood there in the dark corridor, not speaking, lost in our own individual worlds of pain, listening to the secretary's typewriter clacking out the message of doom that meant more punishment later in the day.
Mr Evans emerged holding up the two envelopes. "And what will your father do when he reads this, Dormer?"
"Beat me, sir," I said.
"Good, good. On your bare bottom, I hope."
"Yes, sir."
"And yours, Hendry? What delights does your father have for you?"
"The buckle strap, sir. On my bare bum, sir."
"Excellent. Well, remember, boys, I want the letters back, signed by your fathers, tomorrow without fail. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
I thought about running away from home, like boys in books did, except that they always seemed to be a bit older than me and always found some kindly old sea captain willing to take them on. I didn't think there would be too many of those in our part of London. So I took my trousers down and lay across his lap and howled and cried as the hairbrush made all the weals burn and sting all over again, and added its own particular brand of pain on top.
But before that there had been two good things to come out of my caning from the headmaster. The first was the open admiration and sympathy from just about every boy in the school. Every kid in the class wanted to see the state of Mark's and my backside and their understanding and respect worked wonders. Mr Duckworth let us work standing up for the rest of the day, which was a good joke and kept us looking like the heroes we thought we were.
On the way home Jane Thomas was waiting for me on the corner of her road. I'd have died rather than admit it, but I thought she was the best-looking girl in our area and a couple of times she'd let me kiss her.
"I thought it was really funny what you and Mark Hendry did this morning," she said.
"Did you?"
"What did Quackers do to you?"
"He didn't do anything," I explained. "It was Evans. He caned us in front of all the boys. With our pants down."
"With your pants down?" I nodded. "On your bare bottom?"
"Yup." I felt like a real man of the world.
"That must have hurt," she said, and her eyes were wide.
"A bit," I admitted.
"Did it leave marks?"
"Yup. D'you want to see?" It was like Humphrey Bogart offering Lauren Bacall a cigarette, or Clark Gable sweeping Vivien Leigh into his arms.
We went down on to the canal bank where no-one could see us. I dropped my trousers and peeled my pants down and she gasped when she saw the thick lines of dark bruise and the scabs where the cane had drawn blood. She held out a hand towards me. "Go on," I said. "You can touch if you want." Her hand was cool and smooth on my still burning skin as she traced the weals with her fingertips. Out of sight, my dick was stiff as a pencil.
So, as I lay on my bed on my belly after dad had finished with me, it wasn't him and the beating I was thinking of. It was Jane Thomas lying naked beside me, soothing my pain with her lily-white hands and later allowing me to _f_u_c_k_ her, with every boy in the school watching me with envy and total admiration.
That, though I didn't know it at the time, was the last time my dad ever beat my bare bum for having the cane at school. The summer holidays came soon after that and, apart from the odd whacking for annoying him, the six weeks went by without incident.
The day after we went back to school, though, came the best news I had ever heard. England declared war on Germany, father got his call-up papers and disappeared from my life for ever. Three weeks later, he was dead. Nothing to do with Germany; he suffered a heart attack during training. Mum was upset.