At the secondary school that I attended during the late 60s, corporal punishment was employed as a means of maintaining discipline. However, if you were generally well behaved, any punishments that you did happen to receive usually took the form of a detention or extra homework. Even so, I had a few narrow escapes.
My first narrow escape occurred quite early on in my school career. Our PE master had told us that he wanted every boy to have his name sewn into his PE shorts. At the beginning of the same period the following week, we all had to line up, and each boy was asked in turn if he had done as instructed. If a boy answered 'no', he had to step out of line. After a while, about ten boys stood in a separate line. Their fate was obvious. So, When I was asked, even though I had completely forgotten about the instruction, I answered 'yes' as convincingly as I could. All of those who had not obeyed each received two hard strokes of the slipper. Although I had lied and got away with it, I must admit that I felt very guilty when I saw my classmates stoically taking their punishment, especially as the master didn't check. He simply accepted that each of us was telling the truth. Even now I still feel a sense of guilt about not having owned up, but it seemed such a trivial offence for which to receive the slipper.
During my first year at the school there were a few more occasions when I successfully lied to avoid corporal punishment. My general good behaviour and high standards of work probably helped to make me sound convincing when I lied, even though it made me rather unpopular with my classmates. I also became quite confident that I could 'get away with it', and it was this fact that eventually led to my downfall.
Things went badly wrong when I failed to hand in some maths homework on time. On this occasion I had not forgotten to do the homework, I simply hadn't bothered. But, because I was good at maths and had a very good record for handing in the homework on time, I thought that I had a good chance of being let off. It came as no surprise when my maths master also seemed to be of the same opinion. Normally he would slipper a boy for such an offence, but instead he gave me the choice of the slipper or extra homework for the following day. I remember sitting at my desk and debating with myself about which punishment to choose. I was actually tempted to take the slipper because I didn't exactly relish the thought of a double dose of maths homework in one evening. I even asked how many whacks I would get, but I was told that I would have to wait and find out. I knew that everyone hoped that I would choose the slipper, but the thought of having to bend over and touch my toes in front of the whole class didn't help me come to a decision. In the end the maths master said that I was taking too long to make up my mind, and he decided that a double dose of homework would be a suitable punishment. I must admit that I was somewhat relieved, even though I knew that my classmates would now look me upon as being a bit of a coward.
I went straight home after school and knuckled down to my extra homework. It proved to be extremely difficult and, along with all my other homework, it took hours to finish. The following morning I made sure that the maths homework packed in my satchel, and made my way off to school. That afternoon, at the very beginning of the maths lesson, I was asked to produce my homework. I opened my satchel, but to my horror, I couldn't find my maths homework book. Even to this day, I have no idea what happened to it. I never did find it again, Even though I was sure that someone must have taken if out of my satchel on purpose, trying to convince my maths master of that proved useless. Despite the fact that I was actually telling the truth, I could see that he was finding it hard to believe me, and I began to realize that I was close to getting the slipper after all. I fully expected the maths master to take the slipper from his desk drawer, but I could hardly believe my ears when he told me to wait outside the room until the end of the lesson. That only meant one thing. I knew that I was going to get a caning, and I stood outside of the classroom for the whole of the remainder of the lesson with my knees feeling like lumps of jelly. Some of my friends who'd had the cane had told me that it really stung.
Finally, the end-of-period bell sounded, and the class filed out of the room. The maths teacher also came out and walked off in the direction of the masters' common room. He returned a few minutes later with the school cane and punishment book, and beckoned me to follow him back into the room. He placed the thin, yellowish rod on his desk, and I then had to wait whilst the details were entered into the punishment book. This was the first time that I'd had a close-up view of the school cane, and the sight of it made my knees get weaker by the second.
Finally, the punishment book details were complete. Even though I had never been caned before, I didn't need to be told what to do next. I turned round and lowered myself across one of the desks. My school shorts stretched tightly across my backside as I bent over. Once in the traditional position, I felt the tip of the cane tapping the backs of my bare legs as I was told to straighten my knees. Then I closed my eyes and braced myself as the hem of my blazer was turned up across my back and the cane was placed in position across the seat of my shorts. Seconds later there was a swish, and the cane landed firmly across the crown of my buttocks. At first there was only a dull pain, but a split-second later a searing sting penetrated across the whole of my bottom. I gripped the legs of the desk and closed my eyes even tighter in an attempt to fight back the tears. There was then a pause during which time the pain subsided slightly, but another hard stroke of the cane soon rekindled it. By now the stinging was so intense it was almost unbearable. I had no idea of exactly how many strokes I was actually going to receive. Having taken two strokes I wondered whether my caning might now be over, but my hopes were soon dashed when I felt the cane tapping the backs of my legs again as I was told to straighten up my knees. The rod was placed in position once more and then delivered a third cutting sting. It hurt even more than the previous two, but it was the fourth stroke that was the worst of the lot. Thankfully, it was also the last, and I was extremely relieved to be told that I could stand up.
At first I felt very bitter over getting caned for an offence that I had not really committed, but as the days passed I gradually came to terms with my caning and accepted the fact that, considering everything, it was probably well deserved. As things turned out, the caning was to be the first of a few.