Chuck had been going to drop me at the gate, but as soon as I saw them sitting there in the car, I shouted at him.
"Drive in! Don't drop me here. Please." At the same time I dropped down out of sight as much as was possible in an open-topped jeep. Fortunately, Chuck didn't stop to ask questions, but drove straight through the gates and up the long drive. To my horror the Vauxhall had started up and drove in behind us.
"Who is it?" Chuck asked looking back over his shoulder. "They after you?"
"Yes," I said, also looking over my shoulder.
"Is that the guy who whipped your ass for you?" he asked.
"One of them. In the passenger seat."
"Right." Just then the jeep scrunched to a halt in front of the big front door. Chuck jumped out and headed back to the black car which stopped just behind us. He ripped open the door, reached in and hauled out Mr Francis by a handful of his shirt front. Before the boys' home bully knew what was happening Chuck had landed three whopping punches into his face.
"I've seen what you did to this kid," he snarled. "And you should be locked up. Now get the _f_u_c_k_ out of here, before I forget myself completely and turn your ugly mug to pulp."
Mr Francis collapsed back into the car, but the driver – who I now recognised as another of the home officers – got out and stood glowering at me.
"Don't worry, boy," he growled. "We'll be back for you."
Just then, Mr Poole arrived from inside the house. The Vauxhall drove off, leaving the three of us standing there watching them. Chuck was all for leaving straight away but Mr Poole wouldn't hear of it. The colonel would want to hear his story of how I had been brought back to them so unexpectedly.
Chuck was happy enough to tell what had happened, especially when the colonel telephoned the American commanding officer to explain why he would be late back to camp.
The three men listened to my account of the boys' home and I could see the colonel's fingers gripping the arms of his chair harder and harder and his jaw set into a solid line.
"Show them your ass, kid," said Chuck, and once more I dropped my shorts and displayed what had been done to me.
"And what did you do to deserve this, Dormer?" the colonel asked.
I explained about the original caning, and then the birching for running away. The colonel said nothing for a long time.
"What do you think, Poole?"
"I think it's a cruel disgrace, sir."
"Corporal Mortenson?" the colonel said to Chuck.
"I think they oughta be strung up. Sir."
"And was this kind of punishment common, Dormer?"
"Yes, sir. He said I could get up to two dozen of the cane, and then in every dormitory there was one boy who was troublemaker of the week and he got the cane every night for the week, even if he hadn't done anything."
"Do you allow this kind of thing in England, sir?" Chuck asked.
"No, we don't," said the colonel. "Boys do get some pretty severe beatings in English schools if they deserve it, but no worse, I suspect, than American boys. This is quite a different matter.
"Well, Dormer," he said, turning to me. "It looks as though you're back with us. I won't have you going back to a place like that. In fact, I think we should do what we can for those poor devils left there."
I had a bath, the most luxurious hot soak of my life, and by the time I was dressed again in some of my old clothes Mr Poole had prepared a meal for the four of us. Chuck told us about what was happening in the war: in fact, I suspect he was very indiscreet.
I went to bed, exhausted but happy. I was starting to doze when I became aware that someone had come into my room. It was the colonel. He sat on the edge of my bed. "Only me, Dormer," he said. "I'm glad you've come back to us. I was wondering – would you mind if I called you Jack?"
"No, sir," I said.
"Good. Good."
Over the next three or four days the colonel was busy. I didn't know what he was doing at the time, but he was on the telephone to his friends – a couple of local MPs, the Chief Constable, an old school friend who he discovered was on the Board of Governors of the boys' home and the commander of the Devonport naval base, who he'd also been at school with. Then he disappeared in the car and was gone for two days.
At the end of the week he called me into his study. "I thought you should know, Jack. The commander, Francis and four other officers have been dismissed. There will be a new regime in place within a couple of days. We've found some local women to take charge of the home. Your friends will notice a big difference, I'm sure."
"Does that mean I have to go back, sir?" I asked.
"No. That is the other thing I wished to speak to you about. My solicitor has been at work. You are now my ward. That means that I am your guardian and responsible for your upbringing. I hope that meets with your approval."
"Oh, yes, sir," I said. "Does – does that mean that Michael is my brother now?"
He chuckled. "Not quite. But it does mean that you are part of this household and Poole and I will do our best to bring you up decently and see that you're educated. And yes, that means that if you need it I shall arrange for Poole to cane you, just as before. Your recent experience doesn't mean that we're going to be soft on you."
So I was back to my old life – except that it was different. Mark and Luke were back in London; Michael was away at school, and the house seemed enormous with just the three of us in it. School was the same as it had always been, except that I wasn't caned for ages. I suppose the colonel had told the headmaster about what had happened and he wasn't to beat me till I was healed.
That happened remarkably quickly. The cuts made by the birch healed in a day or two and soon after that it was only the bruises left by the cane that discoloured my backside. And well before the month was up they were gone too.
What wasn't gone was the change in me. I watched the tricks the other boys got up to – putting drawing pins on each other's seats, flicking ink at each other – all the things that I had once taken part in, and I no longer found them amusing or worth anyone's time to take part in. I played cricket with them all in the breaks, because that was the current phase, but the petty mischief no longer held any interest for me. I watched as boy after boy was called out and had to hold their hands up for the cane, or bend over a desk to have their bottoms swished, and I thought, "Serve you _f_u_c_k_ing well right." And when Batty only gave them three feeble strokes across the well-padded seats of their trousers, I couldn't help thinking how soft he was being and urged him on to whip them harder.
I made better friends with Stu Hathaway. He was the only boy I told about what had happened in the boys' home. He wouldn't believe it till I showed him the remains of the marks across my backside, and then I was a kind of hero for about five minutes. We took to going off together on Saturdays and any other spare time we had. He worked after school in the market garden at the end of the village, and I took to going there and helping out too. The old guy who ran it was glad of my help, I think, and he started to pay me as well, sixpence a week.
I'd been home (as I now thought of it) for nearly five weeks when the colonel said that he wanted to see me in his study after tea. At first I thought I must have done something wrong and he was going to have me up on a charge. But when I got there, he was perfectly friendly and told me sit down. As I sank into the big armchair, I realised that I had never sat down in this room, because nearly every time had been the prelude to a visit to the tack room for a good hiding with the cane.
"Jack. I've been giving your future a good deal of thought. Had you ever thought what you might like to do when you were grown up?"
"No, sir," I said. When I was very small I had wanted more than anything to be a trapeze artist in the circus, but I didn't think it would be a good idea to mention that.
"Do you remember my asking you once whether you had ever taken the scholarship exam for the grammar school?"
"Yes, sir, but we never took it at my school in London."
"Quite so. But I have been speaking to Mr Newby, and he thinks highly of your abilities."
This was news to me.
"I believe you should have gone to the grammar school, but now that you are nearly thirteen, it's a little late in the day for that. Next year, Michael will change schools, because he is of an age to go to public school. My old school, Buller College, takes boys at thirteen. I think the best that could be done for you would be to send you there also. What do you think?"
"But wouldn't it be expensive?"
"You are not to worry about that. While you are my ward I shall do my duty by you, you need not worry on that score. Should you like to go to school with Michael?"
"Yes, sir," I said. "Very much." I could hardly contain my excitement at the prospect.
"I have consulted the headmaster at Buller, who is an old school chum of mine, and he thinks he can find a place for you in the same house as Michael. But there is a snag."
Bugger! I thought. Why is there always a _f_u_c_k_ing snag?
"I have shown him your mathematics book and your English book and he thinks that you have the potential to do well at Buller. But, all boys at Buller are expected to have done four years study in Latin and two in Greek. You have never studied either, have you?"
"No, sir." My heart was back in my boots. He might just as well never have mentioned _f_u_c_k_ing Buller College. I wouldn't be able to go.
"The headmaster has suggested a course of action. He is very impressed by what he has seen of your ability, and he is willing to admit you, provided that you pass a simple test in Latin and Greek at the end of next July. You will not then be at the standard that is expected, but he believes, and so do I, that you would be able then to catch up and perform at the level he expects."
"But –" I started to object.
The colonel held up his hand. "How are you going to be able to pass even a simple test in subjects that you have never studied? You have eight months. In that time you will attend – provided that you want to, you understand – daily lessons in Latin and Greek after your normal school day. I have spoken to Mr Sayer, and he is willing to give you the necessary tuition. As an old Cambridge man he is qualified to do so, though I would have preferred someone from Oxford. What do you think?"
I didn't know what to think. The thought of daily sessions in Sayers' office with the threat of his cane over my head the whole time – to say nothing of the slipper – was a depressing prospect. But then, if I pulled it off I would be going to school with Michael, and already I knew enough to realise that an education like that would open doors that at the moment I could only dream of.
"Would it have to be absolutely every day?" I asked.
"No, I suppose not. I know you have some days for football and such like. But I think you are going to need four evenings each week if you are going to make the grade. And before you bring it up, there is no way out of the other objection I can see that you might wish to make. If you are not sufficiently industrious at these extra studies, I would certainly expect Mr Sayer to beat you. I always found that kind of thing an excellent aid to study. And I think even you would have to agree with that."
"Yes, sir," I said with some reluctance.
"So – will you do it?"
I only hesitated a second longer. "Yes, sir."
"Good man." He stood and eagerly held out his hand for me to shake, and I returned his firm grip, feeling in my heart all the gratitude and enthusiasm he could possibly wish for.
Twenty-four hours later, almost to the minute, I was stretched over the back of the headmaster's armchair, my shirt was pulled out of my trousers and I could feel the sole of the slipper tapping lightly against my bottom.
"Now, Dormer, your last chance. The boy loves the master."
"Puer," I began. "Amas. Magistro."
The tapping of the slipper stopped. The next second it slapped down hard on my taut trouser seat, covering the left cheek and painfully catching the middle of the right with the tip of the sole. WHACK! a second slammed into me. The whole of my bottom caught fire.
"Two mistakes, Dormer. Try again. The boy loves the master."
"Puerum. Amat. Magistrem."
WHACK! the slipper landed again, right on the patches of flesh that were already burning. "Slightly better. One mistake. Try again."
"Puer. Amat. Magistrem."
"Good. I think that will do for tonight, Dormer. Up you get."
I straightened up, my backside throbbing from the slipper.
"Not a bad start, Dormer. Learn those declensions tonight. Tomorrow I'll begin by testing you again. Off you go." I headed for the door, relieved to be getting out so relatively lightly. "Dormer!" Oh _f_u_c_k_! What? "The book." Thankfully, I went back for it and then, at last, I was outside.
Stu Hathaway was waiting in the lane. "What took so long?" he asked.
"I have to learn Latin," I told him. "The colonel wants me to go to school with Michael, so I have to learn Latin. And Greek. And the old man's the only one who can teach me."
"Rather you than me. Do you want to go to this fancy school?"
"Yes, wouldn't you?"
"Not _f_u_c_k_ing likely. Load of snobs in places like that."
"No they're not. Anyway, it won't all be snobs if I go there, will it?"
"So what was it like, this Latin?"
"Bloody hard. Especially when he tested me bending over the chair with his _f_u_c_k_ing slipper tapping on my arse."
"Did he slipper you?"
"Yes, but not too bad."
And off we went to Stu's house where we could smoke in the privacy of his bedroom.
That was the pattern of the following four weeks. School, followed by my private lesson with Mr Sayer (which invariably included a dose of gymshoe); then a fag with Stu, if we'd managed to get hold of any, then home to tell the colonel how I was getting on.
I wasn't getting on very well. I was learning all the words – sort of. But none of it made any sense. I was trying really hard, spending at least an hour every night trying to make these ridiculously changeable words mean something. And every afternoon I ended up stretched over the back of the armchair with the slipper slapping at my arse, over and over again.
Mr Sayer was very patient with me and he never made me drop my trousers for the slipper or made me fetch the cane out of the stand by the door, so it could have been much worse. But by the end of term I was wishing I had never agreed to this.
Michael came home for the holidays, presented his report and was promptly taken out to the tack room for a dose of Mr Poole's cane – eight on his bare bottom. Next day, I told him about the problem I was having. He did his best to help but it was kind of hopeless. I sensed that he wasn't very good at Latin either.
For almost a week over Christmas I didn't even think about the beastly language, but then I was booked into Mr Sayer's a few days before school started again. I went up to my room and opened the book he had given me to learn from. I was supposed to work out a translation of some Latin sentences – Exercise 15. I threw myself down on the bed and looked at the sentences – ten of them.
And they made perfect sense.
'Lucius loves to see soldiers by the river – All soldiers clean their kit with sand (I swear I'm not making this up) – The girls at the temple look after the geese – Marcus runs to school with his books under his arm' and so on.
I turned the page to the next exercise, one that I'd never looked at before. 'Lucius and _s_e_x_tus like going to school, but Marcus is a bad boy – Marcus's father asked the master to beat him but the master was a kind man'. Huh! – a likely _f_u_c_k_ing story!
But I had cracked it! I set off to my lesson with Mr Sayer with a light heart. He listened to my translation of the exercises, nodding his approval, his fingers stroking (slightly regretfully, I thought) the gymshoe which stood on his desk, ready for service. We turned to the following exercise, and I raced through it without a single mistake.
"Very good, Dormer," he said. "I think it's time we started on this."
He went over to the bookcase and pulled out another book. He handed it to me and I looked at the title: 'Elementary Greek'. I opened it and my heart skipped a beat. I couldn't even read the letters!
With Greek there is nowhere to start except the alphabet. I did my best and after half an hour I could recognise about half the letters without too much difficulty, but the problem was that what looked like a 'p' was really an 'r', and an 'o' was really an 's', and a 'u' was really an 'm', and half the rest didn't look like anything at all. And all the letters had peculiar names!
"I don't think you're trying, Dormer. Fetch me the cane."
"Oh please, sir. I am trying, but it's so difficult."
"Nonsense. Fetch the cane."
I fetched it. He lay it on the desk between us.
"Your final test for today, Dormer. Write down the letters as I say their names. Twenty questions. A stroke of the cane for every mistake. Make three mistakes and your trousers come down. Make five and the caning will be on your bare bottom. So think carefully. Close the book."
I did it and tried to put the cane out of my head. Mr Sayer held it upright in front of him, waving it gently to and fro so it was impossible to ignore it.
"Chi," he started. The bastard! He'd started with one he knew I'd found hard. "That's mistake number one, Dormer. One stroke. Rho – correct – Lamda – correct – Epsilon – correct – Gamma – that's mistake number two, Dormer. Two strokes. Theta – and number three, Dormer. That's three strokes with your trousers down – "
The bastard! I'd misunderstood him. I thought he meant that I'd have to take my trousers down after the first three strokes – but no! the whole lot were going to be just on my pants.
"Omicron – and that's number four, Dormer. Keep your mind on it. One more and the cane will be on your bare bottom – Beta – correct – Mu – correct – Alpha – correct – Sigma – correct – Phi – that's Pi, Dormer, you idiot. So now you're taking your pants down for the cane to really get to work."
I made eight mistakes altogether. He didn't cane me hard, but there is always something particularly extreme about stripping your backside naked and bending over for a man to cane you. He made the last three really sting and my bum was tingling all the way home.
He caned my bare arse again the next day, and the day after that. But I knew the Greek alphabet perfectly and had started to put sentences together.
And so it went on. I improved rapidly and then he had to find excuses to whack me. There usually wasn't much of a problem about that, so at the same time as I was learning Latin and Greek I was becoming more and more accustomed to having my backside lashed. I never grew to like it as I've heard some boys do, but at least I could take a fairly serious beating with equanimity.
(Author's note: I'm really bored with Jack. Anyone who fancies taking up the story (off to public school, fagging, beatings of various ingenious sorts etc etc) is very welcome).