Continuing with Dahl's Boy: "With tremendous reluctance the next boy sidled forwards to his fate. I stood there wishing I hadn't been last in line. The watching and waiting were probably greater torture than the event itself.
Mr. Coombes's performance the second time was the same as the first. So was Mrs. Pratchett's. She kept up her screeching all the way through, exhorting Mr. Coombes to greater and still greater efforts, and the awful thing was that he seemed to be responding to her cries. He was like an athelete who is spurred on by the shouts of the crowd in the stands. Whether this was true or not, I was sure of thing. He wasn't weakening.
My own turn came at last. My mind was swimming and my eyes had gone all blurry as I went forward to bend over. I can remember wishing my mother would suddenly come bursting into the room shouting, 'Stop! How dare you do that to my son!' But she didn't. All I heard was Mrs. Pratchett's dreadful high pitched voice behind me, 'This one's the cheekiest of the bloomin' lot, 'Eadmaster! Make sure you let 'im 'ave it good and strong!'
Mr. Coombes did just that. As the first stroke landed and the pistol crack sounded, I was thrown forward so violently that if my fingers hadn't been touching the carpet, I think I would have fallen flat on my face. As it was, I was able to catch myself on the palm of my hands and keep my balance. At first, I heard only the crack and felt absolutely nothing at all, but a fraction of a second later the burning sting that flooded across my buttocks was so terrific that all I could do was gasp. I gave a great gushing gasp that emptied my lungs of every breath of air that was in them.
It felt, I promise you, as though someone had laid a red-hot poker against my flesh and was pressing down on it hard.
The second stroke was worse than the first and this was probably because Mr. Coombes was well practised and had a splendid aim. He was able, so it seemed, to land the second one almost exactly across the narrow line where the first one had struck. It is bad enough when the cane lands on fresh skin, but when it comes down on bruised or wounded flesh the agony is unbelievable.
The third one seemed even worse than the second. Whether or not the wily Mr. Coombes had chalked the cane beforehand and had thus made an aiming mark on my grey flannel shorts after the first stroke, I do not know. I am inclined to doubt it because he must have known that this was a practice much frowned upon by Headmasters in general in those days. It was not only regarded as unsporting, it was also an admission that you were not an expert at the job.
By the time the fourth stroke was delivered, my entire backside seemed to be going up in flames.
Far away in the distance, I heard Mr. Coombes's voice saying, 'Now get out.'
As I limped across the study, clutching my buttocks hard with both hands, a cackling sound came from the armchair over in the corner, and I heard Mrs. Pratchett saying, 'I am much obliged to you 'Eadmaster, very much obliged. I don't think we is going to see any more stinking mice in my Gobstoppers from now on.'
When I returned to the classroom, my eyes were wet with tears and everyone stared at me. When I sat down at my desk, my bottom hurt."
That evening Roald Dahl's mother sees the stripes described as "scarlet stripes and the deep blue bruising between them," and is horrified. Declaring that "they don't beat children like that where I come from" (she's from Norway originally), she decides to withdraw the boy from the school. "I shall find you an English school this time. [Llandaff is a Welsh school.] Your father was right. English schools are the best in the world." The implicit irony is that Mrs. Dahl will remove Roald to an English school believing she is protecting him from corporal punishment, and he will in fact meet the most savage manifestations of the English vice precisely at those schools.
By the way, one of my MMSA Stories correspondents suggested that in the reading journal on The Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T. E. Lawrence (it may have been I from New Orleans), I left out a juicy part where the Turkish officer rejects the mauled Lawrence (my correspondent's excellent adjective) and rapes a pretty Circassian. For those of you who were turned on by the Lawrence excerpt, perhaps you should check out the original to see what I have missed. One week from now there will be a book report due, and if you do not do the reading, like Mrs. Pratchett I will report you to the 'Eadmaster, and you know very well what you can expect then.