There was a howl of wind as the door opened and quickly slammed shut again.
"Norman, is that you?" his mother called from the kitchen
"Yes, Ma." Norman was almost eleven and had lengthened quite a bit, but he still wore the same short trousers. His long bare thighs were red with cold and he dropped his backpack to rub his freezing hands.
"Norman, youre late. Your father is home."
Another sort of cold penetrated the boys body. If his father (his stepfather, actually) was home this early, it usually spelled trouble.
Doris Thorton emerged from the kitchen. "Dont just throw your backpack like that. Put it neatly on the table. And take off your shoes." When the boy had obeyed, she continued, "Go upstairs and wash. Then come back down and go to se your father in his study."
With a sigh the young boy did as he was told. Once in his room, he removed his jersey and cap and took the books from his bag. His stomach fluttered as he looked at the graded test paper. English spelling and grammar were not his forte.
He washed his face and hands, took the test paper and went downstairs. His mother had disappeared into the kitchen once more. Slowly he advanced towards his fathers study, his heart beating wildly as it always did before entering the dreaded room. Today might be even worse.
Once by the door, he raised a trembling little hand and knocked. No reply. He knocked louder.
"Come in," a gruff voice replied and the boy slowly opened the door.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" James Thornton snapped. He was a big man but the desk behind which he sat was even more imposing.
Once Norman had entered, closed the door and stood shivering before the desk, Thornton continued. "I heard the door slam. Was that you?"
"Yes, sir. The wind- "
"Never mind the excuses. You know what I think about noisy little brats. Why are you late?"
This wasnt going very well, Norman thought miserably. "We had to wait for the test paper to be returned" he squeaked.
Thornton gazed at the frightened boy for a while. The small, pale face, strained just now with anxiety, the small, wrinkled shorts and the fingers that kept plucking at them all proved to the man his power over this child. And he enjoyed it. When he had married Doris, the only thing he regretted was to have to put up with this snot-nosed brat. Well, at least he could have his fun with him.
"Let me see those test papers," he said, extending his hand. "Lets see the genius at work." Norman held them out with a shaking hand. Thornton quickly glanced at the red grade at the top of the first sheet and put the paper down on his desk.
"Just as I thought," he spat. "A morons piece of work. Why Im paying good money to send you to this school I cant imagine. You never seem to learn anything properly. Unless it is thoroughly thrashed into you, that is." He pushed a pad and pencil towards the boy.
"Lets see how you spell these words," he said. "Write them down. You have studied them so you should know them well, and I will not tolerate a mistake. Not one, is that clearly understood?"
"Yes, sir," Norman whispered, fingering the tight seat of his shorts.
"Conscientious, anxious, psychology, salacious, obstreperous, pernicious." The words were fired at the boy with great speed and Norman scribbled as fast as he could. There were 20 words in all.
"Very well, boy," Thornton said, "lets have a look." Norman handed his father the sheet of paper. The man looked through the words and looked up at the frightened boy.
"I dont think one single word is correct," he said calmly. "Bring me the tawse from the cupboard."
Normans mouth quivered but he trudged to the far end of the room, opened the large closet and retrieved the heavy Scots tawse, a thick leather strap with the tails. He had felt it all too often but was still terrified of the pain it inflicted.
"Dont just stand there, you stupid little boy. Give me the tawse, take your shorts down and show me that bare backside of yours. You should still have some good marks on it from yesterdays little session, eh?"
Norman handed over the instrument of a boys discipline and slowly unbuttoned his skimpy shorts.
"I will be lenient and give you just one stroke for each of your mistakes in spelling. That means 10 cuts across each cheek. Count yourself lucky you dont get 3 for each. Now get across the the stool."
The boy, shorts around his ankles, shuffled towards a long, upholstered bench and lay down across it. His upper body was well off the edge and his face rested on the carpet. Only his small bottom pointed upwards towards the ceiling, cheeks agape.
"Spread your knees wide," Thornton instructed as he slowly rose from his chair and approach the prostrate child. He saw the boys buttocks were, as he expected, still well striped with red welts. Well, they would soon fade from view under another layer of purple bands left by the strap.
"I will spell each word and you will repeat it, letter by letter, after you feel the stroke. When you have spelled it correctly, I will give you the next one. Lets start with your left cheek. Spell conscientious." CRACK! The tawse landed violently across the boys bare buttock with a loud thwack that made the flesh wobble.
"OOOWWW!!" the boy screamed but quickly started spelling. As soon as he had completed the word, the next lash feel on exactly the same spot and the red band on the skin turned darker.
"Spell anxious," came the next order and as soon as Norman had complied, the third lash whipped across the now very red left cheek.
Even before the left cheek had been fully ministered to, Norman was squealing like a stuck pig. The thick tawse made a deep imprint on his flesh and the small buttock seemed to be swelling.
Then it was the right cheeks turn and the process was repeated. In his pain, the boy had more and more trouble getting each word spelled correctly and the stroke had to be repeated each time. He had lost count by the time Thornton finally stopped. He stood, tawse in hand, and surveyed the boys tortured behind. The red was gradually turning almost purple at some spots and he nodded satisfied.
"Get up," he ordered the sobbing boy, "and stand in the corner. You will remain there for an hour after which we will discuss the slamming of the door."
Norman scrambled off the bench and stalked to the indicated corner. His shorts and pants lay abandoned near the bench. He gently felt his wealed bottom.
"Hands on your head, boy," came Thornton's loud command. "No rubbing. That can wait when were finished."
Norman stood on shaky legs, half leaning against the wall, arms resting heavily on his head. His bottom glowed and burned fiercely By the time Thornton returned, he was a weary lad indeed.
"All right, my boy. Second installment. Slamming of doors. This is rude behaviour and for that boys get whipped severely. I have also told you several times before not to slam the door when you enter or leave the house, so this action is considered gross disobedience. Another offense for which boys are thrashed. And finally there is the little matter of coming home late. This I also consider disobedience since you not it is forbidden. You should have explained that to your teacher. Well, you will be punished for that as well.
"Lets start with the slamming of the door. I think 20 more with the tawse should be adequate, dont you think? Get out of the corner and back over the stool. Quickly now. We still have a lot of work before us."
The second installment was duly inflicted and Doris, preparing supper downstairs, listened to her sons pitiful wailing. She had talked to her husband several times not to beat the boy so frequently, but without success. He felt that when the boy misbehaved, the only remedy was a sound whipping. "The only way to handle boys," he would say.
When the noise upstairs finally had subsided, supper was ready and Thornton led the boy into the kitchen. Norman was still in the process of adjusting his clothes. His face was blotchy and tear-stained, his eyes red and swollen.
Seated at the table, with the boy shifting uneasily on the hard surface of the wooden seat of his chair, Thornton explained to his wife the task that still lay ahead of him. "After we finish eating, Norman will go back to the study. He will be punished for coming home late and for disobedience. He can do the dishes when Im finished with him. A sore behind need not keep him from doing his chores. If he doesnt perform them properly, I will gladly take the cane to him."
Norman ate in silence. He wasnt very hungry and his bottom hurt badly. Knowing that more pain was in store for him, didnt help matters. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he slowly chewed his food. Thornton watched him with grim satisfaction.