Fern Park: Confronting the Problem


by Mr Creakle

By seven oclock every boy on the estate was there in the bowling alley with their fathers. There was a good deal of speculation about what it was all about, but no rowdiness or loud chat because the dads had started to take control and wouldnt allow any moving around or messing about. At the front of the room, with a good sized gap between them and the main group of chairs, sat John Hawthorne and Bill Scudder, and alongside them Mr Francis from the school – which was the most mystifying aspect of what was going on.

"Right, lads. Lets get started." John Hawthorne stood up and called for quiet. The room was silent almost immediately. "Were here because all of us, that is the fathers on this estate, are fed up to the back teeth with the way you lot – our sons – are behaving. Not just at home, but round the estate and at school too. Theres so many things wrong that Im not going to go through them. You know what they are anyway without me saying. And were not going to put up with it any longer. Weve been having a load of meetings and weve decided that there are three things were going to do about it. One of them we think youll like, once youve got used to the idea – one, we think you ought to like, but probably wont – and one were _d_a_m_n_ed sure you arent going to like. Tell em the first one, Bill."

Bill Scudder stood up and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. "Firstly, were starting a club and you all belong to it whether you want to or no. Were going to meet in here, in the pub bowling alley, every weekday evening, and youre all going to come at least three nights a week. Therell be a programme of whats going on and you and your dads can decide which nights you come. But if you dont come three nights and you havent got a good reason, therell be a penalty to pay, which well come to in a minute. The other two nights you stay at home and do your homework. Saturday nights – or another night if you ask properly and get permission – youll be allowed out into town, maybe, as long as youre back by eleven – "

There was a groan from the older boys.

"Yes. Eleven. Thats quite late enough for lads your age. Especially as youre not going to be getting up to mischief no longer. The kind of thing we think we can offer you to do will be football training, or well teach you to play cards properly, and we can go fishing. Anyway theres going to be a whole whack of things to do, so no-onell have any excuse for not coming. Now – homework. Mr Francis."

The teacher stood up and looked across the rows of boys and their dads. They all knew him. Most of them had been in his office for a telling off, and hadnt enjoyed it. He was generally known as Pig.

"I or another teacher will be here most nights of the week. We will have a list of all the homework thats been set for you, and well be able to help you with any work that you dont understand or your dads find difficult." There was a ripple of laughter. "Were going to have a little room our the back where you can come for help with any school things that youre not coping with. The other thing were here for is to tell your dad what your homework is if you didnt write it down properly or youre trying to tell your parents that you havent got any. If for any reason you really havent got any, we are going to have a bank of homework assignments, and youll be given one of those to do. Thats the thing you ought to like. And were going to tell your dads if youve been in trouble at school during the day.

He sat down and John Hawthorne stood up again.

"And now for the bit that youre not going to like. Youve probably – most of you – heard your dad say what used to happen to him if he misbehaved when he was a lad. If you havent, Ill tell you about my school days. If I got into trouble there was a teacher like Mr Francis, and Id get taken into his office and hed give me the cane. Six of the best across the seat of my trousers. And if it was specially bad, hed make me drop my trousers first, so it was just across my pants. And then Id have to take a letter home to me dad. My dad had a great leather belt and because Id had the cane at school he used to come up to my bedroom, make me take my trousers and pants off and bend over the end of my bed and hed leather my bare backside till I was hollering. And Ill tell you something, that cane and that leather belt, they _f_u_c_k_ing hurt, and many times it was the thought of what Id get that stopped me from doing something that I knew was wrong.

"Now, another thing you might have heard your dads say is, It never did me any harm. And theyre right. It never did me any harm to have me arse leathered and whats more, we believe – thats all the dads who are here tonight – that it did us a lot of good.

"So – " and he leaned forward over the table and lowered his voice – "were going to start doing you some good."

He reached down into a box that was behind his table and pulled out a long, thin, bone-white stick with a hooked handle. "This – " and he whipped it through the air so they could hear it – "is a cane. And this – " he reached down again – "is a strap. And this is a plimsoll like our games master used to slipper us with. In a minute were going to have a demonstration of what theyre like on a lads backside, but first – "

"No cunts giving me the _f_u_c_k_ing cane!" A thick-set boy of about sixteen had jumped to his feet and was pointing at John Hawthorne, his face set into a snarl of defiance.

"Well, well," said John, his hands now on his hips. "Jimmy Bolan, the great Fern Park hero, the lad who runs the gang down by the garages. Theres a lot we want to talk to you about. Come out here to me, sonny."

"_f_u_c_k_ off!" yelled Jim, turned to leave and found himself surrounded by six of the biggest men in the room, including his father.

"You heard him, Jim," said Mike Bolan, his father. "Get out there to the front." The boy must have made another move to escape because he was suddenly grabbed by the group of men and marched, protesting all the way, to the front of the room where John was waiting for him.

"Now then," said John. "We all know about your activities, smoking and drinking and breaking into places. I know for a fact that you gave my Stuart some cannabis to look after and we know you were cautioned by the police for damaging some cars a month ago. Anything to add, Mr Francis?"

"There certainly is, John. Youve terrorised a group of smaller lads for most of this year, James, and it was only last week that you managed to reduce Miss Salter to tears in her geography lesson. And how many times have you been taken out by the crisis manager? Six, in the last month."

"And at home," said Mike, "youve made life hell for your mother and me. Youve damaged furniture, you dont come to meals ever, youve attacked your sister seriously more times than I can remember, taken money out of your mothers purse, when you know full well that we barely bring in enough to live on, and your room is a bloody pigsty."

"So, Jimmy," said John Hawthorne. "We think its time you paid and started to reform. What are you gong to do, Mike?"

"Im going to give your backside a _f_u_c_k_ing good hiding, Jim. So make your mind up to it. Now, take your trousers and pants down and bend across the table here."

"_f_u_c_k_ off! I aint doing that," Jim shouted and made another bid for freedom. But the men were too big and too many for him. This was one boy who wasnt going anywhere. Howling his protests, he was hauled down over the table and secured there, by two men on each arm and another two taking an ankles each and hauling his legs as far apart as they would go. He was wearing a pair of combat trousers that were now stretched tightly over his broad, fleshy backside.

John Hawthorne handed the cane across to Mike Bolan, who measured his distance by laying the last foot across the target, low down on his sons rear end. He stepped back, wound himself up and launched himself into the first stroke of a cane nearly all of the assembled boys had ever seen. It sang through the air, disappearing into a blur, and then KRRACKK! it connected with the boys bottom. For a second there was silence, and then a howl of shock and pain was wrenched from the boys mouth. Boys in the front row of the audience flinched in horror.

Five more times the stroke was repeated, with the same singing blur and the same pistol crack against the boys trousers. His howls of protest and pain grew louder and more vociferous and the men had to bear down hard to stop him from writing out of their control.

"Let him up, lads," said John, and Jim was allowed to haul himself upright, his hands clutching now at his backside, his face twisted into a grimace of pain.

"Now do as I tell you, Jim," said his father. "Let your trousers and pants down and bend across the table."

"_f_u_c_k_ off!" There was an edge of panic in the obscenity now. He was beginning to sense that this was a situation he couldnt bully or bluff his way out of, and that repeating the same swearword was producing less effect every time. Mike nodded to the other men, and instantly the boy was back over the table, his arms and legs pinioned once more, spread open for the cane.

Six more times his father lay on with the cane, aiming for the same area as before, and the boys yells became frantic, but it was noticeable that his struggles were more ineffectual that before: the lashing of the cane had subdued him more than a little.

Mike Bolan was built, as his friends said, like a brick _s_h_i_t_house. Solid as a rock and mightily muscled in the upper body, and now his full strength was going into punishing his son. Every boy in the room couldnt help imagining what it was like to be on the receiving end of a thrashing like this. Even Mark Hendricks and Mike Hicks whose fathers did beat them occasionally, had never experienced anything like this.

"Right lads," he said when the full six had been delivered. "Let him up." James forced himself back on to his feet. His hands went to the back of his trousers, but there was no disguising the fact that he was now in serious pain.

"We can go on doing this all night, Jim," said his father. "How much more can you take? You are going to do as I tell you. Now, drop your trousers."

Every man and every boy in the room knew what depended on the outcome of this. James Bolan was a kind of leader amongst the boys, not just because he was a bully, but also because he had established himself as the main man among the estates teenage boys. What he said, went – until now. If he gave in and allowed his father to cane his naked backside, there would be nothing to save any of the other naughty boys who were watching and waiting.

For a long moment nothing happened. But there were no more obscenities from the boy. And then his hands went to his waist and everyone heard his zip being undone. His trousers were eased down over his hips, down his thighs, to his knees and then dropped to his ankles. He had obeyed the order.

"Good boy," said Mike. "Now your shorts."

James turned to look over his shoulder, and everyone saw the tears standing in his eyes. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do."

There was another long pause, but then his hands went to his waist again and gingerly eased his shorts down over his bottom.

"All the way down," insisted his father and the boy had to stoop to push the boxer shorts right down to his ankles. "Good lad. Now bend over the table."

Beaten, Jimmy lowered himself on to the table where he had been held down before. He braced his feet as far apart as his trousers would let him and gripped the far edge of the table-top. Mike hauled up his tee-shirt and he was naked from the middle of his back to his ankles.

There was a gasp as the boys saw what the cane had done to his bottom. The twelve weals were red and black and purple, swollen up into great ropes across his broad, fleshy buttocks. Most were parallel, but a few had crossed and there were beads of blood where they crossed. This was one very well-whipped boy.

"Youve nearly had enough," said his father, "but now youre going to hold still while I give you the hiding I was going to give you from the beginning."

"Please dad," he pleaded. "Dont hit me no more."

"No more than you deserve."

The six men who had held Jimmy down stood back a little, but ready to do their duty again. Some boys at the back stood up to get a better view as Mike lay the tip of the cane across his sons now unprotected flesh. Then he stepped back, wound himself up and delivered an almighty stroke that sounded almost like an explosion. The boy screamed, but he didnt get up. His scream died to a high-pitched wail, which rose to a scream again as the second mighty stroke landed across him. His skin was broken – and so was his will. There was nothing he could do now to save himself; he was at his fathers mercy.

After another two ferocious lashes, his father took mercy. There were dribbles of blood on both buttocks and every boy trembled at the thought of what this meant.

"Thatll do," said Mike. "Stand up."

James stood, helplessly clutching at his wounded backside. There were no shouted obscenities now; just tears running down his face. His leadership of the Fern Park boys was broken, and any hope of resistance to the combined force of the estates fathers was gone. The new regime was established.

"Over there on the alley, my son," said John Hawthorne. "Stand against the wall there so everyone can get a good look at your bum."

James hobbled towards the indicated spot, but tripped on the raised edge of the bowling alley and fell full length on the floor, his prick flopping ignominiously between his thighs.

"None of you," John said when James was in place, "will ever get a hiding as bad as that. Now, to see what the other end of the scale is like, over to Walter Oakes."

From about halfway down the room came Walter propelling his son with a hand that gripped the back of his neck. Michael Oakes wasnt a bad lad, just mischievous. recently hed been taken out of lessons, leading to his father having to come up to school to see Mr Francis, and thered been a bad accident in their garden leaving three greenhouse windows smashed.

Walter sat down on a chair facing the crowd of boys and their dads and before Michael knew it he was upended over his fathers left knee with his legs trapped securely the right. His jeans were smooth over his tight little buttocks.

"Pass us that gymshoe, John," Walter said. The gymshoe was handed across and Walter set about the slippering of his son. It was a large, heavy, old-fashioned sort of gymshoe and the sole covered the little boys bum almost completely. Walter lifted it good and high over his shoulder and brought it down hard and fast. It landed with a loud slap and Michael wriggled a bit. He took the first four slaps without a sound but then he started murmuring in the back of his throat and two whacks later he yelled out loud as the pain had built up in his bottom. Four more whacks had him yelling very satisfactorily and Walter pulled him upright and stood him there for all to see, his hands rubbing at the seat of his jeans.

"Get over there, next to James," his father ordered and the little boy had to go and stand on the bowling alley, deeply ashamed in front of his friends. Walter returned to his seat, leaving his son in the rogues gallery.

Bob Hendricks stood up and propelled his son, Mark, out to the front. Everyone knew Mark, and he was a favourite with all the boys, just as the men were all on good terms with Bob.

"Some of you know," he said, "that Ive been using a strap on Mark since he was a little tacker, though its been six months or more since he last had his tail warmed for him. Ive been neglecting my duty. Anyway, here the strap I use on him."

From under his jacket he produced a short piece of black leather. It was about eighteen inches long by three wide and thick enough to keep it stiff as he held it up for everyone in the room to see.

"This is a bit of harness of an old carthorse. The first time Mark needed leathering I cut this off and its done a good job ever since, hasnt it, Mark?"

"Yes, dad," said Mark, grinning and rubbing his backside. This brought a chuckle from all the dads and some of the boys.

"Sometimes he gets it with his pyjamas on and sometimes on his bare arse. Usually he goes across my knees for it, though hes beginning to get a bit big for that and last time I had him bent over the end of his bed. It definitely does a better job across his bare arse, doesnt it Mark?"

"Yes, dad," said Mark, grimacing, and this time everyone chuckled.

"When we get home tonight were going to talk about why he come home last Friday night with a stink of cider coming off him and unable to walk a straight line, but for now whatve you been up to at school this week?"

"Nothin."

"Mr Francis?"

"He was involved with a group of lads who broke a table and three chairs in his tutor room, and yesterday his tutor had complaints about his behaviour from two different teachers."

"Nothing?" said Bob, his hand on his sons shoulder. Mark said nothing. He was bang to rights; his backside was going to suffer. "Drop your trousers."

"Not me bare arse, dad," the boy pleaded, meaning, Not in front of everyone, because he knew for sure that his bare bottom would get it later at home.

"Do as youre told and drop your trousers." Mark unbuckled his belt and unzipped his flies. Quickly he pushed his trousers down and let them fall to his ankles. "Good lad." Bob sat down on the chair where Walter had slippered Michael, and patted his thighs. Mark lowered himself across his dads lap. He let his head drop almost to the floor and gripped the legs of the chair tightly. Bob hoisted his tee-shirt. The boys boxer shorts were worn thin and stretched smooth across his skinny little bottom. The strap, resting for a second on the faded cloth, looked vicious and huge.

Then Bob started the leathering. He raised the strap high over his head and brought it down hard and fast on his sons rear end. It was four or five whacks before the pain built up enough to make Mark cry out, but it was obvious that it was hurting from the way he kicked and wriggled over his fathers knees. By the time he had received another three or four he was yelling aloud.

"Thatll do for now," Bob said. "Well finish the job once were home tonight. Get up." Mark struggled to his feet, stooped to half pull up his trousers and then hobbled across to the bowling alley to join the gallery of shame. He didnt rub at his backside but there was no doubting that hed be feeling pretty sore for an hour or so.

Bob held the strap above his head, showing it to the audience. "Anyone else wants a strap like this, I can get a piece easy. Or anyone fancy a trial run with this one now?"

"Yes, Id like to give it a go." It was John Lewis, now standing up in one of the back rows. "Go on. Out you go," he said to the boy sitting next to him.

Johns stepson, Dean Pole, was well known round the estate. He hung around with the group of older lads led by James Bolan and had been in all sorts of trouble. Twice he had been brought home by the police. Dean resisted a bit and John had to push him towards the front table and the chair where Bob still sat. Geoff Laing, sitting at the end of the same row, was a policeman – and he had brought the boy home on one of those occasions. Now he got Deans arm well twisted up his back and gave him the expert bums rush out to face his punishment.

Bob handed over the strap and John tapped it against his palm experimentally. This had been a long time coming as far as he was concerned; the boy had a lot of grief to pay for.

"How dyou want him, John?" asked Bill Scudder.

"Over the back of the chair there," said John. "With his pants down."

"Jo-ohn," whined Dean

"You heard your father," said Geoff, whose hand was still on his shoulder. "Drop your trousers."

"And another thing," said John. "You can quit calling me John. Im the only father youre likely to get, so you can start calling me dad. Now get your trousers and pants down."

For the first time in many of these boys lives an expectation of obedience had been very quickly created. With two men standing by to help John if need be, there was no getting out of it, but actually Dean knew, somewhere deep in his brain where he couldnt have expressed what he knew, that this was what he needed and wanted: someone to care about him enough to strip his pants down and strap his backside for him. He unbuttoned his trousers and then pushed them and his pants together down to his ankles.

The chair had been turned so that his back would be to the crowd, his bottom completely on show. He reached over the chairback and held the seat. But that wasnt good enough. They made him bend over tighter and hold the rails under the seat. Dean was a strong swarthy boy, his buttocks and legs were the colour of milky coffee. John touched the strap against the boys unprotected skin, then started the beating that had been so long needed.

The first three whacks were tentative, feeling his way into it. He had never done anything like this before. Deans skin reddened a bit, but there was no other effect. But then John opened up and let fly with an almighty swing of the strap that connected with the boys flesh with a massive crack. Dean gave a great yell as his backside turned dark red almost instantly, and leapt upright, his hands clutching at the sudden burning pain. The men standing by were ready to force him back into position, but Dean was quicker. Amazingly, he bent himself back over the chair, pulling hard on the rails so that his bottom was offered up for the next terrible slap of the leather. Partly this was fear that he would be held down as James Bolan had been, but mainly it was an acknowledgement that he was getting no more than his just deserts. Now John swung the strap rhythmically, landing it again and again across the middle of Deans poor suffering bottom.

The watching boys, being unused to witnessing corporal punishment, werent in the habit of counting strokes as their fathers had done. But some were naturally taking note. Dean received nine good solid whacks and then had to go and stand in the line on the bowling alley.

"Ill have a piece of that, Bob," said John, holding up the strap.

"Ill bring it round tomorrow evening," said Bob. Dean heard, and groaned inside at the thought of more strapping to come.

John and Bob returned to their seats and Bill Scudder took over. Martin, his son, thought his time had come and that he was the next to be taken out to the front and humiliated in front of all his friends – but it wasnt to be.

"We all know," started Bill, "that there are a number of boys here in the room and round the estate who for one reason or another havent got a dad. or their dad isnt around. Now, theyve got to be dealt with, and all. So, weve talked to their mums, and each of them has been assigned to one of the other fathers. We all know Luke Mortimer. And we all know why his dad isnt here to keep him in line. And we all know the kind of thing that Luke has been getting up to. Come out here, Luke."

A blond-haired twelve-year-old stood up near the front. He needed some pushing from the men near him, but he saw immediately that he had no choice. Bill stood right in front of him, a hand on each shoulder. Luke looked into his eyes, his face registering a mixture of fear and defiance. He was a good-looking boy and no-one doubted that he could be a credit to the estate, given the right treatment.

"How many fags have you smoked today, Luke?" Bill demanded.

"None," said Luke.

"Remember, in a minute Im going to be tanning your arse for you. If you lie to me now, its going to be worse for you later. So, how many fags?"

"Three."

"And where did you get the money for fags, Luke?"

"Me mum give it to me."

"That's your second lie, sunshine. Lie to again and you'll be taking your trousers off. Where d'you get the money?"

"From me mum's purse." Bill allowed this admission to hang in the air over the crowd of listening dads and boys.

"You know how hard your mum finds it to keep the family going while your dad's away, don't you?"

"Yes. "

"So, instead of helping her 1ike the oldest boy in the family ought to, you go making it worse by thieving money out of her purse. I think that deserves a _f_u_c_k_ing good dose of the cane, don't you?" Amazingly, Luke nodded. But Bill wasn't finished yet. "And what were you drinking down by the garages last Saturday night?"

"Cider."

"And?"

"Somebody had a bottle qf vodka." Several watching boys began to feel very insecure. One or two started to imagine the cane slicing into their bottoms.

"And where did that come from?"

"Don't know," said Luke. "Somebody nicked it."

"Not you?"

"No."

"But you've nicked booze before?"

"Yes."

"Where from?"

"Here. From the pub."

"So, you lads have been thieving booze out of the pub." He looked over Luke's head at the rows of boys. "I wonder who they could be." And not a single boy there could doubt that he - and therefore their fathers - knew exactly who they were. "Well, I dare say George Tresize'll be very interested in who's been stealing from his pub. Maybe he'd like to help with the caning of the guilty lads. But for now, Luke, you're just going to get a dose from me. We'll talk about the rest later when you come home with me and Martin." The boy hung his head. The moment was rushing upon him. "You saw how Dean bent over the chair just now. You go and do the same."

With Bill's hand still on his shoulder, Luke turned to the chair and stretched himself over the back. He had to be shown how to hold on to the rails under the seat, but then he was ready. He was wearing an old pair of tracksuit trousers, shiny where they were pulled taut over his lean, but solid and meaty backside. What neither Bill nor any of the others in the room could tell was that this was the only layer of cloth protecting Luke's bottom.

Luke himself was realising how he had been trapped by his mother, and, even worse, that she knew and approved what was going to be done to him. This wasn't the first time that she had gone through his clothes and thrown just about all of them into the washing machine. About once in three weeks Luke went to school with no pants on under his trousers because they were all in the wash. That she had done it tonight, just before he was going out, meant that she knew what was going to happen and wanted it to hurt as much as possible.

And just as that piece of reality hit him, the cane ripped into his backside, leaving a line of the most intense burning pain that Luke had ever felt. He howled, but just like Dean, with whom he was good friends, he held still and allowed Mr Scudder to beat him. A minute - and six terrific strokes - later, as he hobbled across to the line of whipped lads, it felt as though his rear end had been destroyed. And the worst of it was, he knew that this was just the beginning; he and Martin would surely be getting it with nothing on once they were back at the Scudder's place.

As a finale, John Hawthorne then called up his son, Stuart. Stuart knew partly what was going to happen. He was the only boy whose father had hinted at what the meeting was going to be about. This had led to the longest talk they had ever had together. John was surprised by how readily Stuart agreed that something needed to be done, and that corporal punishment might very well be the answer. Several of the ideas for the club had started with Stuart, and it had also been his suggestion to include a caning for Luke Mortimer.

"What about you?" his father asked. "D'you need the stick?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "Remember when you smacked my arse when I was little? Well, I reckon you should have gone on doing it."

In fact, Stuart had often thought about being beaten, wondering what it would be like. Once, at school, when the woodwork teacher kept him in he had even asked the man to whack him instead, but of course he wouldn't.

Stuart stood now in front of all his friends and their dads, his heart pounding.

"You all know the kind of thing my Stuart gets up to,'" John Hawthorne said - and indeed they did, the drinking, the hunting of cats, the chases through rows qf back gardens, the times the police brought him home after he'd been caught shoplifting. They didn't all know about the stash of cannabis in his bedroom. And none of them knew about the three girls who had taken his _c_o_c_k_ inside them, or about Mrs Smith, mother of two of the boys sitting there watching him, who had taught him the pleasures of _f_u_c_k_ing and how to make a girl groan for more and still more of it.

"All I want out of this is to bring up a son that I can be proud of," John went on. "At the moment, I dont think any father in this room can truthfully say that they're proud of their sons. I can't. I watch the way you go on, Stuart, and I'm ashamed. And your mother is horrified at what you're turning into." Stuart's head dropped on to his chest. He knew it was true. "We're all guilty of neglecting these lads and letting them go on any old way they want. Well, that wasn't how I was brought up, and it isn't how I'm going to bring Stuart up from now on. You've got a lot to pay for, my lad, and this is just a start. Drop your trousers and pants and bend over the chair."

Stuart obeyed straight away. Now the moment had come he was terribly afraid, but he knew that this was right. He had wanted his father to take notice of him for years. If it had to be this way, then it was all for the best.

His backside was strong and lean, Small curls of black hair covered his thighs, but the buttocks themselves were clear white flesh. John came round the table, holding the cane. There was no need for any further talk. Several men were keen to see how severe he would be with his own son after all his talk. Up in his allotment shed, John had been practising on an old cushion; he was going to be very severe. Stuart deserved no less.

The cane sang through the air, cracked like a pistol across the boy's flesh and a second later the yell of agony was wrenched from his throat. Little boys on the front row flinched. Across the white of his skin the cane had made a dark red line, already turning into the tramline that most of the fathers were familiar with. The second landed a little lower, widening the band of fire and driving it deeper into the muscles. The next four covered the whole of the lower half of the boy's buttocks in the same dark red weals, while the first weals were already turning to even darker bruise. There was no trace of unbruised flesh between the weals and Stuart's cries became more and more desperate. But he held still and allowed his father to whip him. Twenty-four hours ago he wouldn't have believed that he would do this. Now it seemed the right and sensible thing to do, though the pain was extraordinary.

After six monumental lashes of the cane the boy thought it was over. He started to straighten up. But his father had other ideas. "Stay where you are," John growled. "I haven't finished."

The final three strokes crossed the rest at a shallow angle. Stuart's cries became desperate, almost screams. There were beads of blood where weals crossed and it was obvious that only a supreme act of will kept the boy in place over the chair, but he did hold still and the thrashing worked itself out to the proper conclusion.

Allowed up, he limped across to the alley and joined the line of boys, his hands uselessly rubbing at his lacerated buttocks. The six beaten lads were a potent image of the new regime that was going to operate on the estate from now on. James, Dean and Stuart's backsides were exposed, showing what cane and strap could do to boys' flesh; Mark's rubbing at his boxer shorts, and Luke and Michael still clutching the seat of their trousers showed no less strongly that even if dignity wasn't complete1y sacrificed a good deal of pain was involved. The watching boys were silent; their own first experiences were looming over every one of them.

John Hawthorne, Bill Scudder and Bob Francis were the last to leave. They shook hands, their faces a mixture of grim determination and pleasure at a job well begun.

"I thought that went very well," John said.

"Me too," said Bill. "We're going to see some changes round here."


More stories by Mr Creakle