DESCRIPTION OF A BIRCHING
When boys are ten minutes late for tea Im annoyed; when theyre over an hour late Im very worried. Its Peter and Ricky Im talking about - lively youngsters capable of any sort of escapade. But as the minutes tick by I find myself mulling over darker thoughts about the dangers that might befall two good-looking 11-year-old boys on a warm Sunday afternoon in September.
I hover over the phone. At what point to contact the local police station? No, stop. Stand back and look at things logically. The boys cant be in the school buildings or they would have heard the bells. Ergo, theyre in the grounds or have gone out of bounds. Knowing the boys as I do, I suspect the latter. They are likely to have gone across the playing fields and drifted into the woods beyond.
I decide to make one last expedition. I move swiftly across the playing fields, climb over the boundary fence and survey the hundreds of acres of woodland that lie beyond. My task is hopeless! Ill give it ten minutes then make the phone call.
After six or seven minutes I see flecks of colour in amongst the green and brown of the woodland. Yes, its them! I feel an almost chemical surge of simultaneous anger and relief: I want to hug the two errant boys and wallop them at the same time. Ricky sees me and hurls himself theatrically into the bracken in a silly attempt at concealment. I race over to them, my voice shaking:
Do you two have ANY IDEA what time it is?
No, Sir, I left my watch in the Changing Room.
When Peter is in trouble he speaks very softly, gazing at the ground. Ricky has crawled out of the ferns to face the music. I grab the two naughty little boys round their shoulders and squeeze them to me. Its been a long time since I last had a scare like this.
Youre in trouble, big trouble. Its half past six!
Im spluttering, I confess. Then I notice something: I grab a tuft of Rickys untidy mane of blond hair to confirm.
Youve been swimming in the reservoir, havent you?
The two boys eye each other guiltily. Theres a long silence.
Yes, Sir.
I say nothing, but Im very, very angry. Over the next couple of minutes I regain control of myself as we march back towards the school.
It was my intention, youll understand, to give the pair a _d_a_m_n_ed good hiding as soon as I got them to my room, though to be honest I could hardly wait that long to pay them back for the vexation they had caused.
Then, quite by chance, I notice a tree with a thick growth of young branches. Im no botanist, but the flogger in me would like to believe it was a birch tree!
Stop, I command.
I pull out my pocket-knife and cut off a branch: its strong, surprisingly flexible and whips nicely through the air. I hack off half a dozen more. A minute later were at the boundary fence.
Im going to deal with you here and now, boys. Bend over the fence.
Both boys look distinctly alarmed at the turn of events: theyd surely realised that eventually their young bottoms were going to be exposed to my wrath. But here? So publicly? With a bunch of freshly cut sticks? I might add the incidents I am relating took place in the mid-70s, a more robust era where the disciplining of schoolboys was concerned. In the unlikely event of a member of the Great British Public passing by and observing two small boys getting their bare backsides soundly whipped by a respectable looking gentleman, the reaction was likely to be a doffing of the cap and a "more power to your elbow, Sir".
I kneel behind Peter and tug at the legs of his shorts. Hes wearing his football shorts, which have an elastic waistband so they slide down relatively easily, exposing the little boys buttocks. (No underpants under your games shorts at St Crispins!) I get them down to his knees then pull his shirt right up his back – I want a good clear target for my improvised birch.
Now I try to repeat the performance with Ricky, but his khaki shorts are made of sterner stuff. I have to make the 11-year-old stand up to unbutton and unzip. He then tucks his thumbs into the elastic of his little emerald green briefs.
Shall I ...
No, bend down again.
I push Rickys Deperate Dan T-shirt well up his back noting the softness of his beautifully tanned skin. If you remember, Ricardo, to give him his full name, is Anglo-Brazilian and will have spent much of the summer at his beach house near Rio.
I kneel again, pleased to have left myself the little task of lowering the boys underwear. I tuck my fingers into the hem and slowly pull down. At first I am exposing tanned skin - the childs speedos are even skimpier than his briefs - but soon white skin and clearly separated buttocks appear. Finally I am pulling the little cotton garment down slim brown thighs.
I spend some time looking at the two small bare backsides that are laid out for me. The individuality of boys bottoms is a constant source of wonder: I do declare I could recognise a boy in my house as easily from his bottom as his face! Peters hind quarters are very well known to me: hes a naughty little boy and received a goodly number of thrashings in his first year with me. The boy is a well-built youngster and his bottom is full, though certainly without any fat - I do detest a flabby rear! He is less of beach creature than Ricky, so the contrast of flesh tones is much less marked.
I turn my eyes to Ricky. Hes of a slenderer build, so the bottom Ill be birching is quite small. Ill direct most of the pain to the milky white skin, of course. I kneel down and take a small soft buttock in each palm, squeezing, rubbing and patting the soon-to-be-thrashed muscles.
My final task is arrange the birch twigs, seven in all. I try to get their tip lined up, then give the instrument a slash through the air: it has a nice feel to it, though I wish the twigs could be bound together. Im very conscious that Im in completely new flogging territory: when using an unfamiliar implement there is a danger of inflicting either too much or too little damage to the tender young bottom concerned. Each cut of the birch will involve seven separate lashes, its clear; yet the twigs have much less weight than even my thinnest cane. In a few days time I must remember to de-brief (if youll pardon the expression, Ricky!) the two lads about the pain levels of their birching.
I decide to use Peter as touchstone: he is a Stoic when submitting to the rod - I never get much more than a slight grunt out of him, and theres none of the yowling and wriggling that characterises silly little boys like Lucas and Jake.
I bring my birch down with measured force on Peters bare buttocks. Theres a hiss of pain and his head jerks up. Its clear that I have used an appropriate force. I examine the childs bottom skin very closely. A good area of each buttock is affected by thin red weals.
I decide to thrash in tandem. Moving over to Ricky I lay the birch lightly across his little white bottom. He tries to look round at me, a degree of panic in his eyes. I swish the birch down, and the boy emits a little squeal - hes less used to having his backside thrashed than Peter is, indeed it must be a good six months since I last disciplined him.
The novelty of this flogging has led me to ignore decent convention: I have not informed the boys what they must endure.
"You will each receive three more cuts of the birch."
I lash the birch again across Peters nude bottom, directing it just slightly lower. I dont want to whip the youngsters thighs, but I do very much want to get the entire buttock punished, not just the centre. I move over to Ricky and slash him neatly in the same place. Both boys take this stroke more easily: theyre getting the measure of the kind of pain this unusual thrashing involves.
I make a very close inspection of Rickys little white bottom, flecked with red stripes now. Why? Because I feel like it! Its a beautiful young bottom in every way. I run my cold hands over the birched flesh, perhaps soothing the boys pain a little. Im regretting slightly promising the two schoolboys only four cuts each. I could happily administer six.
Theres little skill in birching a boy, I decide. The twigs splay out a bit at the end, so the flogging instrument is nearly as wide as the buttocks it is flogging. One simply slams the birch down and the separate twigs cut into the lads bottom-skin at random.
And slam the birch down I do, harder now that I am confident of not drawing blood A squeak from Peter, which is unusual, and a cry of pain from Ricky. For my last stroke I plan something a little different: I move round slightly and lay the tip of the birch in the cleft between Peters buttocks. I slash the birch down, catching an area of sensitive untouched skin. The boy leaps up with a howl, then realises his error and tries to resume the position.
You can stay up, Peter.
Im not a martinet! With amusement I note its difficult to tell whether the boy is more interested in soothing his own birched bare backside or seeing his friends bare bottom take its last cut. I crack the birch neatly into Rickys cleft: he too leaps up, almost tripping on his shorts and underpants.
Had our putative member of the Great British Public passed at that moment he would have seen two small boys in T-shirts with shorts round their ankles, hopping and wriggling around, hands very much on bottoms, fascinated eyes on the swishy instrument that has just given them a very unpleasant five minutes.
Off you go, you young hounds, and dont ever give me a fright like that again. Its showers and Chapel Parade in ten minutes.
There will be fun in the showers when those two brightly decorated backsides go on display to sixty other 10 to 13 year old boys!