Please note new email address.
It occurred to me that some of your readers might welcome a straight, unadulterated account of my actual experiences of punishment at school. Some of the incidents which I will recount may seem familiar to those who have read my previous stories. That is because, inevitably, when giving fictional accounts of punishments I have drawn on my own experience. But, on the whole, the fictional stories have been embellished: these will not be. Not everything will be absolutely accurate. In order to protect the other people (boys and masters) who played their part in my adventures, I have changed most names. There will also be minor alterations of description where I consider that there is a danger that the schools concerned could be identified.
Let me set the scene. We will start in the summer of 196... I was just eight and, in the Autumn, was due to go to boarding prep school for the first time. Until then I have been at a day pre-prep school in London. It took boys from the age of five to eight. It had been a generally benign place. Punishment was, of course, necessary. But it was kept to a minimum. I remember being told to stand in the corner a few times when I was five or six. Very occasionally the backs of my thighs had been slapped by masters. On a couple of occasions I had been sent to the headmaster by a mistress and he had smacked my bottom. My shorts had been lowered for the punishment, but my underpants remained on and the slaps (three on both occasions) had been mild. Indeed, I was used to far more stinging spankings from my father at home on my bare bottom. We all knew that the headmaster kept a large gym shoe in his study for use on particularly naughty boys of seven or eight, but I only remember one occasion, in the whole of my time there, when a boy was actually walloped with it. He, of course, became an instant hero to the rest of us. Those of us who were in his form had the distinct privilege of being shown the marks on his bottom about half an hour after the punishment. They were not, by later standards, particularly awesome. Indeed, when we were changing for games about two hours later, they had all but disappeared. Nevertheless, they were clearly the marks of a sole of a big gym shoe and they impressed us no end.
Spanking was the normal punishment at home. My brother (he was 18 months younger than me) and I would fairly often (maybe once a fortnight or so) find ourselves across our father's lap with shorts and underpants around our ankles. By the time I was eight I was usually getting between three and six slaps (never more than six). They were quite hard. They stung a fair bit. Our bottoms would be red for an hour or so afterwards. I am afraid I have to admit that I always cried. But the punishments could not really be called severe and they were always well deserved.
So my preparation for "proper" school punishment had been on the mild side. But that, I am sure, was true of nearly all my contemporaries. It would not be true to say, however, that I was embarking on this new life of boarding school in total ignorance of the practices with which I was to become so familiar. Pretty well all boys' conics at that time depicted slipperings and canings as a normal part of school life. In addition, I had older cousins who were already at boarding school and who took great pleasure, especially during that summer, in giving me gruesome accounts of fierce beatings. In short, I knew quite well that I was likely to discover that punishment could be far more painful than anything I had so far experienced. Funnily enough, however, I do not remember being particularly frightened about what lay in store for me. If anything, school beatings seemed to have a touch of romance about them. I think I had an absolute trust in school masters. It certainly never occurred to me that there would be any chance of my being punished without deserving it. And I think I assumed that the severity of the punishment would never be greater than was merited by the offence. Most boys of my generation, I suspect, had swallowed hook line and sinker the adult theory that wallopings were given for the good of the boys who received them. I certainly never put it into words, but I think it would be accurate to say that I assumed that I would benefit from any punishments I was to be given.
I am sure it is true that everyone who was sent away to boarding school at about the age of eight remembers his first day with extraordinary clarity. I certainly do. Because it was my first term, my parents drove me there (in subsequent terms I would take the school train from Paddington). Motorways were few and far between. We drove, for the most part, on genuine country lanes. I remember, as we got away from the suburbs, that there was an abundance of wild flowers on the sides of the roads (even though the last days of summer had really passed). We crossed into Gloucestershire at about lunch time. It was an unusually warm day and my father pulled up at a country inn which boasted a beer garden. We ate rather tired cheese sandwiches sitting on benches in the garden. I (this was a real treat) was allowed a glass of cocoa cola. My mother drank shandy and my father had a pint of bitter. Conversation, by then, was a little stilted. I might not have been afraid of the cane and the slipper, but I had plentiful butterflies in my tummy about living away from home for the first time in my life. My parents were doing their best to cheer me up by engaging in rather over-excited chatter about the joys of boarding school life. I detected that my mother was not as convinced as my father was. But, to judge from his words, I was about to join a sort of permanent holiday camp. "Schools are so much more fun than they were in my day", he assured me. And I am sure he believed it. I wanted that pub lunch to go on for ever. But of course it couldn't. I climbed slowly back into the back of the Rover for the last leg of the journey.
I think I sat in total silence for those last few miles. I recall being terrified that I would let the side down and cry when my parents left me. I had to use all my powers of concentration to fight back the tears. Finally, we turned into the drive. It was very long. I suppose it was about half a mile before I caught the first glimpse of the imposing Georgian mansion which was the school's main building. If you saw it now, you would marvel at its beauty, its wonderful symmetry and, above all, its grandness. But I saw none of that. All my eyes could picture was a very large and very frightening prison building. The car crunched across the gravel. We followed signs directing vehicles to a makeshift car park on one of the playing fields. There were two men, groundsmen I think they must have been, who directed us to a free space. We got out and looked around. The two men came up to us and said they would take my trunk and tuck box from us. They carried them to a sort of cart which already had half a dozen trunks and tuck boxes on it. We followed the signs to the main entrance of the school. My mother put her hand out to hold mine. Oh how I wanted to feel her reassuring grip. But I rejected her offer. Some instinct told me that being seen holding your mother's hand was not something which would give a boy instant popularity.
The large double doors were open (I was to discover that they were normally firmly closed). Inside the large hall there were two trestle tables, each with a large sign attached. One said "new boys A to K". The other said "new boys L to Z". I remember wondering whether there really was a new boy whose name began with a Z. We walked to the L to Z table. A young man sat behind. I say he was young, but to me he seemed quite old. I suspect he was about 22. He smiled at us and asked my name.
"Percival Lineham sir", I whispered.
He consulted a list in front of him. "Ah yes, Lineham" he said as he ticked my name off. "We have a sixth form boy here who will show you round the school while your parents have tea with the headmaster. Davies", he called in aloud voice.
I looked round and saw a giant of a boy approaching. He was immensely tall, it seemed to me, with a shock of dark hair. I guessed he was a great sportsman. He was quite thin, but I got the impression he was very strong and muscular. Of course, he was not really a giant. I am sure he was of average size for a twelve year old boy. But to me he was almost an adult. He smiled at me.
"Yes sir", he said, addressing the young man, "is this Lineham?".
"Yes Davies, look after him for half an hour or so and then bring him back here to say goodbye to his parents."
And I was whisked off.
"Right Lineham, my name's Davies. I'm a prefect this term, but there's no need to be frightened of me. I'll show you round a bit, so you can find your way around."
There then followed a whistle stop tour of the main rooms. "That's the dining room. Over there's the gym. That's the junior common room and that's the seniors'. The prep rooms are up these stairs. Now we'll go up to the dorms. There, that's yours. It's Green dorm. Red is across the passage. Yellow's round that corner at the end. Blue, Orange and Purple are on the next floor. There are twenty new boys in Green and one prefect. Tinker is the prefect. He's a really good chap. Should be fair I reckon. Now, along here is the sick bay and Matron's office. Right, we've just got time to see the classroom block. Quick as poss without running. We're not allowed to run inside". And we scampered back downstairs and out through a back door into a courtyard. "All the classrooms are in that block", he said pointing to a long low building, "it used to be the stable block. Ok back in through the side door, that's the quickest way to the boss's study. You don't have to go there often, but if you need a head man's swishing that's where you go." We passed the heavy oak door. As we did so, he pointed to two lights outside. One was red and one green. Neither was on. "If red's on it means you have to wait outside. If green you can knock and go in. Red usually means a boy's getting swished."
We went on past another couple of doors and then found ourselves back in the main hall. Davies had, I am sure, meant well, but his tour had been so rapid and the number of rooms we had seen had been so numerous, that I had as little idea of my way around after it as I had had before. My parents were waiting for us. I was handed back to their custody for five minutes, with an instruction to make my way to the junior common room once they had left. A feeling of panic came over me as I desperately tried to remember where the junior common room was. That was probably a good thing. I was so preoccupied with trying to visualise the place that our farewells were managed without any tears. As the Rover disappeared down the drive I turned to make my way back to the building. By the greatest stroke of good luck I saw another boy of about my size walking in the same direction. I ran to catch him up.
"Hello," I called as I reached him, "are you new too?"
I think he was as relieved as I was.
"Yup, this is my first day. I'm Charles Rowntree. I mean I'm Rowntree." I imagine we had all been told endlessly about never using first names, but it was difficult for an eight year old to remember.
"I'm Lineham", I said. "Are you going to the Junior Common Room?"
"Yes, but I'm not sure I can remember where it is".
"Me neither". Although I had hoped that Rowntree would be able to lead us to the common room, I was not distressed to find that he couldn't. It must have been instinct again that told me that having this shared problem would create a bond between us. "Let's see if we can find it together".
As we walked through the maze of corridors, peering into the odd room on the way, we began to get to know each other. We established that neither of us knew anyone else at the school. I learnt that he lived in Southampton and I told him I lived in London. He had one sister, two years older than him. We spoke about the school and what we expected from it. I was pleased to hear that we were both in Green dorm. He was hoping to learn how to play rugby. I said I was too. It was not long, even in that first conversation, before we got onto the subject of punishment.
"You ever had the cane?", he asked me.
"Not yet, what about you?".
"No. I once nearly got the slipper at my last school, but I was let off. Do you think we'll be getting the cane straight off or will it be the slipper first?"
"I s'pose it'll depend on what we've done. But I reckon it'll probably be slipper first time. Do you get whacked much at home?"
"A bit. What about you?"
"Same. I bet it hurts a lot more here."
"Bound to", he agreed.
"Do you think we get to keep our shorts on for whackings?" I asked.
"Hope so, but maybe not. I certainly know there are some schools where you have to drop your bags for it."
"I heard that too. I wonder if we'll get a talk about it."
Finally, we found the Junior Common Room. There were about ten boys already there. They were divided into two groups. Six, chatting excitedly together, were clearly not new boys. They must, I thought (rightly as it turned out), be second formers. The other four looked much less at home, but were talking quietly to each other. Rowntree and I gravitated towards them.. Gradually the conversation livened up a bit. More boys arrived. Introductions were made and brief family histories exchanged. I heard others speculating about canes and slippers. One boy, he was called Johnson, proudly boasted that he had got the slipper off his father during the holidays "he said it would get me used to prep school" he said.
I am trying to picture that huddle of new boys now. Were we fat, thin, tall, short? Perhaps because we were post-war babies, we were all, I think, fairly thin. I was quite tall for my age and Rowntree and Johnson were about my height. Most of the others were about an inch shorter (that pleased me). We were all wearing the school uniform of grey shorts and grey blazers. I already knew that long trousers were not allowed until we were eleven. We all, of course, had smart new short back and sides haircuts.
After we had been in the room for about half an hour the door opened and another giant appeared. He called for silence. We all obeyed, even, I noticed, the older boys at the other end of the room.
"Right, second formers go to prep room two and sit down quietly. Davies is coming to make a few announcements to you. New boys, follow me".
He strode out and we meekly followed. He took us to what I was later to discover was prep room one. When we were in he ordered us to sit. We each took a place on a hard chair by a small desk. He stood at the front of the room.
"Right lads, I'm Barnard. I'm head boy and I'm going to tell you something about the school."
Although I was not conscious of it at the time, he was remarkably eloquent for a twelve year old boy. He started by acknowledging that we were likely to forget a lot of what he said. We weren't to worry about that. No one found it easy to get used to a whole new world very quickly. He explained that there were twenty new boys. All were in Green dorm. All, with the second form boys, would use the Junior Common Room for relaxation. The school day started at 6.30 with cold baths. They were not as bad as they sounded, he said, all one had to do was get completely in and then get out again. Tinker, the dorm prefect would supervise. Breakfast was at 7.00 in the dining room. At 7.30 all first formers (that was us) had to go to the junior changing room and change into gym kit for a run. Gym kit was white short sleeved shirts, white gym shorts, white socks and gym shoes. No underpants were to be worn. The run would finish by 8.00 when all boys would shower and change back into school uniform. First lessons were at 08.30. And so on. He ran through the whole day's routine. Then he got onto the bit we had all (I imagine) been waiting for. While I don't have a word for word recollection of what he said, I do remember this part of his address sufficiently well to use quotation marks without feeling too dishonest.
"OK, now for discipline. It's all quite straight forward and common sense. If you are sensible you won't get into trouble. First thing, obviously, always obey masters, matron, the under matrons and the prefects. There are ten prefects this term. You can tell who we are because we wear this special tie", he pointed to his gold and black tie. "Prefects can give you up to 100 lines or up to 20 press ups if you break rules. They can also send you to your form master or to the headmaster. All masters and matron can slipper you with gym shoes. Under matrons can slipper you with slippers. Only the boss man (that's the head), the deputy head, Mr Watkins and your form master, Mr Sadham, can cane you. If you need a caning you should wear ordinary school uniform and you bend over in the way you are told to. Don't even think of padding your shorts. You'll be found out, and anyway its just not done. Manor School boys take their punishments like men. Most slipperings are just given in what you are wearing at the time. But, if matron slippers you, you strip for it until you are in the third form. If you are sent to your form master and he tells you he is going to slipper you, you should change into gym kit first (no underpants remember). Form master slipperings for first formers happen in the gym at 6.00 in the evenings. Have any of you been caned before?"
No hands went up.
"That's normal. OK, don't worry, you have to be really bad to get the cane in your first term. You are much more likely to get the slipper. It hurts, but its not that bad. Any of you had the slipper yet?"
Johnson and another boy called Chapman put their hands up.
"Well done lads. I don't know, of course, but I guess you'll find it harder here than you've had before, so don't start mucking around thinking it's all a piece of cake."
There was a fair bit more, but it was all pretty mundane.
After our talk from Barnard we went into the dining room for supper. That was when we got our first glimpse of the boss man, Mr Trumpington. He was an imposing looking man. He was over six feet tall and had a burly build. We knew he had had an impressive war record. He didn't look the sort to be trifled with.
Supper was just about edible. There was spam and clearly unwashed lettuce followed by some sort of custard pudding. When it was over, Mr Trumpington announced that he and Mr Sadham would see all the new boys in prep room one in ten minutes. Grace was said and we all rushed out.
Mr Sadham turned out to be the young man who had met us in the main hall and sent me off with Davies for my tour. He stood back while the boss man addressed us. Mr Trumpington's address was short and almost entirely devoid of anything that might interest us. Its theme was what a friendly place Manor School was, how approachable all the masters were and what a jolly time we would have. We weren't really taken in. After ten minutes he left and Mr Sadham took over. He was clearly a decent sort.
"It won't surprise you to learn, boys, that my nickname is Sad Man. It's not very original I know, but it seems to be the best that Manor School can come up with. Anyone who can think of a better one may be in for a prize.."
He explained that he had the day to day responsibility for our welfare and discipline.
"That means that if you have any worries or concerns you should come and see me. It also means, I am afraid, that if prefects have any concerns about your behaviour, you will also come and see me. Let's hope that doesn't happen too often, but you ought to know that I do have quite a reputation when it comes to the slipper and the cane. I won't mislead you. I hope very much that both the slipper and the cane can remain firmly locked in their cupboard all term. But experience leads me to believe that the slipper, at least, will have to have the occasional outing. When that happens it will not be pleasant, but once I have punished a boy that's the end of it."
Again, his address covered many other topics, but that was the one which most interested us.
We were allowed half an hour in the junior common room after Mr Sadham's talk. Then it was bed time. We went upstairs to find that our trunks had all been unpacked by the under matrons. Our names were over our beds. On each bed was a clean pair of pyjamas. I was pleased to see that Rowntree was in the bed next to me. On the other side was a boy called Simpkins. Tinker was there, another giant, to supervise us. We all stripped and went into the adjoining wash room completely naked. This was a feature of prep school life that I was to become very used to. No attempt was ever made to give us any sort of privacy when it came to changing clothes. But none of us, I think, was at all concerned by all the nudity. Once we were washed and we had cleaned our teeth, we returned to the dorm and put on our pyjamas. By then, a junior matron, Miss Slater, had joined us. She was an extraordinarily pretty girl of no more than eighteen. Of course, to us, she seemed ancient. But I think most of us could not help being affected by her good looks. Certainly, I remember thinking that being slippered by such a goddess could not be all that bad. Finally, Matron herself came in to wish us good night. She was a very large and, to our eyes, ancient lady. Looking back, I suppose she must have been about forty five. She did not share Miss Slater's good looks. Indeed, her muscles seemed to be like those of a man, not a woman. I did not feel so nonchalant about the prospect of being walloped by her. When she spoke, however, there was an entirely unexpected softness to her voice. Even though her parting words were a warning about the dire consequences for any boy who talked after lights out, she left us quite a comfortable impression of a motherly woman.
There was certainly no talking after lights out that night. There was, however, a fair amount of subdued sobbing as twenty 8 year old boys spent their first night away from home. I battled as hard as I could to hold back my own tears, but I didn't succeed. As I buried my head under the bedclothes I gave way and, as quietly as possible, sobbed myself to sleep.
The following morning was much as Barnard had described it. A loud bell rang at 06.30 and Tinker added to the noise by shouting to us all to get up, strip and go to the bathroom. He went ahead in his dressing gown. There was no heating and it had been a cold night. We were all shivering as we filed, naked again, into the bathroom. There we found Tinker busy filling the four baths to the top with freezing cold water. One by one we got in, our bodies turning almost blue with the cold, immersed ourselves completely and jumped out, rushing for the relative warmth of our towels. After breakfast we went on our first freezing and muddy run and then, at last, felt the comfort of hot water in the showers. Then lessons began.
During the first few days of term I was not aware of any boy being caned or slippered. I do remember word going round, towards the end of the first week, that a fourth former, a boy called Simpson if I remember correctly, had been caned by the headmaster. He would have been about 11 years old. I am afraid I can't remember his offence or how many strokes he got. But I do remember looking on with unbounded admiration. He seemed to me to sum up all that was heroic in the English schoolboy. He was, I knew, an excellent rugby player. He was tall and slim. His peers all liked him. He was not a bully to us junior boys. And now, on top of all that, he had taken a boss man's swishing. As the days passed it became more common to hear about older boys being caned or slippered. But, for the time being, we new boys escaped.
I must now, because I know you are becoming impatient, jump forward to about three weeks into the term. By then, no first former had yet been given a more severe punishment than 50 lines. But all was about to change. We had had our first full game of rugby that afternoon. Rowntree and I had both shown some promise and had been the lucky recipients of praise from Sad Man, as we now thought of him. That night, after lights out, we were both too excited to go straight to sleep. We were not the first new boys to talk after lights out. But we were the first to be caught. Tinker was not yet in bed. He was, we assumed, in the prefects common room. There was no sound of any prowling under matron or of matron. We started, in hushed tones, to relive our triumph on the playing fields. Unfortunately, so taken up were we with the excitement of the afternoon, that neither of us heard the footsteps of our dorm prefect as he walked down the passage towards the dorm. Indeed, we were so engrossed in our conversation that it was only a moment after he had actually entered the room that we became aware of Tinker's presence. His reaction was swift and sure.
"Lineham and Rowntree report to Matron's office at once. Tell her you've been talking after lights out."
We knew better than to argue with Tinker (he it had been who had imposed the first lines) and we both got out of bed, put on our slippers and headed for the dreaded office. We had heard the unmistakable sound of rubber soled shoe on boy's flesh emanating from that room before. I imagine that Rowntree, like me, was desperately hoping that we would be let off with a reprimand. I think my legs were actually shaking as we knocked on the door.
"Come in", the voice was still motherly, but that didn't abate my fears.
We opened the door and walked in. She was sitting on a comfortable looking sofa reading a book. An open fire was burning opposite her. It really was a very homely looking scene.
"Yes boys, what is it?"
We were both silent for a moment, then I spoke.
"Sorry Matron. Tinker sent us for talking after lights out."
Instantly her appearance became hard as nails. She stood, crossed to a corner cupboard, opened it and removed a large man's gym shoe. She turned to face us.
"I never let boys off for talking after lights out", she barked at us, "both of you, pyjama bottoms down." I fumbled with my cord and my pyjama trousers fell to my ankles. Rowntree did the same. "Lineham, you can be first. Bend over the arm of that chair".
She pointed to a very cosy looking armchair. It didn't look cosy to me at that moment. I shuffled forward and tentatively bent over the arm.
"Right over" she ordered, and I leant further forward. I felt a gentle tapping on my bare bottom as she took aim. Then there was a tremendous crack as she swung the shoe with enormous force across the middle of my buttocks. I say the middle, but, truth be told, my bottom was so small and the shoe so large that both cheeks felt the full force of the blow across their entire surface. I wish I could describe the pain I felt at that first proper stroke of the gym shoe. It was agonising and incredibly shocking. It bore no relation to my father's spankings. I wanted to jump up and howl. But schoolboy honour was such that, young though I was, I knew I had to stay silent. Then the second stroke connected. The pain seemed to be more than doubled. My bottom was throbbing and felt incredibly hot. I remember biting my lip and blinking furiously to hold back the tears. I waited for what seemed an age. Then, and my relief was unbounded, I heard her telling me to get up. Only two, but two of such force that I felt as though I had had at least fifty smacks from my father. I remember grabbing my bottom with both hands and being mildly surprised that I did not actually burn myself. Then I stepped back and pulled my pyjama trousers up. Rowntree then took my place over the chair's arm. His slim, slightly rounded buttocks looked so defenceless as the shoe gently tapped. After the first vicious looking stroke, it turned bright red in seconds. I could see him tensing his muscles for the next. She swung with incredible force and the second stroke landed. Both his hands immediately leapt to his bottom, but he stayed in place until told to get up. Once his pyjama trousers were tied again and we had been told that it would be three next time, we hobbled back to the dorm, both still clutching our burning bottoms.
Tinker was just getting into his pyjamas (he used a torch to get changed for bed). He shone the torch at us as we entered. "How many did you get?" he asked.
"Two Tinker", Rowntree replied.
"That's what I got first time too. Bloody hurts doesn't it?".
"You bet", I said.
"OK, into bed now and no more talking. You can leave the show till cold baths in the morning."
I am not sure if I have ever felt so popular as I did on the following morning. Several of the boys had still been awake when we had been sent to Matron. They, of course, knew what had happened. The others had slept through the excitement, but it was only moments after the bell rang that all knew. There were several gasps of admiration as our by now bruised bottoms went on show for the first time. The pain had actually warn off quite quickly, but even then there was still a slight aching. All eyes were on us as we went into the bathroom. I remember thinking that I would actually have quite liked a cold bath immediately after the whacking. I wasn't so keen now, but even so I didn't mind the morning ordeal nearly as much as usual. I knew that, for a day or two at least, I was a hero. Rowntree and I were even given the great honour of being spoken to by some of the second year boys who were eager to make the acquaintance of the first new boys to be slippered. The greatest accolade came when Simpson, the boy who had got the first swishing of the term, came and congratulated me on being the first new boy to get the slipper.
I know, from reading other accounts on these pages, that in some families a school beating would lead to a paternal one as well. That was certainly not the case with me, or, I believe, with most of my contemporaries. In fact, I can well remember the pride with which I was able to report to my parents, in my weekly letter home, that I had been the first new boy to be slippered and that I had not cried at all. I even provided a rather poor sketch of a boy, pyjama trousers down, bending over a chair for punishment. In the following week I got a letter from my father congratulating me on my achievement and saying that he was proud that his son was not a goody-goody. It did also express the hope that I would not get into too much trouble at school, but the general tenor of the letter was one of pleasure that I had shown such spirit and taken my punishment so well.
I had come through my first taste of real school corporal punishment with flying colours. I can now look back and identify that day as having marked the end of the worst of my homesickness. The beating had, in some strange way, made me feel as if I belonged in the school. It had been immensely painful and I was certainly not eager to repeat the experience too soon, but it had made me, well and truly, a "Manor Boy".
NEXT INSTALMENT: FORGETTING TO DO THE LINES