"Get up, Rushton, please."
The ginger-haired fourth-former straightened up from his position over the chairs, carefully pulled up his pants and then re-fastened his trousers. He climbed down with both hands already clamped to his rear end, where the three strokes of the cane were like burning wires cutting into his flesh. He limped across to the window, where Potter was still rubbing himself and Dornan had already stepped forward for his whacking.
Dornan, the dark-haired boy whom Mr Appleyard had caned on his first day as headmaster, was back for a second beating. But this time he was obliged to unfasten his trousers and push them and his pants down to his knees before stretching over the two chair backs. He really has got the most perfect backside, thought Mr Appleyard as he hoisted the boys shirt up his back. Not an ounce of fat, lean, shapely muscles, the buttocks pulled apart slightly by his stretched position: the ideal contender for a caning.
As he turned to take up his starting position before the first stroke, Mr Appleyard noticed that it had started to snow. Most headmasters would tell you that they hated snow: the snowball fights, the dangerous slides, the stupid tricks that boys played on each other, the mess, the cold, the accidents, the over-excitement. Mr Appleyard knew all about that, but there was part of him that was still a boy at heart, and he loved the snow.
He skipped in swinging the cane, flicked his wrist at the last moment and the speeding rattan cracked across the white of Dornans bottom; the boy gasped in the back of his throat, and the thin red stripe appeared almost instantly, a precise three inches above the crease at the top of his thighs.
It was coming down heavily now and he could see that it was starting to lay on the grass. Looking up, the sky seemed to be black with the falling flakes.
He turned, took aim and danced into the second stroke. It lashed into the boys helpless flesh less than an inch lower than the first. There was no sound from Dornan but his head came up in a spasm of agony and his heels kicked up and down two or three times.
Already the lawn was almost white. Potter and Rushton saw that he was looking through the window and glanced round. Even the excruciating pain in their bottoms couldnt stop their delight at the falling snow from showing in their eyes.
The third stroke was the worst yet: another inch lower so that it landed right on the tenderest part, where he would be reminded of it every time he sat down in the next couple of days. Dornan murmured a little, but held his position, even though he was hoping that it was over.
"Dont get up, Dornan. One to come, since you were the ring-leader here."
The snow was extraordinarily heavy. The drive was white almost from side to side. There was a slight wind and snow was beginning to pile up along the lawn edges and he could see it already drifting against the base of the big tree. Rushton was half turned to look out the window, almost oblivious of his hands still rubbing at the awful fire.
Mr Appleyard stepped back a half step further and considered Dornans backside. The three angry red weals were enough to cover the lowest third of both buttocks in a suitably agonizing fire; the fourth would drive the lesson home. He launched himself into it, lashing the cane in almost horizontally, with the deadly flick of the wrist at the last moment so that the tip was travelling at maximum speed. "Aagh!" Dornan couldnt help himself, and the stripe across the whiteness of his bottom told the story. It landed on unmarked flesh on the boys left buttock, crossed the first stroke in the crack between the buttocks, but landed heartbreakingly across the lower two weals full on the curve of the muscle, and the tip flicked him low down on the outer curve of his right buttock, to finish the whipping on a high note of pure pain.
"Get up."
Dornan forced himself upright and gingerly pulled up his pants and trousers. Mr Appleyard remembered vividly how the pressure of clothing seemed to increase the burning that the cane had made. The boy climbed down off the chairs and stood with his friends.
"Shall I have to cane you again, you three?"
"No, sir," they muttered, still massaging their burning rear ends.
"But you said that after the last time I caned you, Dornan."
"Yes, sir."
"Then I hope you mean it this time."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Sign the book, please."
The three boys signed their names against the entries in the punishment book that recorded how many strokes they had received, and that it had been on their bare bottoms. One by one, Mr Appleyard shook their hands as they left the study. He replaced the cane in the umbrella stand, put the punishment book away, and set out to ensure that the snow didnt cause too much indiscipline.
Fortunately, it was not long till tea; boys had mostly finished their after-school activities and it was snowing too hard for them to venture outside. He called at the prefects study and found Pattinson and two others there.
"All of you on duty tonight, please," he asked. "I want no snow brought into the house, and no ragging while its still snowing."
"Yes, sir."
He repeated the same message to all the boys as they finished their tea. If everyone was sensible they could enjoy the snow without creating extra work for the staff.
It snowed all the way through prep and it was a serious effort for most boys to concentrate on schoolwork, especially prep, when such a magnificent snowfall was underway. When they crossed the yard back to the house for supper, there was some snowballing, but the snow was too dry and fluffy to make good balls, and it was still falling too fast to remain outside for long.
Johnson caught England bringing a handful into his common room. Three sharp slaps of the slipper – not the Green Flash – taught the second former that Mr Appleyards orders were not to be disobeyed. By lights out it was still snowing. The third formers looked out of their dorm windows at the deepening white carpet with longing.
"I dare somebody to go out and get some," tried Spraxton.
"Dont be _f_u_c_k_ing daft," said Davies, remembering the cut of the cane across his naked bottom. "Theyll all be on duty tonight."
When they woke in the morning it was over a foot deep and still falling. There was a mystery set of footprints across the yard and round the chapel, so one boy at least knew that during the night there had been a break in the snowfall, but no-one ever discovered who it was.
Lessons that morning were slightly haphazard since many masters were unable to get to school. The remainder – those who lived at the school, and those who lived locally – managed the forms between them, and there was a general air of camping out and making do in a crisis.
In the afternoon, the snow stopped, the sun came out and a perfect winter evening was in prospect. And the moment lessons finished for the day, of course, the snowballing, sliding and general joy began in earnest. Prefects and master could have done nothing to stop it, and in any case all the prefects and some masters wanted nothing better than to join in.
The porters didnt like it because it made their jobs difficult, and with safety in mind they were soon out making paths across the snow with ashes from the boiler.
By teatime there were half a dozen slides across the yard, which was ideal for it, having a slight slope. Tomorrow was Saturday and many senior boys remembered that in some store room somewhere the school had a selection of home-made but perfectly serviceable sledges and they must be sought out and prepared for Saturday afternoons sledging on Beacon Hill.
The bell rang for tea, but no-one heard it. Too much fun was being had. The master on duty, Mr Starling, appeared with a face like thunder.
"Stop this at once," he bellowed, one of the few staff who could have made themselves heard. Just at that moment Lawford in the Upper Fifth came careering past him on the longest slide of all, completely unable to stop: he saw Mr Starling, tried to stop, couldnt, on an impulse grabbed the masters jacket and pulled him down. Together they slid another five yards.
Starling was incensed. "Get to my study, Lawford. Clements, find the porter on duty and tell him we need some ashes here."
There were groans from the dozens of boys there.
"And the rest of you, in to tea. The bell went ages ago."
"Just a moment, Mr Starling." It was Mr Appleyard, now appearing from the house and taking in the scene of merriment. "I think I have a better idea, if youll allow me."
"Of course, headmaster," said Mr Starling, dubiously.
Mr Appleyard surveyed the slide. It was over twenty yards long and already had a surface like glass. It ran from near the terrace in front of the school building and ended at the railings on the far side of the yard. A large group of boys were queuing on the terrace for their turn. In another part of the yard junior boys had made a smaller slide.
Quickly he made arrangements. Pattinson took a squad of fourth formers to fetch as many old mattresses as they could find in the cellars; Woodman and some upper fifth formers went to search for the schools supply of hurricane lanterns. Mr Appleyard himself went to the kitchens and discovered that the cook was more than willing to fall in with his plans and her meal was ideal for such a thing.
Mr Starling retired to his study where Lawford was waiting for him. The master was happy to leave arrangements and discipline out on the yard to the headmaster, but he was uninclined to forgive being overturned in the snow in front of the whole school by a boy to whom he had never much taken.
Lawford removed his jacket and bent over the back of the armchair when he was ordered to do so. Mr Starling pulled his shirt out of the back of his trousers and went to the bottom drawer of the bureau. He selected one of the larger canes and addressed himself to the bending boys slim backside.
Eight robust strokes later, his pride was repaired somewhat, particularly when the boy whimpered a little as the last two strokes, which crossed the previous six, were administered to his unrepentant buttocks. The master said nothing to the boy, largely because he knew that this punishment had been unfair, and now that it had been given he felt bad about it.
Lawford also felt he had been treated unfairly and rubbed his backside in fury as he walked back towards the yard, but his resentment didnt last. Down each side of the main slide hurricane lanterns lit up the scene. Mattresses had been tied to the railings at the end of the slide so that boys who reached the end could career into them safely. Tables had been set up to one side and the kitchen staff were serving tea to a queue of happy, laughing boys.
"What dyou get?" his friend Barley asked him.
"Eight," he replied.
"_f_u_c_k_ing old bastard. Give us a show." So the two fifteen-year-olds, plus a couple more friends retired to the nearest washroom to examine Lawfords wounds.
Their picnic tea of sausages and fried potatoes over, the boys gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the snow. Prep was forgotten. The main slide was the focus of most games. Two and even three boys tried to slide simultaneously. Most sliders failed to reach the mattresses at the railings. Any who did were cheered hugely. One of the junior masters took a run at the slide, almost made it to the end and was cheered as a jolly good fellow.
Elsewhere, there were a couple of shorter slides that the junior boys had made. Another group of youngsters were making a snowman. Three other boys were aiming for the largest snowball by rolling a chunk of snow round the yard. Occasional snowball fights broke out, but failed to reach the critical mass of fighting boys that would have let it develop into a snowball war.
And Mr Appleyard strolled around the yard, arm-in-arm with his wife, smiling at it all and enjoying the scene. He stole a sausage from the serving girl, who giggled. They stood beside the slide watching the boys skate past them, arms flailing. Lawford managed to reach the end, thankfully because he had already discovered that sitting down hard on the ground reawakened the weals across his bottom – but of course Mr Appleyard knew nothing of Lawfords caning. He saw Rushton, Potter and Dornan take their turns, one after the other, and was glad that their whippings were not preventing them from enjoying themselves.
It was a scene of universal happiness and delight.
Or almost.
Hodgson, the upper fifth former who had been given the job of collating all the punishment books for Pattinson, had collared a second former called Oakes and taken him up to a distant form room. They could hear the shouts from the yard in the distance.
"Youve got three hours worth – and Sawyer slippered you. Is that right?" he said.
"Sawyer did slipper me," the little boy said, "but I dont know about the others."
"Did the slipper hurt?"
"Yes, a bit."
"So are you going up to Pattinson for the cane, or shall I whack it off for you?"
"You, I suppose," said Oakes, reluctant to volunteer for any kind of beating.
"But this is the third week in a row youve been over the limit, so itll have to be the cane, wont it?"
"Suppose so." Twice he had allowed Hodgson to slipper him. It hadnt been very hard and it meant he didnt have to get a much worse beating from the prefect. And he supposed that Hodgsons caning wouldnt be as bad as Pattinsons.
Hodgson had taken down the cane from its place alongside the blackboard. And flexed it ominously between his fists.
"How many?" the little boy asked.
"Three."
Oakes touched his toes and Hodgson hoisted his jacket and then pulled his shirt free. His bottom was tiny.
"You had the cane before?"
"No," said Oakes.
"Youll enjoy it."
He whipped the cane in from over his shoulder and the boy whimpered a bit. The second landed too high where it hardly hurt at all. But the last one hit him perfectly and must have hurt even though he didnt make a sound. The boy stood up and rubbed himself a little.
"How was that?"
"All right."
"Better than Pattinson would be, eh?"
"Yes."
"You must start behaving yourself, mustnt you? If I have to do this next week, youll have to drop your trousers, understand?"
"Yes."
"Off you go then." Oakes scampered down the stairs, his bottom tingling. Hodgson unbuttoned his trousers and fished out his erection. Completion for him was just a few tugs on his penis away.
Back out on the yard, the merriment was still in full swing. It had been spoiled a little by his beating, but Oakes was soon enjoying himself again.
Mr Appleyard kissed his wife and sent her back inside. He guessed that things would get a little rough quite soon, and in any case it was time for the little ones to get ready for bed. He could hold back no longer: such a good slide was irresistible. His appearance on the slide was greeted with cheers. All other games stopped, and the roar when he fell over was the loudest of the night. But he wasnt going to be deterred by that. His second attempt was successful and roundly cheered by all.
A few minutes later, a snowball hit him square between the shoulders. He turned with a look of fury on his face.
"Who threw that?" he demanded. Suddenly everything went quiet in the immediate vicinity. He spotted Dornan. "Was it you, Dornan?"
"No, sir," said Dornan, quaking, the weals across his bottom suddenly stinging again.
"I think it was." And as he spoke he stooped, picked up a ball of snow and began advancing on the fourth former – and everyone realised that his rage had been pretend. He hurled the snowball at Dornan, missed by a mile, but hit Pole.
And suddenly the air was thick with snowballs. Every boy tried to get one in on their headmaster, but they werent fussy; any target would do. Mr Appleyard fought valiantly, but against the best part of a hundred boys he stood no chance. He was covered. His overcoat was white, his hair white. He managed to hit some boys but not many. About thirty boys were nearly as badly covered in snow as he was and at last he held up both hands and shouted, "Enough! I give in."
Panting, laughing he stood in a circle of boys, many with snowballs still in their hands. He looked round at them in sheer delight. What better job could there be than to be a headmaster and have such fun with his boys.
"Enough," he said again. "Im sorry, chaps, but its time for supper. Go in and get cleaned up. Juniors, change for bed, please."
And then came the surprise. Dornan, bottom still sore, shouted, "Three cheers for the old man. Hip, hip."
And every boy on the yard shouted, "Hooray!"
"Hip, hip."
"Hooray!"
"Hip, hip."
"Hooray!" The loudest of all. Snowballs were dropped – though a few still found a target – and all the boys, shepherded by the prefects, trooped off the yard and into the house. Mr Appleyard was left in the middle of what had been the snowball fight, brushing snow off his clothes, and in danger of shedding a tear.