On the first day after my adoptive father brought me home, he showed me a long, whippy cane and said, "Edward, I was told you are six years old, getting to be a big boy, so if you dont behave, you will be punished with this." And he whipped it through the air provoking a sharp, whistling swoosh.
He showed me to the room I was to use for sleeping and studying and handed me a sheet of paper. "These are the rules of the house," he said, "which you will memorise and follow to the letter. Any deviation and the cane will be used. Understood?"
The room was cold and I stood shivering in my skimpy orphanage uniform. I looked at the long list and nodded.
"When I ask you a question, Edward," he snapped sharply, "you will answer, not nod. Read rule No. 25."
I looked down the list and No. 25 read, "When asked a question by any adult, you will reply politely in a loud clear voice, adding "sir" or "madam" as a sign of respect."
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Thats better," my new father said. "Now put your things in this chest of drawers and learn those regulations. You will not get a second chance."
I sat on the low cot and started to read. I think there were close to 40 or 50 rules such as "always be cheerful,"
"no pouting before or after punishment,"
"no complaining about food, clothes, or other material things." But the items that worried me most were:
3. When punishment is announced, you will go to my study, lower your shorts to your ankles and wait until my arrival.
4. During punishment, a) you will not move out of the instructed position. b) you will not cry out. c) you will not cover your bottom. d) you will not rise until given permission. e) you will count each stroke instantly upon impact, always adding thank you, sir. f) if you do not count properly, 3 extra strokes will be applied.
5. You may not speak unless addressed except a) to ask for permission to use the toilet. b) to warn of an emergency. c) to greet visitors. d) if you are seriously ill.
The list when on and on. I learned I was not to run inside the house except when instructed to. I was not to make noise or whistle. It told me when I was to get up in the morning and when to go to sleep in the evening. It gave me the times of each meal and how many minutes I had to finish.
I was quite dizzy when I had reached the end but made an effort and started again from the top, trying to learn as many as possible by heart.
Even so, that evening, when I failed to address my father as sir, I was given my first caning.
"Because it is your first offense," my father said, "I will only give you four."
Remembering the rules, I immediately went to the study which was the second room my father had shown me within the large house, after my own. I unbuttoned my blue cotton shorts and pushed them down to my ankles, standing bare from the waist down waiting for what was to come.
It seemed a long time before my father showed up, cane in hand. I was shaking with fear.
"Take that chair, place it here and bend over the back," my father ordered and I obeyed.
"Further over and grasp the front legs," my father continued as he lifted my shirt over my shoulders.
I felt very exposed and vulnerable in that position, especially my bare bottom.
"Four strokes, Edward, and it will be over," my father continued, lightly stroking my bottom with the cane. It tickled and would have felt almost soothing if it hadnt been for what was awaiting me.
The trouble was that I cried out on the first stroke and tried to protect my bottom after the second - with 3 strokes in between - and again after 8 strokes, winding up getting a 13 instead of four.
I could barely sit that evening. It seemed I was resting on a bed of hot coals.
"Sit still, Edward," my father admonished me. "What is rule No. 18?"
I tried to recall that list of rules but couldnt, My bottom throbbed and burned. "To sit still?" I replied reasonably.
"Are you being impertinent, boy?" my father said angrily. "After dinner you will be punished for shifting about at mealtime, for not knowing the rules and for impertinence. Two strokes each."
Six more strokes on my freshly-whipped bottom? I was about to plead when I saw my fathers expression and closed my mouth, but couldnt help the tears from running down my face.
"Stop crying," my father said. "This instant!"
But they didnt.
"Two more strokes for crying," my father said. "And two for disobedience. Tomorrow after breakfast."
I hardly slept that first night. My bottom throbbed and burned and I kept thinking about the additional punishment that awaited me in the morning. Ten more? How could I possibly take that? I tossed and turned, dreaming off and on about being bent over the chair and something very hot being burnt into my buttocks.
I was very sleepy in the morning and had trouble eating breakfast, But my father just watched and remembered some rule about how much time I had to finish, so I forced myself.
"Very well, Edward," my father said, "I have forgotten why you are to be punished this morning. Please refresh my memory."
I gasped. I tried to think back and cudgeled my brains.
"Crying." I finally stammered. "And disobedience."
"Oh, yes, now I remember. But there was something else, wasnt there?"
I tried desperately to remember and in my anxiety I started to wet my shorts. I quickly held back so only a few drops leaked, but enough to produce a dark stain on the thin cotton.
"Well? I want an answer," my fathers stern voice interrupted my thought.
"Er - forgetting the rules," I added with relief.
"Yes. And you just forgot another one, didnt you, Edward?"
Panic. "Oh, am sorry. Forgetting the rules, sir."
"Im afraid we will have to add another two strokes to the total for that," my father said impassively. "Anything else?"
I thought. "Yes, sir," I finally brought out. "Shifting at dinner."
"SIR!" I quickly added, realizing my mistake again.
My father shook his head. "I will have to keep a record of your faults, Edward, otherwise I will never be able to keep up with your unbelievable obstinacy. Is this all now?"
"Yes, sir," I said hopefully.
"I seem to remember something about impertinence," my father said, frowning. Are you trying to deceive me? Are you a cheat, Edward? He was shouting by now and I cowered at the breakfast table. I looked at my empty plate. Yes, my father was right. I was told I had been impertinen, whatever that meant.
"No, sir!" I wailed. "I didnt remember!"
"That means you again forgot the rules, doesnt it? I have lost track of how many strokes you have accumulated by now. Get up. We will go to my study and start to work off all your misdemeanours. Come along now. Hurry up. I will start on your reading this morning. Time you learned to be fluent."
What a day that turned out to be. My shorts were down practically all the time with me bending over the chair and presenting a wealed, swollen pair of buttocks to my fathers ever-busy cane. I wept bitter tears and paid for them with more cane strokes until I stopped.
Since I was only allowed to sit on hard, wooden chairs, I had great trouble sitting still all next week. My wealed bottom always hurt, not only when sitting, although that was the worst, but also while walking, playing or just standing still.
For those first 4 weeks I was kept in my orphanage uniform of white shirt, blue shorts and white ankle socks. It was winter and the big house was only heated in certain rooms so I was hoping to get some new, warmer clothes soon. But when my father finally realised that my shorts were threadbare in the seat and the shirt could not be washed clean anymore, he bought new things for me.
I was expecting some new, fashionable long trousers, long-sleeved shirt and tie or something like that when he returned one day with a few parcels. But it turned out to be almost exactly the same: sport shirts in white or blue, shorts also white and blue and ankle socks. And when I tried these on, the shorts seemed even briefer and tighter than the old pair. Of course I couldnt complain about that - rule No. 12, I think. But at least they were new even if the shorts pinched and cut everywhere.
I learned several rules over the next weeks, mostly in the study, with my shorts down. I wept, cried out, screamed and howled but with 3 extra strokes for each of these offenses, I soon learned to take my punishments in silence. Occasionally, I instinctively reached back to protect my blazing buttocks, and got the regulation 3 extras. So my normal dose was a minimum of nine, that is six plus the extras.
I have to say this for my father. He was consistent. He applied the cane forcefully to my naked buttocks whenever needed, no matter how bruised and wealed they were from previous punishment. He never weakened or went back on his word when he promised a really sound thrashing.
It was a rare day when I did not get a good caning for having forgotten or broken a rule. I once ran down the stairs and bumped into Margaret, the housekeeper who promptly complained to my father. She watched with satisfaction as my father gave me the hardest six I had ever received.
"Edward is such a naughty little boy," she told my father. "He really needs a daily caning on that lazy bottom of his."
My father nodded. "Yes, Margaret, I know. Boys are always rough, lazy and dirty. Edward has still not learned the rules of the house. But he will. Am I right, Edward? With enough canings, you will learn, wont you?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, trying to keep my fingers off my throbbing bottom.
"Come to the study tonight before supper. We will go over the list and work on those you cant remember."
I sighed. I knew what that meant. Shorts down and the cane across a bare bottom until I recited the rule word perfect.