"You cant cane me, Sir. Its Christmas!"
"You poor, deluded boy," I muttered, "Do you not know that the middle name of every Headmaster is Scrooge!"
"But, Sir," continued the boy in question with an impish grin all over his face. "My father told me to give you this present." And he dived into his satchel and produced a bottle of the finest malt whisky. " Surely you cant cane me now," he said as he handed me the rather expensive present.
"Wrong again, boy!" I replied as I took hold of this much-prized gift, which I carefully placed in the part of my desk where I keep my other bottles of medicine that I have recourse to during a hard day. Actually every day in a Headmasters life tends to be very hard so the medicine is quickly consumed and another bottle is always a welcome addition.
I suppose I had better explain how all this came to pass on the last day of the Christmas term.
Young Ivor Goodbody was one of those youngsters who could not help getting into trouble almost every day of the week. When the teachers wanted the class to listen he would be writing. When they wanted the class to write he would talking. He would get into trouble for singing in class and for not singing in music lessons. He would bring his tennis kit for rugby and his rugby kit for tennis and no kit at all for P. E. He hummed and laughed his way through life with not a care in the world. In addition he was utterly fearless. He faced the strictest of teachers with a smile on his freckly face and he seemed to relish the thought of getting the cane across his backside – a fact of life that happened very frequently to him. In reality it was hard to dislike him. When he was caught out doing something he should not have been doing he would simply smile and say " Sorry, sir." It is very hard to keep on telling a boy off when he has said sorry. Young Ivor had learned this simple fact very early on in life whereas other lads who would retort in an angry voice " It wasnt me, sir, I didnt do it!" would immediately put up the backs of the teacher concerned and a confrontation was already in the making.
It was the final week of term and this is always a difficult period for the teaching staff. The classrooms were decorated with paper chains, silver bells, coloured paper lanterns and all the other bits and pieces that brighten up an otherwise dreary room. Spirits are high and parties had been held in most classrooms so that formal discipline was difficult if not impossible. The staff had arranged a party for themselves on one evening of the last week of term and they were also busy at home organising whatever they were going to do on the big day itself. Everyone was waiting for the term to end and virtually no schoolwork was really being undertaken.
So what had young Ivor done during this week that brought him into my study on the last day of term when everyone else had gone home? I will list them in the order that they occurred. On the Monday he had brought in two large boxes of Christmas crackers and during registration he was rushing around the classroom trying to pull them with all his friends. On the Tuesday he had brought in a large Christmas tree – a real one so that all the pine needles fell off and made such a mess that the caretaker complained. On the Wednesday he had led a raiding party into one of the other classrooms and pulled down most of their decorations. On the Thursday their form teacher held a class party and his contribution was a bottle of wine after having been told that alcoholic drink would not be allowed. On the Friday at my end of term assembly he ruined the best part of my little homily by having a sneezing fit at the worst possible moment. I told him to leave the hall and to report to me after school. Enough was enough!
So, Dear Reader, you can see how patient I had been. I could have caned him for any one of his earlier misdemeanours but I let them pass because I have a heart of gold - but to ruin my final assembly was too much for me to bear. There is only so much that this saintly Headmaster can be expected to suffer. So that brings us back to the start of this tale. I ordered the wretched boy to remove his blazer and to bend over my desk. I took out my trusty cane and looked at the lovely curves of his buttocks. His bottom was just asking to be whacked. I straightened out his trousers and traced the outline of his backside with my left hand. I raised my right hand that held the cane so that it was ready to do its job and........and...... in a moment of weakness I relented. My only excuse is that I fear the spirit of Christmas just got to me.
"Get up, boy. I am letting you off."
" I knew it! I knew it!" chirped the young villain. "You have got a heart there..somewhere....sort of! Merry Christmas, Sir," and he collected his belongings and off he trundled as happy as a sand boy.
I scowled and muttered, "Merry Christmas, young Ivor."
I know I let the profession down, I know it. I shall make a New Year resolution not to let it happen again. In the meantime I had better wish a Merry Christmas and a Spanking New Year to all my readers (both of them!) and remember the toast is "Bottoms up!"