Broken Bottles

By Peter Brown

Caps at Maynard's were resplendent, quartered blue and yellow, with the school's complicated coat of arms embroidered on a badge. David Connor, however, spent more time kicking his cap than wearing it, which greatly annoyed some of the prefects, in particular one of Polish descent named Brezhezinsky. Offenders were sent to climb the stairs to the prefects' room, where they were invited to bend over the table while the prefect placed one hand on their back and applied the slipper with the other. This humane regulation prevented them from getting a proper swing at the victim, but nevertheless three or four with a leather size thirteen hurt quite enough for me. David, however, was indifferent and indeed provocative. He thought that Brezhezinsky's name sounded like broken bottles, so that's what he called him, to Brezhezinsky's fury. If David was sent to the prefects' room while he was there, the slippering would be administered by Brezhezinsky with all the force he could muster. Despite that, David would get up as though nothing had happened and say: 'Thanks for the tickling, Broken Bottles', or some such pleasantry, which left the prefect fuming.

But then events conspired to put us more completely in the prefects' power: we both became boarders. Maynard's was located in a seaport town on the English south coast, and both my father and David's worked in marine engineering, his as a consultant engineer and mine as a toolmaker's fitter. Mr. Connor had been to my modest home and had been visibly shocked by its cramped size. In the spring of 1960 he got a new job at a shipyard on the other side of the country in Tyneside, and offered to get my father work there. The pay would be better and my family could have a spacious company house. The move was arranged for the summer.

Despite the move Mr. Connor wished his son David to remain at Maynard's as one of the elite band of boarders. My own parents wanted me to ask the Headmaster about moving to a grammar school near to our new house, but the Headmaster suggested boarding for me as well. I was doubtful. I had heard that discipline in the boarding houses was strict and that some were more akin to prisons for their inmates; on the other hand, like most day school boys, I wanted to see what the Greyfriars of the Billy Bunter stories was really like.

The Headmaster informed me that if I did well enough in the first-year examinations he would see that the Governors awarded me a boarding scholarship and a bursary for my equipment. In the event I won several junior prizes prizes, and it did no harm that I had been accepted into the 'mini-colts', the youngest of the three school cricket elevens.

So in September the Connors drove David and me south from our new homes up north to begin our second year at Maynard's. Our housemaster was Mr. White, he of the fearsome reputation, who ran a junior house of about sixty boys between eleven and fourteen. We almost immediately fell foul of the malevolent Brezhezinsky. Mr. White was not a games fanatic and our house enjoyed a degree of liberty as regards free time. In particular, we were allowed out on Saturday afternoons, although subject to strict bounds rules, which were complicated and difficult for new boarders to understand. In addition, Mr. White impressed on us that we had to wear our caps at all times as a means of identification. During the week, we asked him whether we could go shopping, and he said yes, assuming that we meant nearby local shops. We did not realize that we needed written permission to get the bus af far as the town centre.

When we returned on the bus from town, the first thing we saw was Brezhezinsky, waiting by the bus stop like a military policeman to check that we were in possession of official leave passes. We were not wearing our caps and did not think to put them on our heads until too late. He demanded to see our written permission to go into town, smiled nastily when we could not produce it, and said: 'I've got you now', before marching us straight to Mr. White.

We pleaded that we had made a genuine mistake. and Mr. White was clearly unhappy about Brezhezinsky's zeal and obvious pleasure in getting us into trouble. He tried to reason him into reprimanding us rather than making the formal report which would oblige him to take action. But Brezhezinsky then brought up the matter of our not wearing caps, and that did for us. We said that a lot of boys neglected to wear them outside school, only to be told that was no defence. Mr. White dismissed Brezhezinsky to prevent his gloating, then said we had to be punished. He would have let us off for one offence, but not for two. We would each receive four strokes of the cane.

David burst out: 'I think it's rotten. It's not fair. We made a mistake.'
'I believe you. But unfortunately, if I let you off, everyone else will say the same. I'm sorry, but it has to be done.' Mr. White stood up, picked up a crook-handled punishment cane, and moved round to the front of his desk. 'You first, Connor. Bend over that chair.' David obeyed, but somehow managed to turn the act of assuming the subservient position of the naughty schoolboy, offering his backside for the cane, into an act of defiance and insolence. As a finishing touch, he stuck out his bottom as far as he could. If he had been ordered to do this, it would have been a further humiliation. As David did it, it was as rude and provocative an act as 'mooning'.

Mr. White watched the performance and said angrily: 'Oh, for heavens' sake, Connor, save your feuding for Brezhezinsky. I have no personal quarrel with you, and I don't want one. You were on the losing side of the game and you should take your punishment like a sportsman.' David said 'Sorry, sir', and relaxed into a more humble posture. Mr. White laid on the strokes hard enough to send clouds of chalk dust flying from the seat of David's shorts, but he was not using the full, terrifying strength of his arm which could make his whackings really agonizing. David got up, looking somewhat crestfallen, and I took his place, in some fear because I had been cheeky to Mr. White the day before. The first two strokes stung a bit but were just about bearable, but then Mr. White said 'This is for being cheeky', and brought down the cane with such force that I howled; and the next was even harder. I got up with the tears rolling down my face, and clutching my burning backside. Mr. White put the cane down, held out his hand, and said 'No hard feelings?'. David shook hands and said of course not. I pulled myself together and managed to do the same.

Mr. White took Prayers that evening, and among his announcements said that two boys had been punished for going out of bounds and not wearing caps. Would the house please pay attention to these details, because some prefects lacked the tact and polish (dwelling on the word, in particular on the first syllable) to know when to reprimand and when to report. Those who knew about our experience laughed, and everyone else wanted to know about it as we drank our cocoa before going to bed. The boarders had been a bit stand-offish about David and me, but the injustice got us accepted and a full-scale indignation meeting was developing when we were chased off to the dormitories. It continued over breakfast next day, and the whole house vowed vengeance on Brezhezinsky.

The entire house made sure that Brezhezinsky could not appear without someone raising the chant of 'Broken Bottles'. David, however, was planning a more elaborate revenge. He had discovered the delights of smoking, and as soon as Guy Fawkes Night fireworks became available in the shops that autumn bought a few bangers. One of the main grievances of the school's smokers was the suspicion that the prefects kept confiscated cigarettes and smoked them themselves. Smokers were supposed to be reported to their housemasters, but often the offender would be relieved of his materials and slippered by the prefect in question. Brezhezinsky was known as a particular offender in this respect.

This gave David the idea of setting a trap. He took out and 'corned' the gunpowder from his bangers, after asking the chemistry master how this had been done in ages past. Then he took some cigarettes, carefully removed the tobacco at the tip with tweezers, inserted some gunpowder, and replaced the tobacco. It wasn't an especially neat job, but cigarettes confiscated from boys' pockets often looked a bit battered, so he expected his handiwork wouldn't be noticed. Then it only remained to bait the trap for Brezhezinsky, who duly confiscated the fags and slippered us.

Jones, an affable prefect I later got to know quite well, told me what happened. Brezhinsky lit up and was blissfully puffing away when there was a thud and a great puff of smoke and he was left sprawling in his armchair with a blackened face, ringing ears, and a very surprised expression. Of course, he dare not say anything, but the story was soon all over the school. Mr. White summoned us to the study the following evening and said that he had a fair idea who was responsible. The pranksters might easily have maimed someone, and we could thank our lucky stars that he had no proof. However, here were to be no more cigarettes brought into the house, exploding or otherwise, and definitely no more fireworks. If we were caught with contraband, we would not sit down for the rest of term.

I would have given up the game at that point and indeed assumed that David would do so, but he still went down to the bike sheds and made such contemptuous remarks about my cowardice that I felt compelled to join him. Virtuously (and in the hope that it would keep me out of trouble if he was caught) I refused to smoke, but it did me no good. Brezhezinsky had never forgiven the exploding cigarette and organized a 'sting' operation in which several prefects converged on the bike sheds from different directions, so that there could be no escape. David had time to dispose of his cigarette and tried to hide the packet, but it was soon found and we went straight before Mr. White. His one mercy was to delay our six of the best until later that evening, so that we could go straight to bed afterwards.

When we reported after prep, he did not even bother to upbraid us, but ordered me straight over the chair. His technique was to step forward on the stroke like a cricketer, wielding the cane at the full extent of his arm, and following the stroke through for maximum impact. The closest I can come to describing the intense pain is that it felt like being cut in half. Mr. White spaced out the strokes, striking about every ten seconds so that the boy being punished suffered the agony of anticipation before the next landed. There was no question of stoically keeping silent or still. I howled and wept at every stroke, and my bottom bucked up and down in a vain effort to evade that devilish cane. After my six I was commanded to stand with my hands on my head (how I longed to rub my burning behind!) and through a mist of agony and tears I watched David receive the same treatment. He yelled and writhed just like me.

When we changed for P.T. next day, Mr. Hancock the PT master whistled and said that our backsides were the closest thing to a Turner sunset he had seen outside an art gallery. When we came back to the changing rooms after the lesson, Brezhezinsky looked in with a message for the PT master. As we pulled down off P.T. shorts, he gloated and said: 'Enjoy your tickling, Connor?' For once David had nothing to say - Broken Bottles had got the last word.