A CANING SCHOOL

Moving from one part of the country to another can be quite a traumatic experience for a boy of 14, especially when it involves changing schools as well. The year was 1970 and a sudden promotion for my father meant that our family had to move from the north of England to the south coast. The new position brought improved financial circumstances and allowed my parents to consider a fee-paying school for the first time.

There was a well regarded private boys' college in the town, and after passing the entrance examination with flying colours I was offered a place. My mother took me to the official school outfitters where I was kitted out with the uniform of bottle green blazer and cap with gold ribboning. I had already made friends with a boy of my own age living in our street who attended the local comprehensive school and I hoped that he wouldn't consider me a snob when I told him that I would be attending 'The College'. What he in fact said was 'rather you than me, Pete.'
'Why?' I asked. 'Because that place is a real caning school.'
'What do you mean by "caning school?" '
'Well, my school might be a bit rough compared with the college, but you're only caned for serious things. But I've heard that at that posh school boys get whacked all the time.'

This news made me feel rather anxious. There had been no caning at all at my previous school, so I did not like what my friend told me. On the other hand, I was the sort of boy who often got into trouble. To set my mind at rest, I had a word with my father who looked in the school prospectus and pointed out the following paragraph:

Discipline
The college believes that successful learning can only take place in an orderly environment and reserves the right to take all appropriate steps to maintain discipline, including the use of corporal punishment when deemed necessary. Corporal punishment may also be employed in cases where a boy is wilfuly lazy or deliberately underachieving. Parents who have a philosophical objection to the use of corporal punishment are advised to seek an alternative school for their son.

'Doesn't seem to be too much to worry about there,' said my father.
'If the school needs to wallop naughty boys now and then, that's perfectly alright as far as your mother and me are concerned. I'm sure that if you keep to the rules and work hard you'll have nothing to worry about...'

Banishing my unease about the cane to the back of my mind I set off for my first day at Briarhurst College, resplendent in my new uniform. I joined the stream of boys entering the school gates and after registration I was asked to wait behind in the form room with a couple of other new pupils. We were to be welcomed by the assistant headmaster.

'Wilson, Rogers and Templeton. First of all, let me welcome you to the college. I hope that you appreciate how lucky you are. We maintain high standards here and we expect high standards from our boys. At no time will we tolerate misbehaviour or slacking - is that understood? For those boys who insist on stepping out of line we have a very effective remedy - the cane.'

I felt a queeziness in my stomach as those dreaded words were pronounced and noticed that the other new boys also looked uneasy.
'Just in case you are unfamiliar with the appearance of a school cane I shall now show you one.' With that, the assistant head went to the blackboard and reached up to a narrow shelf above it where a cane was resting. I hadn't noticed it there before now. He handed the long swishy rod with its curved handle to the boy next to me and instructed him to examine it and then pass it on.

'Each classroom in the college is equipped with just such an instrument, kept clearly in view above the blackboard. If you break the rules or fail to work hard you can expect to feel the sharp end of it. And let me emphasise - the punishment cane is designed to hurt. We do not believe in half measures and when a boy is caned he finds it a most unpleasant experience, I can assure you.'

By now the cane had been passed to me and I studied it with a mixture of fear and fascination. How many misbehaving schoolboys had this rod dealt with in its time? I resolved there and then never to earn corporal punishment: I would be a model pupil.

'Now if you will kindly return the cane to me you may go off to your first lesson, which I believe is Latin. Dismiss!'

As we filed into the classroom for our lesson, I noted that a very similar cane to the one we had been shown was lodged above the blackboard. It was not very long before I saw the cane in use, when a boy was called out to the front of the class for not having completed his Latin holiday prep. With very little ceremony he was commanded to stand in front of the master and hold out his hand, palm upwards. I noted a look of fear in the boy's eyes as the master swished the whippy cane through the air a couple of times, producing an ominous whooshing sound, before taking aim at the proferred palm. Three hard cuts were administered and the unfortunate schoolboy's fresh young face became a mask of agony. I could only imagine how much it must have stung.

By dint of dogged obedience to the school rules and hard work I managed to avoid the cane myself in those first weeks at the college, although I witnessed many a classroom swishing. Some masters were much stricter than others and whilst one might hardly use the cane, relying more upon its deterrent value, another would resort to it at the drop of a hat. One notorious caner was Mr Chalmers, our maths master, and we all dreaded his lessons, especially the double period on Friday afternoons. Maths was not my strongest subject and the time inevitably arrived when I came up against the wrath of 'Chummy' Chalmers through trying to elicit the help of the boy next to me with a particularly tricky equation.

'Peter Wilson, step out here if you please!' My heart sank as I moved in the direction of the beckoning finger. 'When I tell the class to work in silence, I expect that silence to be maintained. Fetch the cane, if you please!'

Standing on tip-toe, I reached up above the blackboard and extracted the classroom cane from its resting place. All the eyes of the class were upon me and I felt both frightened and ashamed.

'You will receive one stroke for talking and another for attempting to cheat at your work. Hold out your hand!'
I did not move for I was frozen stiff with fear and Mr Chalmers finally had to pull my arm up into position himself. I watched with terror as he lifted the thin yellow rod, taking careful aim at my outstretched palm. 'Please don't let it hurt too much' I prayed - I didn't want to blub in front of my classmates.

The cane crashed down across my palm, almost seeming to slice my hand in two. The burning pain was intense and it took all my willpower to keep my hand in place for the second stroke. This felt even worse doubling and redoubling the pain of the first stroke. I stumbled back to my desk, my palm burning and tears welling in my eyes.

Although the throbbing pain gradually wore off, I found it difficult to concentrate on my work. The punishment cane had been replaced above the blackboard and I couldn't help stealing nervous glances at it. Once a boy had been beaten and knew just how painful it could be, the displayed classroom canes acted as a terrific deterrent against wrongdoing or slackness; no wonder the school was so well disciplined and achieved such good academic results.

After that first unnerving experience the classroom cane became a fact of life for me as it was for every other boy at the college. A junior pupil was fortunate to get through a week without at least one swishing and if he manged to avoid the classroom cane, the chances were that he would be slippered in the gym or the changing rooms.

The following term I experienced a headmaster's caning for the first time. Three of us had been reported for fighting on the bus home with pupils from a comprehensive school It was not really our fault - the other boys had grabbed our caps and started throwing them about the bus. Our distinctive college uniforms meant that we were easily identifiable and the next day we found ourselves up before the headmaster.

'Wilson, Maguire and Richardson, I consider your offence to be a very serious one. When you are dressed in the uniform of this college I expect you to maintain the good name of the college through courtsey, smartness and good manners - not to terrorise your fellow bus passengers I can see no good reason why you should not each receive six of the best.'

I felt my heart beating as the sentence was announced. A headmaster's caning was inflicted upon a boy's backside: a new experience for me.

'You will all wait outside this study and I shall then summon you one at a time in alphabetical order...'
We filed out into the corridor, our heads bowed low.
'Maguire! ' The head's voice rang out and a trembling Andrew Maguire knocked and entered. The door closed behind him and there was then a pause of a minute or two before we heard the first CRACK! of the cane across the lad's seat. Five more strokes followed, with a short pause between each one. The door opened and the unhappy looking schoolboy emerged, gingerly rubbing his backside.

'Richardson!' With one last glance back, and a forced smile, Paul Richardson now answered the dread summons. Once the door had closed upon him I questioned Andy Maguire.
'What was it like, Andy?'
'The last time I was whacked by the old man I got three strokes, which is just about bearable. Six of the best is a different matter altogether. The pain builds up until it feels as though your bottom is on fire. My poor bum is still throbbing!'

By now Paul had emerged with tears trickling down his cheeks. 'Christ - it stings, it really stings - I never want that again, I can tell you...'

'Wilson!' My legs felt like jelly as I stepped into the headmaster's oak-pannelled study. I noticed a crook-handled school cane lying on the head's mahogany desk, somewhat thicker and longer than the type used in the classrrom.
'You're the last boy I shall be dealing with, Wilson, but I can assure you that my caning arm is not yet worn out! Remove your blazer and bend over the back of that armchair.'
As I unbuttoned my blazer with trembling fingers, the head picked up the cane and flexed it. Despite its thickness, the rod was obviously very pliant and swishy.

Once I was bent low over the heavy leather armchair I could see little of what was happening behind me. However, I could hear the head stepping back and swishing the cane through the air a couple of times.

'Push that backside right out. That's the way! I shall now demonstrate to you the inadvisability of fighting on the school bus...'

There was a hissing sound as the cane whizzed through the air and a fearsome crack as it made contact with my projected buttocks. The pain was intense - a fierce burning that made me close my eyes and grit my teeth. The headmaster waited a moment or two, letting the discomfort of that first stroke sink in before delivering the next one, landing it almost on the same spot as the first. It was agony.

By the time the third stroke had been delivered I was sure I could take no more - yet I was only halfway through. It took all my willpower to stay bent down across the chair for the final three strokes and as I rose from the chair, my backside still stinging intensely, hot salty tears were welling in my eyes. As a final indignity, I was made to sign the Punishment Book.

Although classroom canings, being an almost daily occurence, were not noted on a boy's record, a headmaster's caning was considered rather more serious and I had to take an official letter home to my parents. This was a punishment in itself, and I sat with an embarrassed look upon my face as my father perused the letter.

'Hurt a bit, did it?' he enquired, a twinkle in his eye.
'Yes dad,' I admitted. As I lay in bed that night, my fingertips exploring the tender purple ridges left by those six strokes of the headmaster's cane, I resolved to avoid any more trouble which might result in another six of the best. But since Briarhurst College was very much 'a caning school' that was easer said than done.