The Lost School Cap

"Keep your mind on your work, Simmons!" barked Mr Knox.
"'Sir," answered thirteen-year-old Tom Simmons. He had turned round in his desk to glance at the clock on the rear wall of the classroom. Ten minutes to go to the end of the lesson.
"I realise that you are anxious for the lesson to end, Simmons," continued Mr Knox, "but it will end in its own good time. Meanwhile, I require all your attention on the French translation which you are supposed to be working on, is that clear?"
"'Sir," answered Tom again. He shuffled his backside on the hard wooden desk-bench to make it more comfortable and looked down at his open French textbook and French exercise book. Normally, the boy pondered, Mr Knox would have been quite correct: Tom hated French, and he hated it especially when it came in the last period of the day, as now. Normally he would be only too glad for the period to come to an end. But things were different today.

A message had been delivered by a prefect, informing Tom that he was to visit the Headmaster's study immediately after school. Tom could guess why, and he was worried - very worried - about what was going to happen to him: for that too he could guess. So for once, Tom was actually willing the French period to continue. But whereas those last minutes of the school day would usually drag slow-footed for the boy, today they seemed to be rushing past, hastening the moment when he would be dismissed from class and would have to make his way, scared and anxious, to the Headmaster's study. And it's all over something that's not really my fault, Tom told himself. He gave a sigh, which brought a quick wondering glance from the boy who shared with him at the double-desk, and applied himself to his French translation.

All too soon for Tom, though not soon enough for the other schoolboys in the classroom, the bell shrilled its signal of the end of the period. Mr Knox told the boys to pack away their books and there was the usual squeaking of unoiled desk-lids, the slight clatter of rulers, the banging of desk-lids shut again, as boys put away their books and packed their school satchels with that night's homework.

When all were ready and sitting smartly at their desks, arms folded, Mr Knox gave the order for them to stand. A conscientious schoolmaster, he was nevertheless glad that his long day's teaching was over, anxious to get to the staff room for a cup of tea and a quick cigarette before packing the exercise books that he would have to mark that evening at home. The boys stood in their places, using the backs of their knees deftly to push up the wooden desk-benches. Satchels were shouldered, and the boys stood smartly in their places. They were ordered into the gangways between the rows of identical school desks. Then they were dismissed row by row.

Once in the freedom of the corridor, boys began chatting and laughing as they made their way either to various school clubs and societies or to the cloakroom to put on their coats and school caps and go home. Tom too went to the cloakroom, but only to leave his school satchel there and without sharing in the general elation of home-time. Reluctantly, he made his way to the Headmaster's study, not wishing to hurry to such an encounter but at the same time not wishing to dawdle so that he further annoyed the Headmaster by arriving late. He went down the short passage that led to the large wooden door of the study, raised his hand, gave a sigh, and knocked timidly.

"Come," called the familiar voice from within, and Tom turned the heavy handle of the door, opened it, and went in. He carefully closed the door behind him and then took up his stance in front of the Headmaster's desk, his feet slightly apart, his hands by his sides; nervously, his fingers played with the hems of his grey school short trousers.
"Yes?" queried the Headmaster, sparing Tom only the most cursory of glances.
"Please, Sir," began Tom. His voice was squeaky. He coughed slightly and started again: "Please, Sir, you said to come and see you, please, Sir. I'm Simmons, Sir, IIA."
"Ah, yes - Simmons, IIA," repeated the Headmaster. He sat back in his large swivelchair, put down the pen with which he had been writing when Tom entered, and contemplated the woeful-lookimg schoolboy.

After a few seconds he leaned forward and pulled open one of the drawers of his large desk. From it he took a navy object which he dropped on the blotter in front of him. Tom recognised his own Queen Elizabeth Grammar School cap with its gold button and the pale blue and gold embroidered badge of a capital letter E topped by a crown.
"This, I take it," said the Headmaster, picking up the cap again and turning it over in his hands, "is your property, Simmons?"
Tom looked at the cap, now with its black lining showing: across the middle was a once-white strip of sewn-in material and on this was written, in indelible ink and in bold letters, his own name: "SIMMONS, T.A."
"Yes, Sir," replied the boy.
"Yes," repeated the Headmaster, "of course it is. Apparently you left it on the bus this morning, Simmons, whilst on your way to school. The bus company has very kindly returned it." He paused for a moment, wondering whether it should be "The bus company has..." or "The bus company have...". He would have to check with a member of the English staff. "That was very good of them, wasn't it, Simmons?"
"'Sir," answered Tom mournfully, knowing that he had not been sent for just to share gratitude for the kindness of bus companies! He stood in silence for a few moments whilst the Headmaster looked down at the cap, lightly fingering it; he returned his gaze to Tom.

"Apparently the owner of this cap was involved in a commotion on the bus this morning. In fact, the commotion might even be described as a fight. Were you fighting on the bus to school, Simmons?"
"It wasn't really a fight sir. It's just that some boys from the comprehensive school sometimes make fun of my cap and shorts. They are allowed to wear longs and don't have to wear caps at all. Anyway, this morning one of them grabbed my cap and they started throwing it up and down the bus…"
"So that is your excuse for fighting, is it boy?"
"Yes sir - it's all true."
"According to the representative of the bus company who returned your cap, you were acting so irresponsibly that the conductor was compelled to eject you from the vehicle."
"I was just trying to get my cap back sir. We can get a detention for not wearing our caps."
"I am well aware of the school's rules on caps, Simmons. Failure to wear the school cap is a breach of the rules, but fighting on the bus to school is even more serious. Such conduct merits a rather more severe punishment than a mere detention. How do you think I should punish such an offence?"
"With…a…double detention sir?"
"No, Simmons, I'm afraid, that you are going to have to be dealt with rather more severely than that. You know what that means, I suppose?"
"Sir," replied Tom, almost inaudibly. "Well, what does it mean, Simmons?"
"Please, Sir, I'm ... I'm going to get the cane, Sir."

The Headmaster dropped Tom's school cap back onto the blotter, sat back once more in his swivel-chair, and looked hard at the boy.
"Yes, Simmons," he said after what seemed an age to Tom: "the cane. A few strokes of the cane across your backside should help to deter you from fighting on the bus in future, don't you think?"
"Sir," Tom reluctantly agreed.
The Headmaster stood up and crossed the room to a cupboard in the corner. Tom had heard about that cupboard from other boys, although he himself had never yet suffered a whacking during his career at the grammar school. He watched with a churning feeling in his stomach as the Headmaster pulled open the doors of the cupboard and looked inside. From where he was standing Tom could just glimpse a row of school punishment canes of varying lengths and thicknesses. The Headmaster contemplated his collection and then selected a whippy yellow rod.

"You're still only a junior boy, Simmons," he said, turning towards Tom with the crook-handled cane in his right hand, "and therefore you are only going to receive the junior cane. I say, 'only', but believe me, my boy, you are certainly going to feel it. I don't think you'll want to get into a fight on the school bus again."
"Sir," said Tom in a whisper, feeling that he was required to say something yet not quite sure what to say.
"Very well, Simmons," continued the Headmaster, coming round his large desk and approaching the apprehensive schoolboy, "we'd better get it over with, don't you think?"
"Sir," said Tom, uncertain whether that was what he really did think. In some ways it would be better to get it over and done with; on the other hand, it was something that he would be glad to put off for as long as possible. It was a bit like the feeling you got in the waiting room at the dentist's, Tom thought, or whilst queueing with other boys for an injection in the medical room at school. He found himself wondering what the cane would be like, whether it would really be as nasty as some other boys had testified. Perhaps they just said that - said how painful it was - in order to make themselves appear braver, Tom told himself. But he did not really believe it, and he found that his bare knees were knocking slightly with nervousness as the Headmaster approached him holding the pliant rattan cane.

The Headmaster was thinking his own thoughts as he approached the boy. He thought about how many times he had witnessed just such a scene as this: a young, frightened looking schoolboy in regulation junior school uniform with neatly pressed grey flannel short trousers stood nervously awaiting his very first dose of the cane. He was all too familiar too with the woebegone look on this boy's face as he awaited his punishment.
Contrary to what many of the boys believed, this was not a situation which the Headmaster enjoyed; on the other hand, he was a firm believer in upholding the good name of the school and when the cap had been brought to him earlier that day, and he had learnt that the owner had been fighting on the bus, he had unhesitatingly assured the representative of the bus company that the boy concerned would receive six of the best. As he looked at young Tom Simmons, clearly terrified at the prospect of his first school caning, the Headmaster resolved to do his duty.

In a way it was a pity to have to thrash this boy. He had, after all, received good reports about Tom - both about his schoolwork and about his behaviour and politeness, all of them aspects of school life on which the Headmaster laid great stress. Here, he reflected, was not a bad boy - in fact, on the whole, a good, hard-working, well-mannered boy: not the sort of boy who usually received the cane. But Tom Simmons must learn that certain offences always brought corporal punishment and fighting on the school bus was one such, however much the boy might have been provoked.
"Right, Simmons, go over there," he told the boy, pointing to a heavy leather armchair in one corner of the large study, "and bend over it gripping the arms."
"Sir," said Tom quietly.
The trembling schoolboy shuffled towards the chair and bent over.
"Push your backside well out, boy."

Tom extended his buttocks so that the grey flannel of his short trousers was stretched tightly. He braced himself, attempting to control the shaking in his legs as he waited for the cane; he felt extremely vulnerable. He was still wondering whether the cane would really sting as much as other boys had said. He would not have to wait long to find out!
The Headmaster, meanwhile, had taken up his stance behind the boy, slightly to one side, the school cane as yet held loosely in his right hand. He leaned forward and folded up the hem of Tom's navy school blazer, then gently tap-tapped the junior school cane against the boy's taut buttocks. A moment later Tom heard the swish of the cane as it scythed through the air, the sound being followed almost instantly by a fierce burning pain as the whippy rod cut into his backside. Oh, how the cane hurt! How he longed to leap up and clutch his smarting bottom, to rub some of that burning pain from it. And that was only the first one! For the first time Tom wondered how many strokes he was going to get. Not 'six of the best' like bad boys received in school stories, surely? That would be beyond endurance…

Even as these thoughts crossed his mind the second stroke of the cane landed, almost on the same spot as the first, making him cry out. "Ugh!" he said, feeling slightly ashamed of himself but unable to prevent the escape of that small cry of anguish.
A third scorching stroke of the cane lashed his now tender backside. Again Tom cried out, and now he felt tears welling up in his eyes. He did not want to be a cry baby, but the cane was hurting so much that it was almost impossible to hold back the tears.
Stroke number four felt just like a red hot wire pressing against his tender flesh and now the tears began to flow copiously down Tom's flushed cheeks.
The Headmaster noted the distressed boy's sobbing: the caning was having a salutary effect! Once more he lifted the cane and brought it down smartly across the schoolboy's backside. "Oh-ugh-ugh!" squealed Tom. Oh, how many more? Surely there would be no more than six…

The youngster's tears were now flowing uncontrollably. Indeed, he had by now lost all desire to control them: he didn't care about crying, he didn't care about anything. He was aware only of the dreadful pain in his poor bottom: that burning pain was his entire universe and he just wanted it to come to an end, to stop. A sixth scorching stroke landed and then, mercifully, the headmaster put down the cane. One of the worst experiences in Tom Simmon's young life to date was over at long last.
"Stand up, Simmons," said the Headmaster.
Still sobbing, Tom slowly straightened himself and stood up. He turned and watched, through moist eyes, as the Headmaster took the cane back to the cupboard and replaced it, closing the doors quietly. Tom rubbed first one bottom cheek and then the other, using his other hand to wipe his tearstained eyes. The Headmaster returned to his swivel-seat and sat down. He looked at Tom.
"Not very nice, is it, Simmons?"
"N-n-no, S-s-sir," sobbed the schoolboy.
The Headmaster picked up Tom's school cap from the blotter. "You'll be needing this, won't you?"
"Y-yes, S-sir," said Tom, reaching out and taking his cap. He held it down by his side by the peak.
"And there will be no more fights on the bus, I trust?"
"N-no, S-sir.
"Very well, Simmons, I am sure that you have learned your lesson. I am just sorry that you had to learn it the hard way. Now, I suggest that you go to the washroom and wash your face before going home. Off you go, now."
"Y-yes, S-sir; th-thank you, Sir."

Tom turned and left the study, closing the heavy door behind him as softly as he could. He went first to the washroom, where he rinsed his face, enjoying the coolness of the water on his flushed cheeks. He washed away the trails caused by his flowing tears. He gave a large sniff. At least he had stopped crying. And his legs had stopped shaking, he noticed. His backside still hurt, although the pain was already beginning to turn into a warm glow - not altogether unpleasant - a fact which Tom found rather puzzling.
Tom pulled on his schoolcap and made his way to the school gates. In future he would not travel upstairs on the school bus - he would stay downstairs even if it meant having to stand. That way he could hope to avoid the boys who had taken his cap and brought him all this trouble. He certainly would not risk getting into a fight on the bus again. He would rather walk to school than chance another six of the best!