The Real Thing

By Peter Brown

After my fight with David Connor and the reconciliation engineered by the Headmaster, the two of us quickly became inseparable. We wrote the essay on the judgement of Solomon at David's home on the Sunday afternoon and I was introduced to his parents. They had a grown-up daughter at university, so David was effectively an only child. I thought they might prove as snobbish as David had been and resent our friendship, but they rapidly adopted me as second son. Mr. Connor had no more than a trace of Ireland in his voice, but he put on a stage accent, pretended to be very afraid of my 'terrible red hair', pretended to mis-hear my Christian name as Patrick, and endowed me with a new personality as Paddy O'Brown, the fighting Irishman from Co. Kerry. Mrs. Connor said resignedly that I was not to mind him. She was surprised that David had any friends, the way he teased them. After that, two or three evenings a week, I would go back with David to do our homework together in his room, then have a high tea with him. If Mr. Connor was back from work by then he would usually insist on driving me home. There were few cars in the street where I lived, and no big shiny ones, so it caused quite a sensation the first time I alighted from his Inspector Morse-type Jaguar. My mother did not like the relationship because she believed I was 'getting above myself', but my father could see the benefits of having one less mouth to feed and one less child around the house in the evening.

David was an odd mixture of qualities. There was nothing wrong with his intellect. He had a grasp of technical things, like grammar and mathematics, which far surpassed mine, but he refused to do any more work than was strictly required, or to show any enthusiasm at games. I could swot as much as I wanted to, but it was against his code to be keen on anything. One of the reasons why his parents approved of our friendship was that my presence made him do his homework, which, it seemed, had been an endless struggle in the past. He was not big for his age or physically strong, but he was brave, reckless, and carried obstinacy to the point of bloody-mindedness.

After our battle in the playground, we should have been sent to Mr. White, the Second Master with overall responsibility for discipline in Lower School. But for some reason he was not available and we went to the Head. That was probably lucky for us, because Mr. White had a terrifying reputation. In school (he taught English and took the beginners' Latin class of which I was a member) he was usually very calm and self-controlled, but he had a hot temper and was quite prepared to shout and rage. When in this mood he plunged about the school, muttering to himself as he rushed from room to room, and his nickname was 'The White Tornado', after a TV advertisement of the time. He was also more than willing to make use of the cane.

What the Headmaster said about beating at Maynard's had been intended to shame David into owning up, and was not true. The Head was a gentle, kindly man, reluctant to beat boys, but Mr. White did not share his unwillingness. If he was not teaching, he used to patrol the corridors in lesson time seeking out delinquents who had been sent out of class. He had metal studs in his shoes, and you would hear the ringing tread get closer and closer and CLOSER until he came round the corner, pounced, and told you to report to him at Break. The queues outside his office were notoriously long, and those waiting were silent, white-faced, and apprehensive, with very good reason. From behind the door, all too often, would come the unmistakable sound of the cane being vigorously wielded, sometimes with the victim's cries as obbligato, and then a red-faced boy would emerge, in tears or close to them.

But, like the Head, he had been personally kind to me. In my first week at school, he had sent for me, and I went in fear and trembling, wondering what I'd done. But he only wanted to say that he didn't expect there were many books at my home, and that if I needed anything for longer than the library would allow I could borrow it from him. Then he asked what I read for pleasure, and when I replied The Eagle comic gave me The Thirty-Nine Steps. When I brought it back, he gave me a mini lecture on John Buchan's place in adventure fiction. Most of it was above my head, but it all sounded interesting and I went away with Greenmantle.

I was being pulled in different directions. My two stripes from the Headmaster in September had brought me instant fame as the first new boy to get the cane, but as term wore on boy after boy was found wanting and called before his housemaster or Mr. White to make his first reluctant acquaintance with the cane. At break or lunch, the latest victim was eagerly pressed for details and everyone stole a glance at his backside when we changed for gym or games. David was simply incapable of staying out of trouble, and was caned twice in the first term. I had no desire to get the cane: my two stripes had been quite enough, and I knew that my parents would strongly disapprove if they found out, but on the other hand I had a niggling desire to experience what a real beating was like and see whether I could take it.

In my second term David's boldness and bloody-mindedness gave me the opportunity whether I wanted it or not. Our form was no longer required to sit in name order, so we two had migrated to the back of the classroom. One of our teachers was Mr. Bernstein. His grip on discipline was precarious, and ink pellets and paper aeroplanes flew freely about the room as soon as he turned his back to the class. One fateful day he was writing on the blackboard when an aeroplane hit him from behind. He turned quickly and accused David of being the culprit. He wasn't guilty, but was nevertheless given fifty lines. David kept quiet at the time but after class went up to Mr. Bernstein and said it hadn't been him and he was not going to do the lines. Nor did he.

When David failed to produce his lines, Mr. White stopped him as we were going out after English and told him he should accept his punishment. If he didn't, David would answer to him, so he would be well advised to hand in the lines tomorrow morning. When David still didn't comply, he joined the study queue at break and came to our next lesson with a rather pained expression. Everyone knew what had happened, so we crowded round wanting to know all about it. When we changed for P.T. that afternoon the four bruise lines on David Connor's backside were the focus of attention - until Mr. Hancock said there'd be a few well slippered bottoms if we didn't get changed and into the gym. When I asked how much it had hurt, David made light of it and said the whacking was nothing like so bad as those he had suffered at his prep school, where, it seemed, the headmaster was a real beast.

In fact, the caning from Mr. White only served to exacerbate David's anger at Mr. Bernstein. He made himself into a thorough nuisance in his lessons, acting the fool every time the poor man's back was turned and somehow managed ro involve me in his escapades. Mr. White soon got wind of what was happening and informed us in no uncertain terms that he knew what was going on and that we would be in big trouble if it didn't stop. I was ready to show the white flag at that point, but, David being David, the reckless behaviour didn't stop. Before long we were in trouble again. Mr. Bernstein told me to stand out in the corridor and ordered David to stand in the corner with his hands on his head.

I had only been in the corridor a few minutes when I heard Mr. White approaching on his march of doom. I cowered like a frightened rabbit, rooted to the spot, as he strode into the classroom and extracted David from his corner, then marched us both to his study. David was told to wait outside. I expected to be shouted at, but he looked at me in a fatherly way and said: 'I can see how frightened you are, so I'll get this over as quickly as possible. Disrupting the class is selfish. You are not only depriving yourself of an education, but everyone else as well. You need a severe lesson and I am going to give you three strokes of the cane. If I didn't suspect that Connor had led you into it, you'd be getting six of the best like him. Now bend over that chair. I can promise you that this is going to hurt very much indeed, so reach right over and grip the bar below the seat.'

Mr. White's office had low, wooden-framed armchairs like those in waiting rooms. I had to stand on tiptoe and stretch my arms right out to do as I was told, bending so tightly that I could feel the hem of my shorts pressing against my thighs and the tightness of the material covering my backside. I was very scared but at the same time calm. I was going to be beaten by a man whom I looked up to, and who I knew had a regard for me. He was not just punishing me like a schoolmaster, for breaking the rules, but like a father, for my own good. So I resolved to accept my caning humbly and with as much stoicism as I could muster.

I felt Mr. White turn back the tail of my blazer. I hard a swishing sound which was more like a whoosh and the sharp crack as the cane landed almost made me believe that my bottom had broken the sound barrier. Then the fiery pain shot through my body. I drew my breath in sharply to prevent myself crying out, just gulping out a low moan of 'ah-ah'. The agony of the first stroke was just beginning to diminish a little when the second arrived, landing just below the first. This time I could not keep quiet but yelled 'Ow!', and gave an involuntary wriggle. Mr. White said sharply: 'Keep still and take your punishment', and, thus admonished, I gritted my teeth as the third landed. The stroke hurt even more than the other two, if that were possible, and I yelled out loud. This had been a real caning, delivered by an expert practitioner, and I wondered how David could possible endure his allotted six.

I got up from the chair with the tears running down my face, one hand clutching my backside, the other reaching for my handkerchief, and stood there in penitent shame, my head bowed. Mr. White put his finger under my chin and lifted my head: 'I don't want to have to do that again, so for heaven's sake learn your lesson. Now I'm going to deal with the main cause of all the mischief..' David was called in and commanded to bend down over the chair. Instead of being ushered out I was told to stay and watch as Mr. White's cane carried out its retributive work. David received six of the best, laid on with all the vigour Mr. White could muster, but proved much more stoical than me. He did no more than grunt as the strokes landed, although when he staggered up from the chair he was whitefaced and obviously in a great deal of discomfort.

Mr. White said sternly 'The two of you will now apologize to Mr. Bernstein,' and marched us back to the classroom. David had been on the verge of tears before we left Mr. White's study but he managed to regain his composure. He straightened his shoulders, put his hands behind his back and taking a deep breath said in a quavering voice that he was very sorry and begged Mr. Bernstein's pardon. Mr Bernstein noticed that I would probably break down in tears if I tried to speak at that moment and said: 'I think the other boy should apologise to me later, Mr. White.' I greatly appreciated his kindness.