A shock to the system

School discipline

'Have you ever had the cane?' my friend Robert asked me as we walked home from school one afternoon. 'I bet you haven't,' he added knowingly.
He certainly knew full well that I was one of the best behaved pupils in the school. I excelled on the sports field, and had a good record for obtaining high marks in exams. I was the quiet, studious type of schoolboy, not the sort to find himself holding his hand out or bending over, for the cane.

Both Robert and myself attended an all-boys secondary school in the south of England and, although we were not in the same form, we were both just entering our third year at the school. In all fairness, it was a good school that achieved fairly high academic standards. Extra-curricular activities, such as music, drama and sports, were plentiful and strongly encouraged. Discipline was quite strict and, like a good number of state schools in those days, corporal punishment was sometimes used.. For serious infringements of the rules a boy could expect to be caned: this was a fact of life that few ever questioned.

'No, I've never had the cane,' I replied, 'and I bet you haven't either.' Robert and I had been friends for a number of years and I knew that he was as well-behaved as I was.
'No, I haven't either,' he said, 'although I got the slipper for the first time last week from Cummings during a PT lesson'.
'What was that for?'
'Oh, at the end of the period Cummings had told us to stand still and not talk. I was stupid enough to whisper something, and he made me bend over and touch my toes in the middle of the gym. Then he took off one of his plimsols and whacked me really hard.'
' Just for talking?'
'Yep,' replied Robert nodding his head. Then, with a grin on his face he added, 'it really hurts across gym shorts, I can tell you.'
I grinned back at him as I turned to walk up the driveway to my house. As I did so, he called out 'Have you had the slipper yet?'
'No!' I shouted back smugly.

It was true. In my two years at the school I'd never once been caned or slippered. For classroom offences boys could be caned across the palm of the hand while more serious misdemenours would invariably lead to a visit to the Headmaster or Deputy Head in order to receive a 'swishing' across the backside.
Only once had I come close to getting a hand-caning. Even then, the master concerned considered my offence mild enough to offer me a choice of either the cane or 200 lines. I must admit that I was tempted to take the caning, and to help me make up my mind I asked how many strokes I would get, but I was curtly informed I would have to wait to find out. I tried desperately to convert 200 lines to the equivalent number of cane-strokes, but the thought of receiving even one stroke (I had seen boys blowing on their stinging palms after a caning and then sitting with their injured hands locked under their armpits) ) persuaded me to opt for lines. Later the other boys all jeered me and called me a coward for not taking the caning.

I was gradually earning a reputation for being a bit of a goody-goody. Indeed, after two years at the school, I was the only boy in my class who had not experienced some form of corporal punishment. Quite a number had suffered 'handers' on more than one occasion and there were at least half-a-dozen boys in my class who had been caned by the Head or the Deputy Head.

Although I was glad I was not the sort of boy to merit a caning, I often wished that I was more popular. My quiet, studious attitude led to me being left out of the fun. Added to that, my mother always sent me to school in a well-brushed blazer and neatly pressed short trousers, together with a clean white shirt and tie, which always made me look like a new pin.

The offence

I think it was these feelings that eventually drove me to doing something reckless, that I hoped would lead me to becoming more accepted by my classmates. I decided that I would borrow a few of my elder brother's 'soft porn' magazines to take to school. They were the type of magazine that were to be found on the top shelf of most newsagents. My brother had loads of them and wouldn't notice if a few went missing for a day or two. It was, of course, strictly against the rules to bring such items onto school premises, but I was sure that I could keep a few magazines well hidden. As I had anticipated, my classmates were extremely interested in the illicit material when I showed the magazines to some of them first thing next morning at school. I said that I would have to hide the magazines in my satchel, but that I would let them all see more during mid-morning break.

As it happened, that particular day the official school photographs were to be taken. We were photographed form by form, and our form was the last to be dealt with before morning break. We filed into the assembly hall, placed our satchels on the floor at one end, and proceeded to sit on wooden benches in front of the camera at the other end. I still have a copy of that photograph in which I appeared looking, as usual, like a smart, model schoolboy. Even now, if I look at that photograph, I recall how little did I know that very soon after it was taken I would find myself in deep trouble.

Once our form photograph was completed, we went to collect out satchels before going off to morning break. Just as I was about to reach for my satchel, I was pushed over from behind. A boy grabbed my satchel and ran off with it, closely followed by the boy who had pushed me. Knowing that they were after the illicit magazines , I chased after them down the corridor. When I caught up, the thieves had already unbuckled my satchel. I tried to grab hold of it and, in the ensuing scuffle, all three of us ended up on the floor at the feet of Mr. Stevens, the Deputy Head. My satchel skidded across the floor out of reach.

'Right! You three,' shouted Mr. Stevens. 'You are all booked for detention this Friday. Now, on your feet!'
We all jumped to our feet. I went to retrieve my satchel and the books that had spilled out of it.
'David Elliot. Is that your satchel?' demanded Mr. Stevens.
'Yes sir.'
'Are these yours also?' Mr Stevens had seen the magazines that now lay half in and half out of my satchel.
'No sir. I mean, not really sir. They belong to someone else.'
'Did you bring them into the school, or did this "someone else" bring them into the school?'
By this time, a number of boys had gathered to witness the scene. All stood silent as I tried to search for the answer that would get me off the hook, but I just couldn't think of a good enough excuse.
'Very well,' said Mr. Stevens. 'Go and fetch the book and the cane and wait outside my office'.
A gasp emerged from the other boys as they heard the words. It was obvious that they couldn't believe that one of the best behaved boys in the school was facing a caning.

At my school, the cane and punishment record book resided in the school secretary's office, and any boy who was going to receive the cane had to go and collect the book and the cane himself - a somewhat humiliating procedure.

I reached the secretary's office and knocked at the door.
'Please, Mr. Stevens has told me to fetch the punishment book and the cane.' I said with acute embarrassment. I kept my head lowered in the vain hope that I would not be recognized.

The two items were handed to me and I hurried off to the deputy head's office, passing boys who were returning from break and only too willing to take advantage of my predicament by providing details of what horrors lay in store for me. I had to wait for over ten minutes outside the office before Mr. Stevens arrived: the most miserable ten minutes of my school career. I gazed down at the thin, springy rod that I was holding. It was impossible to dismiss the thought that it would soon be biting into the seat of my shorts. I had often wondered what it would be like to get the cane, but I couldn't believe that I was now actually going to find out. It was chilly in that draughty corridor, and I wasn't sure whether my legs were shivering from the cold or shaking with fear.

The caning

Mr. Stevens finally appeared and ushered me into his office. I was told to place the book and the cane on his desk. My knees were now quite unsteady, but I stood still as best I could whilst he meticulously entered the details into the punishment book. I didn't even try to look at the figure he inserted in the "number of strokes" box. I was reminded that bringing smutty material onto the school premises was a very serious offence, and that the punishment for such an offence was a mandatory six strokes of the cane. However, Mr Stevens added, because of my previous excellent character and good school record, he would make a concession on this occasion and limit my punishment to four strokes.

I was informed that I could appeal to the Headmaster if I wished, but that rather than rescinding the caning, the Head might see fit to re-institute the customary six of the best. Not wanting to push my luck, I decided not to exercise my right of appeal. Mr. Stevens then took out a sturdy looking foot-stall, with big brass handles at either side, from beneath his desk. Placing it in the centre of the room, he ordered me to bend over and grip the brass handles. I reluctantly did as I was told.

'Come on lad! Tighter in! Step back and straighten your knees!'. The sudden stern commands made me jump, and I quickly adjusted so that I was now in a rigid inverted V position with my regulation grey shorts feeling really tight across my trembling buttocks.. The hem of my blazer was then lifted up across my back, presumably so that there was no danger of its getting in the way of the descending cane.

To my surprise, either because of my rigid position, or because by now I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be caned, my legs had stopped shaking. I felt the cane being placed in position, and I closed my eyes and braced myself for the first stroke. There were three preparatory taps, then a whoosh, and a split second later the rod landed sharply on target. I felt a sharp burning pain which caused me to catch my breath and grip the handles of the stool even tighter.

Once more the cane was placed in position, although I could hardly feel it through the throbbing sting left by the first cane stroke. There were three more light taps, another whoosh, another crack, and a second line of fire erupted across my backside. 'Two to go' I thought to myself as my eyes began to fill with salty tears. The third stroke landed and now my whole backside felt as if it was on fire. The pain was terrible. There was a short pause and I braced myself for the fourth and final stroke, somehow expecting that it might well be the worst of the lot. I wasn't wrong! As the cane swished I instinctively rose up on my toes. Whether it was due to this, or whether it was simply a bad shot, I don't know, but the cane landed awkwardly at an angle and the tip of the cane caught the bare flesh of my right leg just below the hem of my shorts. The burning pain was intense.

The caning over, and incredibly relieved that there were not two more to go, I gently raised myself into a standing position. I was then instructed to rejoin my class. My backside was still tingling as I entered the classroom, feeling that all eyes were on me. Later that day I was asked the usual questions by my schoolmates. Those questions actually helped me to overcome the embarrassment that I felt, and I even bragged a little about my ordeal. That caning, and the events which led up to it, lost me my reputation as a 'goody-goody' and for a while at least I enjoyed my new found notoriety.