Five for the Cane



My main schooling took place at a public school in East Anglia, where I started off in the junior divisionl at the age of 10. I didn't get the cane until I was in my second year, aged 11 years, having moved up into J1A. in the charge of Mr. H,. better known as 'Pop', who was also the junior school headmaster.

'Pop' was a strict master, but also popular, allowing a degree of fun and banter within the class, provided certain limits were observed. He had a deep melodious Welsh accent and a very fine singing voice which was demonstrated each morning during the hymn singing at assembly. Pop had a withered left arm which was of little use to him, but he made up for this disability with the wiry strength of his good arm. He was especially adept in wielding the cane and a whacking from Pop was not a pleasant experience.

Boys who misbehaved in J1A were usually caned in front of the class, but when a boy from one of the other forms was sent for punishment, he was told to go to the cloakroom next door. Pop would then take the cane from the cupboard and follow the unfortunate boy into the cloakroom. Boys being boys, we eagerly listened to the muffled sound of the beating, counting the strokes. The sobbing wrongdoer was sent back to his class whilst Pop returned to the form room, entered the boy's name in the punishment book, and replaced the cane in the cupboard.

I have to admit that I was intrigued and excited by the sight and sounds of a whacking. However, it was not until my second term in J1A that an incident occurred which resulted in my first encounter with Pop's cane. It was a frosty January morning and during mid-morning break five of us made a slide in the frozen snow covered the junior quad. We were having a great time when Pop suddenly appeared, looking very angry. In our excitement we had forgotten how he had recently warned pupils of the danger of making slides where people walked.

"All you boys get indoors and wait for me."

With hangdog expressions and fearing the worst we made our way the short distance to our classroom. I remember feeling very anxious indeed, knowing that I was likely to get the cane. Pop followed us into the room and barked out an order: "Form a line facing that wall."

As we stood with our noses pressed against the wall the angry master strode across to the cupboard where he kept his cane.

"Right, all of you bend over and touch your toes."

We did as ordered - and for any boys who were watching through the classroom windows it must have been an exciting - if frightening - scene. Imagine a line of trembling eleven year old boys, dressed identically in grey jackets and matching grey short trousers, the flannel material well stretched across their seats, bending over touching their toes and each waiting his turn to feel the sting of the cane.

I recall looking at the floor, desperately trying to touch my toes, wondering how many strokes we were going to get, and how much it would hurt. My thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt as the "SWISH-CRACK!!" sound of the cane landing on the first bottom in line, resounded around the room. Gosh, it sounded louder and sharper than usual, maybe because it was so close...
A few seconds later came a second "SWISH-CRACK!!" 'Get up boy, and stand and face the wall with your hands on your head.'
There was a short pause, then the awful sounding "SWISH-CRACK!!"of the cane landing on the bottom of the next boy in line. It must have hurt him tremendously because he jumped up with a yelp I guessed that, like me, this was his first caning and he had been taken aback by the sheer pain.

"Get back down boy! And stay down, unless you want an extra stroke!"

The boy was obviously struggling to get back into position, and I heard 'Pop' telling him to get lower as the cane tapped across his tight seat, encouraging him to touch his toes. A couple of seconds later the second stroke echoed round the classroom like a rifle shot. Pop had obviously laid it on extra hard as a punishment for jumping up. 'Get up and join your friend. Hands on your head please, not rubbing your bottom!'

I could hear my friend sobbing as he took his place facing the wall. I could imagine how his bottom must be burning.

Now it was my turn. I steeled myself to stay in position no matter how agonising it felt. I felt my jacket tail being folded up my back out of the way, and the cane being pressed across the seat of my short trousers, prior to a couple of light aiming taps. I closed my eyes and waited for the first stroke, dreading it and at the same time curious to find out just what the cane felt like. I had heard so many stories from other boys - well, now I was to find out for myself.,

"SWISH-CRACK!!" A burning line of fire flashed across my bottom. It had hurt tremendously and salty tears began to blur my eyes. "SWISHCRACK!!" Just for a second there appeared to be no additional pain, but then the impact of the two strokes combined to produce the most excruciating stinging sensation. If that was the effect of just two strokes, what must six of the best be like? It did not bear thinking about.

'Go and stand facing the wall with your friends. Hands on your head, if you please.' Of course I desperately wanted to nurse my throbbing bottom, so Pop's order to keep my hands on my head was an added torture. We stood quietly sobbing, trying to ignore our burning buttocks, whilst Pop dealt with the remaining two miscreants.

The bell sounded for the end of break but the five of us were kept lined up facing the wall as our classmates filed in. We were ordered to turn around and face the class and once Pop had deleivered a stern lecture about the dangers of making slides in the quad, we were permitted to go to our desks By this time the pain had subsided and each time I moved about on the hard wooden desk seat I felt a not disagreeable tingling sensation.