Punished by Mr Jeavons - a memoir of prep school

Smells can be extremely evocative, transporting the mind back to sights and scenes of many years ago. One of my least favourite smells, for reasons I shall explain, is that of pipe tobacco. If I enter a room where somebody is puffing away at a pipe my mind invariably drifts back in time some forty years to my prep school days when several of the masters were 'pipemen'. And if the pipe tobacco being smoked is the aromatic blend preferred by my then headmaster, Mr Jeavons, I may well relive that horrible sinking feeling dip in the pit of my stomach which I used to experience as a small boy when I stood trembling outside the headmaster's big oaken door, waiting to be called in for a whacking.

I was sent away to board at my prep school in a windy seaside town at the age of nine - a traumatic experience for a sensitive boy. The school was run on a system of rewards and punishments. Exemplary schoolwork or meritorious conduct resulted in the award of 'gold stars' and the praise of one's teachers. However, the same teachers could also hand out the dreaded 'black marks' and the acquisition of just three of these could result in corporal punishment. Once a boy had accumulated two black marks he lived in absolute terror of gaining a third one. The threat of the cane hung over the wretched boy like a sword of Damocles until the end of term, when the slate was mercifully wiped clean.

I received two black marks in my very first term and had to tread extremely carefully for the remaining weeks until the Christmas holiday. However, I was not so fortunate on my return to school in the new year, acquiring three black marks before the term was even halfway through. At first I thought my sins might have been overlooked, since several morning assemblies passed by without my name being read out. A couple of other miscreants in my class were summoned for whackings that week, but for some reason my own name appeared to have been missed. I started to relax a little, thinking that perhaps boys were not caned the very first time they collected three black marks. Maybe the headmaster liked to give such a boy another chance to mend his ways before the ultimate sanction of corporal punishment was invoked.

Needless to say I was proved wrong! At Monday morning assembly the next week my own name was read out, to my enormous shame and embarrassment, and I was informed that my presence was required in the headmaster's study directly before evening prep. Of course it was an additional torture having to go through the school day knowing that one was due for a whacking that same evening. The terror of the cane filled my young mind and I found it difficult to concentrate on my lessons. Indeed, I nearly gained a further black mark for my inattention during that morning's lessons.

During the lunchbreak I was singled out by the two boys in my form who had been whacked the previous week. Although I was curious to hear about what had happened to them, I had been too self-conscious to ask them directly. But in fact they were only too willing to tell me all the gristly details!

'It's not that bad, actually,' confided Milstead, a sturdy fair-haired lad. 'A whacking is soon over and done with and old Jeavons doesn't make you take your shorts down or anything like that. And you'll probably only get three strokes - one for each black mark.'

'But the cane must hurt a bit,' I ventured, not really wanting confirmation of this fact.

'Oh yes, it hurts alright. In fact, it hurts an awful lot. Harris here blubbed when he got whacked!'

'No I didn't!' protested Harris, a slighty built boy with red hair and freckles.

'You certainly did. You were blubbing like a little baby!'

Later that day I made my way to Mr Jeavon's study expecting the worst but determined that I for one would not 'blub like a little baby.' I had not had much of an appetite at tea and my stomach felt like it was tied up in knots. With a heavy hand I knocked at the headmaster's door and heard his low pitched growling voice bid me enter.

'Ah, come in boy. Stand in front of the desk at attention and listen to me. You've accumulated no less than three black marks this term and no gold stars at all. What do you have to say for yourself?'

'I...I'm sorry, sir.'

'Well, quite soon you'll be feeling very sorry indeed. Badly behaved or lazy boys at this school must expect to be punished. You had better take that fact on board. There is absolutely no excuse for misbehaviour like yours and I can think of no reason why you should not be caned. Can you give me any reason?'

'I...I...that is...'

Mr Jeavons sank back in his chair and relit his pipe, no doubt fully aware of the look of terror in my eyes. The aromatic tobacco smoke wafted about the oak panelled room as he ambled over to a tall cupboard and brought out a long yellow punishment cane. I was commanded to bend across the front of the large leather-topped desk with my arms outstretched.

'Have you ever been caned before, boy?'

'No sir...'

'Well, there always has to be a first time - and no doubt this won't be the last time in your school career. I'm going to give you three strokes and I shall expect you to accept your punishment like a brave boy.'

I closed by eyes tightly and tried to imagine that I was far far away. But the pervasive smell of pipe tobacco soon brought me back to reality and my eyes began to moisten with tears even before I had suffered a single stroke. When the first stroke did land I was taken aback by just how much it hurt - a horrible burning pain quite unlike any sensation I had ever felt before. The next stroke landed almost on the same spot and stung even more and I felt the tears beginning to trickle down my cheeks. 'One more to come,' I said to myself, at the same time wondering how any boy could possibly endure the 'six of the best' featured in the school stories I had read.

My poor bottom was still stinging fearfully from the first two strokes as the springy cane lashed across my bum cheeks for the third and last time. By now my backside felt as though it was on fire and my tears were flowing freely. Yes, I was indeed 'blubbing like a baby' - but how could any young boy be expected to hold back his tears when his bottom was criss-crossed with three lines of incandescent fire?

The headmaster offered me a box of tissues and and once I had managed to stop crying I wiped by tearstained face. Mr Jeavons sat back in his chair, puffing at his pipe and I was ordered to stand at attention before him. I desperately wanted to rub my burning backside, but did not dare. After being warned to behave myself in future I was allowed to leave the execution chamber and made my way to the form prep room.

As I took my place at my desk I received a knowing wink from Milstead. The hard wooden deskseat made me very conscious of the injuries to my backside but as the minutes passed by the initial discomfort became transformed into a not unpleasant warm glow.

I was to receive further whackings at my prep school, including a memorable six of the best, but I shall reserve those memories for a future contribution to this webpage.