The wrong choice

In the late 1970s I was a pupil at a boys' school in Lincolnshire. This was a time of change in society at large and during the four years I had been at the school there had been a general relaxation of rules and regulations. Long hair was now tolerated, the cadet corps had ceased to be compulsory and there was a lot less corporal punishment. During my first couple of years at the school I had been caned several times but for the past year and a half I had managed to avoid corporal punishment altogether.

The incident I shall recall here happened during the Easter term in my fourth year. I had been detected writing graffiti in the toilets at a time when the headmaster had decided to institute a clampdown. In fact, he had gone as far as banning marker pens. I was hauled up before my form-master who informed me that it was school policy to cane boys for such acts of vandalism. However, since my general conduct was in other respects exemplary, the form-master said that he was prepared to exercise his discretion and allow me to opt for a double-detention instead.

Faced with the choice of a summary caning from Mr Pottinger or a mind numbing two hours spent writing lines in detention, I decided to opt for corporal punishment. I knew from past experience that Pottinger had a relatively light touch with the cane. In fact it was obvious that he disapproved of corporal punishment, finding the whole ritual rather distasteful.

This supposition was confirmed by the pained look on Mr Pottinger's face when I said I would opt for a caning. He fumbled in a cupboard to find his seldom used cane, only to heave a sigh as he retrieved the implement. 'Oh dear, this cane is in a sorry state but I suppose it will have to do. Kindly bend over that chair.'

I was almost smiling as I bent over the chair - this was likely to be a doddle. I was even happier when the first stroke landed, since it hardly stung at all; but then I discovered why.

'You had better get up again.' An embarrassed Mr Pottinger was holding half a cane in each hand - the implement had split completely in two. 'I'm sorry about that, but you have my assurance that it still counts as one stroke towards the total. I'm afraid that I don't have another cane and I'm due to take a class quite soon. I shall have to put your name on the deputy headmaster's list. You can see him directly after school.'

'B...but sir - can't you deal with me later?'

'I am due to supervise a games practice directly after school. I'd much rather leave the matter in the capable hands of Dr Hickson.' In contrast to Mr Pottinger, Dr Hickson, the deputy headmaster, was renowned as a hard caner. I had suffered at his hands as a junior boy and had no wish to renew my acquaintance with his strong right arm.

'Could I take the detention instead, sir?'

'I'm afraid that is out of the question now that you have received part of your caning. However, I shall give you a note to show Dr Hickson stating that you have already had one stroke. He will deduct that from the total due to you.'

Thus it was that instead of getting my punishment out of the way I had to spend the remainder of the day worrying about what would happen to me when the bell sounded for the end of school. This psychological torture was a punishment in itself. At four o'clock I made my way to Dr Hickson's office. There were a couple of first-formers already waiting and they told me that they were in trouble for fighting. They were both rather frightened since this would be their very first caning.

Dr Hickson appeared and ticked our names off on his list. He then ushered one of the first-formers into the room, closing the door. A few minutes later the youngster emerged, trying to force a smile but obviously rather distressed.

'I got three,' he whispered, directing his classmate to knock and enter.

'How was it?' I enquired. 'It stung like mad but it doesn't feel too bad now. I suppose it's better than a detention.'

The boy waited for his companion, who shuffled out gingerly rubbing his bottom. The two youngsters walked off together, chatting about their 'whacking' and now the best of friends, despite the fight which had landed them in trouble. Now it was my turn to enter the lion's den. I knocked at the door and walked into D \Hickson's spacious study, noting the notorious 'whacking stool' ready in position in the centre of the floor.

'It must be a couple of years since you last reported to me for the cane,' said Dr Hickson. 'Daubing graffiti on the lavatory walls is a really stupid act more worthy of the first year boys I have just had to deal with. Put yourself in the position of the school cleaning staff - how would you like to have to waste time scrubbing away schoolboy obscenities?'

'I'm sorry for what I did sir - it won't happen again.' I remembered the note in my blazer pocket from Mr Pottinger and handed it to the deputy headmaster.

'So, it appears I am to deduct one stroke from your total. How is your arithmetic? What is six minus one?'

With the deduction, I had expected to be receiving no more than two or three strokes, so my heart plummeted at the thought of five.

'Well, what is the answer?'

'Er...five sir.'

I bent over the sturdy oaken whacking stool inwardly cursing my stupidity at choosing a beating over a detention. I was all too aware that five strokes from Dr Hickson was going to be no picnic. Closing my eyes and gritting my teeth I awaited the first cut of the cane. It was not long in coming. The stinging pain was intense - and I had four equally vicious strokes still to come.

By the time I staggered unsteadily to my feet I felt like I had been to hell and back. My bum was incandescent and it was only as I left the school buildings that the stinging began to transmute into a warm glow. Dr Hickson certainly knew how to employ a cane to good effect and my backside bore a neatlly spaced set of five weals for several days. On the other hand, I was now very pleased not to be facing a double-detention at the end of the week. Perhaps there was something to be said for getting one's punishment over and done with.