Story Eleven - On being caned

1955

On Being Caned

Even though one tries to remember the good things about one’s school days, there’s one abiding memory I have, literally a hurtful one that I want to describe: the painful, humiliating, angry memory of being caned.

The system of punishment in my grammar school, typical, I suppose, in the 1950s, was quite simple: if you were a dead good lad and did everything you should do, you collected Merit Marks. So, for example, if your homework was spot on and you received, say, 10 out of 10, you were awarded a Merit Mark. It was recorded in your Journal and signed and dated by the teacher.

If you were naughty and did something that irritated the teacher, you were given a Conduct Mark.

If, and when, you collected 10 Conduct Marks, you had to go to the Headmaster after school on a Tuesday, and explain yourself. He would then decide whether to cane you or not.

If you were really a pain in the class, upsetting the teacher, he had the power to give you THREE Conduct Marks. That meant you immediately went to the Headmaster’s Study and, without any discussion, you were caned. 

I wasn’t a difficult pupil. I was just a kid with a kid’s sense of right and wrong and a kid’s sense of humor – one that, I’m sure, though, wasn’t always appreciated by teachers.

In my third year at grammar school, about half-way through December, I had collected nine Conduct Marks. I ‘d heard from others that being caned, hurt. Hurt really bad. Sure as hell, I did not want to be caned by the Headmaster. So I knew I had to be extra careful, hold my tongue,  and not get my 10^th.

Well, the day came when I wasn’t careful enough, when I couldn’t keep my trap shut, when my wishing rock didn’t get me out of trouble.  One Tuesday, I irritated Mr. Hogg, my form teacher.

“Paull,” he said sternly, “Bring me your journal. That’s enough. There’s one conduct mark for you.” My heart sank. I knew what that meant. I pleaded with him. “Sir, it weren’t me, Sir, ‘Onest.” But it was, indeed, me. I told a lie. I told a lie because I was scared. When Mr. Hogg opened my Journal, he saw that I had nine Conduct Marks. His bottom lip dropped. He frowned. He knew that he was sending me to be caned. I squeezed my hands, and said again I was sorry.

But, and I understand why, Mr. Hogg went ahead and signed in my 10^th Conduct Mark, adding the comment, “Paull talks too much when he should be reading.” I went back to my seat, already fearful of what lay ahead.

As always, I went home for midday dinner. I told my mum I would be late home after school. “Goin’ to go to the after-school chess club, so I won’t be home right on the button, Mum. That ok?” She smiled. “Of course. Glad you’re learning about chess. Your dad can play, you know. Learn and you can play with him.”

The afternoon flew by. It went by at a million miles an hour.  Just after 4 o’clock, I lined up with several other boys outside the Headmaster’s secretary’s office. When it was my turn, I went inside the Headmaster’s study. Without looking at me, he took my Journal, read the comments made by the teachers, signed it, handed it to me, and said firmly, “Wait outside with the rest.” There was no reprieve for me. I joined the queue of lads. Everyone stared at the floor, not saying a word. I could feel the cloud of shame and fear that hung over the group.

Eventually, the Headmaster came out, carrying a long, thin wooden cane.

He beckoned to the first boy. “Hold out your hand. Higher, boy, higher!”

He raised the cane as high as he could, looked the boy in the eye, and smacked the cane against the boy’s fleshy hand. The Headmaster glared at the boy. “Don’t cry, boy. And, what do you say?” 

“Thank you, Sir,” wailed the boy, squeezing his hands between his knees.“Good. Now be off with you….and don’t let me see you here again.” said the Headmaster. 
“Next! Who's next?”

Too soon, it was my turn. The Headmaster glared at me. “Come here, Paull. Step forward. Hold out your hand…..you’re RIGHT hand!” I held out my right hand and stretched and parted my fingers. “You, Paull, should know better. Two for you.” 

The cane bit into my hand, shooting a flashing hot pain up to my elbow. I immediately squeezed my fingers shut, winced, and fought back the tears. “Now the other one. Hold it out. HIGHER!” said the Headmaster.

The left hand whack hurt more than the right. I cried. I couldn’t control the flood of tears that ran down onto my lips.

Rubbing my hands together to ease the burning sensation, I thanked the Headmaster for hurting me so much. “Don’t let me see you here again, Paull,” he grunted. 

Rubbing my hands and squeezing my fingers, I went to the back of the corridor to the room where the after-school chess club was held.  I sat next to a couple of my friends who were scrutinizing the chessboard. Dudley looked up at me. “You ok? Did it hurt? You've been crying!” “Yes,” I said, “it bloody well did. Couldn't help it. I cried. Look.’” I showed him the dull blue black welts on the palms of my hands. 

There was no way that I could concentrate on playing a game of chess.

Doris, the milk lady who picked me up around 5 to deliver the neighborhood milk, laughed when I told her the next morning. “Told Arthur, yer dad? 'Av 'e? Wot ‘e say?” 

No, I hadn’t told my dad or my mum. I was too ashamed to do that. 

I learned my lesson. I was never caned again..................

I do wonder, though, to this day why the Headmaster didn’t give me chance to tell him how sorry I was for being a naughty boy.