Crying for the Cane (M/m)

This is a real oldie. Written in 2008 and never posted anywhere. Until now. Old fashioned schoolboy canings by old fashioned teachers. Reckon, in writing terms, I have moved on since those days but some may like it. And it deserves an airing, as the caner said as he took down the boy's underpants. I am incorrigible. New futuristic story 'The Clinic' (F/mf) to follow shortly. Alfred Roy.

 

 

CRYING FOR THE CANE

Hector Benton wrinkled his face in disgust and laid aside the last of the twenty nine homework papers he, painfully, had been in the process of marking. Mathematics may not be his class’s strong point but the collective mess he had laboriously corrected clearly warranted a liberal helping of his favourite malt. He lovingly poured the amber liquid into his special glass, reserved for such equally special and expensive fare, and mused on how he should react to such an inadequate response to his detailed and precise teachings. This time it would not be enough to issue a class detention. This time more radical measures were called for. He swallowed the contents of his favourite glass and reflected on another time in another school.

 

‘You do know why you are here boy?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Homework fifty seven per cent below your normal class work?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I did warn you. All of you.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Then drop your shorts and bend over.’

The boy did as he was told and, in a cold and vast gymnasium, the heavily built Hector Benton delivered six sharp and stinging cane strokes to the unprotected bottom of a slight and clever pupil caught by an act of stupidity.

 

Was it really over three years ago? Three years since he had informed a class of able fifteen year old boys that their homework standards were slipping to a point of unacceptability. Three years since he had told those same boys any repetition would incur his ultimate wrath. And when eight of those same, unbelieving boys, failed to recognise the earnestness of his threat he had marched them off to the gym and, one by one, his sturdy arm and cane posted six scholastic marks to each individual upturned backside. As the eight subdued and red eyed boys returned to their class all, including the many who had escaped such retribution, realised that a corner had been turned. The caned felt the pain, the others heard the tale. The days of submitting tardy homework ended, literally, at a stroke. As Hector Benton recalled the fateful day he mentally rehearsed a few, carefully selected words. If they failed in their desired effect then, as three years before, those words and his cane would return to haunt the minds and bottoms of the warned. Hector Benton gathered up the offending papers and retired to bed.

 

‘I shall not waste my time in giving my opinions of these latest pieces of homework. Suffice to say that, with one or two exceptions, the standard of work submitted falls a long way below the quality I expect to see from this class. I have remarked on many occasions in the past few months that the levels being achieved would disgrace 4D let alone 4A. And these latest submissions defy even my declining expectations. I said last month that if levels did not improve I would take drastic action. Action I have not taken for a considerable time. I do not issue idle threats. You will each be set a new mathematics paper for this week’s homework. Any boy failing to return a paper that in some manner meets the standard of his class work will be caned. I trust I make myself clear.

Hector Benton had made himself clear. Apart from the occasional shuffle of uneasy feet hardly a sound was heard from the class of twenty nine surprised and stunned boys. His carefully chosen words had the desired effect. And the most effective of those words eventually brought forth a timorous response from an unlikely source.

‘Caned sir?’

The bespectacled boy who issued the question nervously stood up and repeated his enquiry.

‘Did you say caned sir?’

‘I did.’

‘But….’

‘But what, Master Emms? Continue with your query.’

The boy adjusted the bridge of his glasses and, face flushed, did as he was bid.

‘The cane is never used in this school sir. It isn’t allowed.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No sir.’

‘I think you are wrong Master Emms.’

‘The school governors abolished it two years ago, sir.’

‘And you would know?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Given that your father is one of those very same governors?’

‘Yes sir,’

 Hector Benton considered the boy carefully. The collective silence of his twenty eight fellows had placed the normally quiet and studious Emms in an unexpected limelight. The master had no intention of entering into a debate with the incipient classroom lawyer but his query allowed the opportunity for anticipated clarification. He studiously avoided the boy’s nervous gaze and addressed the whole of an equally nervous class gripped by this small exchange,

‘Contrary to Master Emms’ opinion, the sanction of caning as a last resort has not been abolished in this school. I have discussed the matter with the headmaster and with the school governors. I have their approval for my course of action. I have no intention of engaging in any further discussion of the matter here. Sit down, Emms.’

The boy reluctantly resumed his seat and, amid a resumed shuffling of many feet, his classmates considered the disturbing consequences of both this and their form master’s previous announcement. The threat of a rare, and possibly first, caning hovered over the heads of all of them. As troubled minds scribbled answers to a preset paper from the previous lesson Hector Benton reflected that when the unlucky few touched their toes he sincerely hoped that one of the upturned backsides would belong to the small and bespectacled Master Emms.

 

It was a very subdued Emms, along with two companions, who sat in the corner of a local café contemplating their possible fate. Weak and unpromising coffee remained untouched and conversation, such as it was, revolved around only one subject. School was over for the day but Mr Benton’s unexpected announcement still echoed in their minds.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him to set us a really nasty paper just to ensure he gets a few victims.’

It was the ginger headed Robin Brindley who spoke. As the only one of the three to have experience of the cane, if not from Mr Benton, he knew how hard it could hurt. And the master who caned him at his previous school was a few pounds lighter than the current occupier of his thoughts. Bending down for six or more from Hector Benton was not something he wished to contemplate.

‘We will just have to make sure he doesn’t get the chance. Wont we?’

‘How?’

‘Yes how?’

Brindley’s companions mumbled their responses and waited for him to elaborate.

‘Easy. We all get together and submit identical answers. He can’t cane us all.’

Peter Emms took a desultory sip of his coffee and looked scornfully at Robin Brindley. He liked Robin but his brain was not out of the top drawer and words often preceded serious thought.

‘Can’t he? I wouldn’t put it past him.’

‘You said he couldn’t cane us at all.’

‘I know,’

‘But now you think he can.’

‘I rang my father at lunchtime. He confirmed what Mr Benton said. The cane can be used in exceptional circumstances.’

‘And it has been, a couple of times.’

It was Robin’s twin brother, the equally ginger haired David, who offered this piece of tantalising information. The others waited, both eager for and fearful of the details.

‘Both times by our beloved Mr Benton. A boy last year got six for being found with a knife in his possession and last month he caned Geoff Rawlings of 4C for mooning at girls during football.’

Robin Brindley sniggered.

‘How do you know?’ said the more serious Emms.

‘I know because it is common knowledge. Your attempt to save us this morning was brave but futile.’

Peter Emms removed his glasses and, producing a crisp white handkerchief, proceeded to clean them with deliberate care.

‘So much for the abolishment of the cane,’ said the still sniggering Robin.

‘I thought it was. I was wrong. As my father informed me it can be applied in special circumstances with the approval of the headmaster and three of the school governors.’

‘Even on you?’ said David.

‘Even on me.’ replied Emms. ‘But it won’t be if I ensure I get the appropriate marks.’

Robin Brindley sniggered again, this time more nervously.

‘And hopefully I shall.’

Peter Emms replaced his glasses and pocketed his handkerchief.

‘And the word, Robin, is abolition.’

 

Hector Benton poured himself his first tipple of malt of the evening and reflected on his unexpected announcement to the disappointing class of 4A. Apart from young Emms the statement had produced little other than a stunned silence. And he had been firmly put in his place. He would give out the homework papers on Monday and, on Wednesday evening, after their return he would discover which of his twenty nine boys would be due for a salutary and rare lesson. He did not relish the task but he was more than prepared to follow through. He was well aware that his six foot three frame delivering a few well aimed strokes of a cane to an immature bottom would induce excruciating pain in the recipient. But that was as it should be. Hector Benton’s view was that if you caned you did it hard. No point otherwise. And it was to teach these boys the error of their ways. The headmaster realised that. So did the governors, including the father of Master Emms. Do it so hard that they have no wish to repeat the experience. The question was how many times he would have to do it. At least four of the boys were well overdue for a sore backside. A couple of others were marginal but would benefit from a short and sharp shock. And one or two, including Master Emms, may be in for an unpleasant surprise. Three years ago eight crestfallen boys were marched off to the gym and felt a burning in their rears. This time it could be as many as ten. Hector Benton downed his malt and blessed the fact that his arm, his thick and sturdy arm, would be well up to it.

 

‘What was it like Robin?’

‘What was what like?’

‘Being caned?’

The ginger headed twins were settled in their separate beds for the evening and, lights out, were having a regular evening chat. Unsurprisingly the conversation readily turned to the events of the day and when Robin obliquely referred to his previous experience, equally unsurprisingly, the more intelligent David asked his brother the inevitable question.

‘I told you at the time.’

‘I’ve forgotten.’

‘I haven’t. It hurt.’

‘Much?’

‘You saw the marks. Remember. You insisted that I showed you them.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes. Every night for a week.’

‘I don’t remember that.’

‘I do. Jim jams down every night for your inspection.’

David laughed.

‘It wasn’t funny at the time and it will be even less funny if I fall foul of old Benton.’

Robin Brindley turned over in his bed and gave every intention of trying to get some sleep. Sleep that, to his slightly older brother, would not come easy. David did remember now that Robin reminded him. He remembered his twin coming home one evening, last year at their previous school, and telling him that he had to report the next day for a caning. Mr Davenport, the history master, had caught him and another boy cheating in an exam. David couldn’t remember the details but it was serious enough for the master to request permission to cane them. And the following day, after the caning, he had made Robin fill in all the chapter and verse of his experience. And Robin had told him that he and the other boy had been taken to the history masters’ study and, following a short lecture on their sins, the other boy had been told to wait outside. Mr Davenport had produced a long cane and told Robin to remove his jacket and bend over and touch his toes. Robin had done so, more readily than expected, and Mr Davenport pulled his trousers up by the waist and proceeded to lay on four strokes across the tightly enclosed cheeks of his bottom. The cane stung hard and Robin gripped his ankles tighter. And then he rose and, vigorously rubbing the sting from his rear, left and bid the other boy to take his place. The sting and throb had hardly faded before David conducted his first of his nightly inspections. His brother’s bottom was rich with four livid red marks across his cheeks. And David remembered that he had fallen asleep wishing it had been him and not Robin who had been caned, wishing it had been him who had the marks and weals across his backside. And wishing, if it had have been him, that Mr Davenport had not pulled up his trousers by the waist but instead had made him take them down.

 

Peter Emms talked to his father that evening. Or, more to the point, his father talked to him and what he had to say did not make for pleasant listening. The gist of the one sided conversation was that Mr Hector Benton was right. Standards in 4A had slipped significantly in recent months. The same criticisms also applied to the other fourth year streams but the headmaster and governors, after discussion with Mr Benton, agreed that the Voltaire maxim of encouraging others should be applied to the brightest class. 4A had been singled out and the rules allowed it. Whack a few intellectual bottoms and the rest would sit up and take notice. That was the general view. Master Emms did not agree with this but refrained from expressing an opinion. His father in full flow was a ship difficult to stop. It was his father’s next statement which brought forth an audible and concerned response.

‘You, Peter, of course, will be highly unpopular.’

‘Why?’

‘To a boy of your undoubted intelligence I would have thought that would have been obvious.’

‘Because you are a school governor?’

‘Because I am a school governor and it is the school governors who have approved this course of action.’

‘My standards haven’t slipped.’

‘The boys who are caned won’t see it like that.’

‘No?’

‘They will rub their bottoms and see only the son of a man who was a party to their distress.’

‘I will have to live with that.’

‘As I said, Peter, it will make you unpopular. Very unpopular.’

Peter’s father paused and, rising from his comfortable armchair, addressed his son directly.

‘You could, of course, ensure that any unpopularity is significantly diluted.’

‘How could I do that?’

Peter Emms asked his father the question but his young, fertile, mind already suspected the answer.

His father paused before responding.

‘You could ensure that when the list of boys to be caned is read out that your name is amongst them.’

Peter Emms said nothing.

‘That way there should be no unpleasant repercussions.’

And saying this Mr Emms, school governor and father, left the room.

 

The special mathematics homework paper was given out on Monday morning and, two tortuous days later, was duly returned. Most of the boys did their best, fearful of the consequences of failure, but a small number had a less than straight forward approach. One boy persuaded his parents that a prospective move to another area would be eased by his early transfer to his new school. Two weeks lodging with an over fussy aunt was a small price to pay for peace of mind. Another boy agreed with his mother that a final attempt at reconciliation with his estranged and distant father was long overdue and a third, a cousin of the mooning Rawlings of 4C, fell off his bike and broke his leg. The details of his cousin’s caning by Mr Benton were not seriously considered as a factor in his accident, but many had their suspicions. But two boys, for widely differing reasons, filled in answers to the special homework paper a good way below their normal standard. Peter Emms did so with a heavy heart, but saw the sense of his father’s deliberations. And David Brindley did so with a heart that, if not heavy, was filled with churning excitement and fear. Both were determined to fail. And both knew that if they failed they would be caned.

 

Hector Benton laid aside the last of the twenty five papers. Four unreturned including one for which no explanation had been forthcoming. He was well satisfied and such feelings were often a welcome instigator of a glass of his favourite malt. Tonight’s first glass would be very special. He was well satisfied because the scorings were remarkably good. Clearly his words of warning had brought forth the desired effect. Sixteen of the boys had achieved percentages well up to their classroom standard and four others were only marginally below their expected level. Hector Benton was not an unjust man and given the stressful circumstances of this homework he would give these four boys the benefit of the doubt. But that was where his generosity ended. He had issued a threat and it was important that the threat was carried out. Five boys had fallen a long way below satisfactory work and for each a caning was well deserved. He need have no feelings of unfairness and injustice. A short and sharp shock to their bottoms would concentrate their minds for the rest of the academic year as no other punishment could. Two on the list surprised him until, reflecting on a second malt, he conjured up possible reasons but the other three were among the favoured suspects. And their names, and the prospect of caning some sense into them, were a second reason for his satisfaction. All he had to do now was to ascertain why one pupil, the likeable but wayward Robin Brindley, had failed to hand in his paper.

 

‘I forgot.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, how could you possibly forget to hand in such an important paper?’

‘I didn’t forget to hand it in. I forgot to do it.’

The Brindley twins were lying in their separate beds discussing what, for both of them, had been a particularly tortuous Wednesday. Robin had been missing from the mathematics class that morning and when David saw him at lunchtime he was unusually silent. It was only now, as the familiar sounds of nightly parental routine carried on below them, that the truth of the absence and silence emerged.

‘How could you forget to do it Robbie? You must have been mad?’

‘I was going to do it last night, after football. That’s when you usually do your homework. But you insisted on watching a film.’

‘So it’s my fault?’

‘Probably. By the time I remembered I was too tired.’ Robin sat up in his bed and leaned over to his brother. ‘Why didn’t you do yours last night?’

‘I did it Monday.’

‘When?’

‘After you were asleep.’ David paused. ‘It was an easy paper and I couldn’t sleep. Is that why you missed class Benton’s this morning?’

‘Yes. I made a mess of it during the break; it looked bloody hard to me.’

‘I cheated.’

Robin looked at his brother with suspicion.

‘Oh?’

Ignoring his brother’s wish for elaboration David continued his own questioning.

‘Is that why you did a bunk?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. Benton asked me why I hadn’t attended his class and why I hadn’t handed in my paper.’

‘He collared you?’

‘I went to his study to apologise after lessons.’

‘And?’

‘As I said.  Nothing. I was in a bit of a sweat but I must admit he took it very well.’

‘Before or after he thrashed your arse?’

‘Ha, bleeding, ha.’

Robin settled himself down as if to go to sleep but an inquisitive David was not finished with him yet. His fevered mind was working overtime.

‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘Benton. He threatens to cane any boy who gives him a lousy homework paper and then lets the one off who completely funks it. What did he say?’

‘Not much. Just something about it not being a problem and that he was grateful for my honesty.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No. Perhaps he has had a change of heart.’

‘Perhaps he has.’

David said this but he did not really think so. As his brother drifted off to sleep he tried to envisage what was going through Mr Benton’s mind. Robin, the none too bright marginal student of 4A, had relaxed at what was clearly a temporary reprieve. His not handing in his paper was not a problem to Mr Benton because it automatically put his twin in the camp of those who would be caned. Nothing else made sense. And David would be joining him. His cheating, not in the way his brother would ever understand, made sure of that.

 

Friday morning will probably go down in the annals of a particular class of 4A as the most momentous in their history. Twenty six boys took their seats in Hector Benton’s mathematics class and, with a variety of conflicting emotions, awaited their fate. If Hector Benton was in no hurry to issue the results the overly attentive boys were both eager and fearful for illumination. Peter Emms and David Brindley both knew their fate and, still and silent, waited for the moment of confirmation. Only a degree of perversity in their mathematics master could deny them their due. David, stomach churning with inexplicable fear and desire, was convinced that his brother would be joining him but the fate of the others he could not know. He looked around at a sea of impassive faces that gave nothing away and idly wondered on how many would show pain before the morning had passed. Studying Hector Benton’s seemingly massive frame David knew that the pain would be great and the shame even greater and, in that moment, surging fear eclipsed all other feelings. He glanced at Peter Emms and surprisingly saw a mirrored image of his own silent concern. And in that moment he knew that, like him, Peter Emms had deliberately failed.

‘I do not intend to keep you boys waiting any longer than necessary.’

Hector Benton’s voice broke the uncustomary silence and the twenty six pupils of 4A held their breath and strained their ears.

‘I issued a warning last week and I am not a man who gives out threats lightly. I am therefore pleased that most of you have shown considerable improvement in homework and I hope to see that improvement maintained.’

Hector Benton paused as his words induced a slight flicker of relief on the faces of the few who sensed that the chances of being caned were diminishing.

‘But, sadly, some failed to meet the challenge and continue to disappoint in expected standards for their homework. I said I was a man of my word. The following boys will therefore immediately report to the gymnasium.’

And with that the impassive Hector Benton read out six names and left the room.

 

Peter Emms stood by his locker in the changing room. His concentration wavered as he prepared himself for what was to follow. Changing into PE vest and shorts had never seemed such a complicated task. By contrast David Brindley seemed almost eager, as if the unpleasant task of preparation for a caning was best hurried. Both boys, along with all the others, were replaying the words of Mr Benton’s gymnasium lecture in their minds. Precise and detailed words which offered no kindly interpretation. When names were called out they had slowly made their way to the gym and their confused and fevered minds heard of a sentence from which there was to be no reprieve. Hector Benton wasted no time on preliminaries. It was if he was eager to get the matter completed as quickly as possible. They were to change into Physical Education kit of vests and shorts and wait outside the gymnasium until called. Each boy was to receive eight strokes of the cane and they would be dealt with alphabetically. Ashton, a tubby boy with a flushed red face, gasped and David Brindley wondered whether it was at the news of eight strokes or because he would be first. Peter Emms asked how long they had and Mr Benton said fifteen minutes. Eleven o’clock. Then someone else said did they have to go back to class afterwards and Mr Benton said yes. And, just as they were leaving, Robin Brindley asked if they could keep their underpants on. And Mr Benton said it did not matter. As they slowly changed into the required uniform for discipline all six boys dwelt on this last remark.

 

‘I can’t bear much more of this waiting.’

‘It will soon be over, Peter.’

A tearful Ashton had gone back to the class and a freckled and jittery Berriston, a new boy that term, had been called into the gym. The other four waited, straining their ears for any sounds. They heard nothing. The gym doors were thick and during the lecture they had noticed a small table at the far end of the room. But when Ashton emerged, five or so minutes after he entered, his bent head and hurrying past said it all. When Berriston replaced him Peter Emms broke a silence that had remained since Mr Benton gave his instructions.

‘Ashton might have told us what happens, David.’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘It may help.’

‘I doubt it. But if you want my opinion it is going to be eight strokes on the bare.’

‘He can’t.’

‘I think he can Peter. Why else did he say that wearing underpants didn’t matter?’

Peter Emms remained silent. He had no answer other than to curse his father.

David looked at his friend and saw the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

‘Don’t blub Peter.’

‘I’m trying not to. I’m scared. I have never been so scared.’

David was just about to ask Peter why he had failed the homework when he heard the name Brindley called out in rich stentorian tones. But it wasn’t him. His younger brother was Alexander Robin Brindley and the master assisting and witnessing the canings was calling for Robin. His brother gave him a weak smile as he departed and, passing the exiting Berriston, delivered an equally weak and futile thumbs up.

Berriston made no attempt to rush back to class. He ruefully rubbed his short covered bottom and squirmed at the remaining three boys.

‘God, that hurt.’

He said it almost with a degree of pride.

‘I have never been caned before.’

‘What happened?’ said Peter, still eager for the details.

‘You’ll find out, he can’t half lay it on.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And it will be worse for you three.’

‘Why?’

‘Yes, why?’

Peter and David said this in unison.

‘He let me keep my shorts on. He said it was only because I was a new boy. Sorry, but I reckon you’ll have to drop ‘em.’

Now that his caning was over all of Berriston’s earlier jitteriness had dissipated. He ruefully rubbed his bottom again and departed. As he left Peter Emms considered that, just at that moment, he disliked new boys even more than the invisible and increasingly threatening Hector Benton.

 

‘David, I am disappointed in you. I never expected you to be on my list.’

‘No sir.’

‘Let’s get it over with then shall we.’

‘Yes sir.’

David Brindley had absorbed all the details leading to this moment. When his brother had hurriedly departed, surprisingly tearful, he heard his name called and entered the gym. Empty of a seething mass of young and noisy scholars it seemed so much bigger than normal. The two masters stood at the far end of the room and as David approached he saw more clearly the small wooden table. It was no more than four or five feet by three, in shining new pine, but it would serve its purpose. A boy could bend over it easily. And confirmation of this latter observation could be seen in the right hand of Horace Benton. A smooth, light brownish, cane, no more than thirty inches long was being tapped against Mr Benton’s left hand and, as he grew nearer, David realised that it was of a thickness meant to cause pain. He flinched and stopped about two or three feet short of the two masters. It was as he did so that Horace Benton had spoken.

‘Eight strokes of the cane for slovenly homework. You were warned.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Then take off your shorts and bend over the table. I suggest you hold on tight. These are going to hurt.’

David Brindley did as he was told. He did not blub as Ashton had done and he did not protest at such indignity as he later found out that his brother had done. He just did as he was bid and when the shorts were discarded, he wore no underpants, he approached the table and bent over it and grasped the outer edge. The assistant master lifted his vest, not that such a small vest needed lifting, and told him to spread his legs and stick out his bottom. David spread his legs, wider than was necessary, and stuck out his bottom farther than expected. If points were awarded that day for the easiest target then David Brindley would have won an unfair contest. It was as if he almost welcomed the cane. The assistant master even quipped that Mr Benton could hardly miss such a well presented bottom. But if that small and nervous joke relieved the growing tension, what followed quelled any thoughts of laughter. Eight times Horace Benton lashed his awful cane across the exposed rounded cheeks of a clever and complex boy and eight times that same boy gasped and cried out in pain. And after the last stroke fell, red eyed and almost tearful, he rose and gratefully allowed his discarded shorts to cover the distinctive marks of his anguish. The long walk from the small pine table to the gymnasium door was filled with a continuous throbbing and burning in David’s backside and when Peter Emms disappeared into the same room he was still rubbing his scalded cheeks. He had wanted the experience. He had cheated for it. And as he passed the last boy in the queue for retribution, in spite of the pain, he had few regrets.

 

It was Sunday afternoon before the Brindley twins and Peter Emms finally got together. They had not met since the fateful Friday in the gym and whilst the twins had alluded to their experiences none, especially Emms, had voiced any details on what had happened with Hector Benton. Sitting in the local park was both opportune and necessary. Three caned boys, all with differing tales and scenarios, needed their moment of cleansing. It was David who eventually brought the conversation around to the drama which had recently filled their minds and scarred their bottoms.

‘Did you know that he let Loke-Eaton off?’

‘What?’

‘You heard, Peter. Old Benton did not cane anyone after you. You were the last.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He told me. At lunchtime.’

‘Loke-Eaton?’

‘He was having you on. Quiet bugger. I have never liked him.’

It was David’s twin who had spoken and, rising and kicking a discarded can, passed on his opinion of a boy who was both sullen and remote from most of his fellows.

‘I thought so too. So I made him show me his bum.’

‘And?’

‘White as snow. Not a mark on it.’

‘Well bugger me.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t swear so much, Robin. It doesn’t suit you.’

Robin Brindley said nothing. Like the equally silent Peter Emms he was digesting the surprising piece of information. It was Peter who eventually spoke.

‘Did he say why he wasn’t caned?’

‘No. He didn’t know. All he said was that he seemed to be waiting for ages after you came out. Then Mr Benton came and told him to get changed and go back to his class.’

‘Strange.’

‘I found out later though.’

‘You did.’

‘Yes.’ David paused, as if for effect. ‘I asked Mr Benton.’

‘You did what?’

‘I saw him after school on Friday and I asked him why he had not caned Loke-Eaton.’

‘You must have been mad.’

‘I suppose I was a bit.’

‘And did he tell you why?’

Robin had listened, fascinated, to this exchange between his brother and Peter and echoed the latter’s question. David remained silent for a moment, ignoring the question and his twin’s small criticism on his keeping such news to himself until now. Eventually he spoke.

‘Yes he did.’

‘And?’

‘I am sworn to silence. For now. But if anyone wants to know I will tell you what happened to me in the gym on Friday.’

‘About time, David. You have been buttoned up all weekend.’

‘No more than you, Robbie. Let’s go for a coffee.’

He and Peter rose and the three boys made their way to the bleak and dispiriting park café. David and Robin might enjoy exchanging notes on their Friday gym experience but their companion would prefer to remain silent. His ten or so private minutes with Horace Benton was something he would rather forget. But as they walked the images came flooding back.

 

Peter Emms did not enter with the false confidence of David Brindley. As he walked the long walk to the two masters and the table he fervently wished he had never complied with his father’s suggestion. The opprobrium of his fellows, however detailed, however prolonged, would have been worth all of these stomach churning moments. He knew he was likely to be caned, his first of such an experience, and he knew if it happened it was equally likely to be on his bare backside. And he could have so easily avoided it. The test had not been so difficult to a boy of his natural intelligence. His only hope was that Hector Benton would see the sense of all this and, in seeing it, would declare his punishment null and void. It could do no harm to confess all. So Peter Emms, desperately holding off tears which desired to shed, pitched for a desperate plea. In the silence of that vast and empty gym a bespectacled boy, clad only in white underwear and black shorts, made a late appeal to his tall and sturdy aggressor.

‘Let me get this clear, master Emms. You deliberately failed the test?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘In order to be caned?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And now you wish to be let off?’

‘Yes sir.’

Hector Benton looked at the now tearful boy. Tears which, he was sure, were induced as much by confusion as fear.

‘And if I do?’

The boy remained silent.

‘If I do let you off, Emms, what will you tell your friends?’

‘Nothing sir.’

‘And make me a party to your deception.’

‘No sir.’

‘I think it would Emms. I could not say anything. That would not be right. But you and I would know that you had not received the punishment that all of your class thought you had been given.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘So it would be deception, wouldn’t it?’

Peter Emms could not argue the logic of Mr Benton’s argument.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Besides how do I know you would have passed the test if you had tried?’

‘I would sir.’

‘Assuming you didn’t.’

‘I didn’t sir.’

Peter Emms fervently said this but he knew that, on all counts, his futile plea was lost. Hector Benton considered for a moment and then spoke softly to the trembling boy.

‘We have no choice, Emms. None at all. You made this particular bed and you must lie on it. And the experience will do you good.’

Peter Emms waited for the small pause that followed this statement to be filled with the inevitable command. When it came, however expected, the sickening fear in his stomach lurched a further notch.

‘Take off your shorts and bend over the table.’

Emms did not move.

‘I am waiting, young man.’

Still Emms did not move.

‘We will not leave here until you have received your eight strokes of the cane. I said take off your shorts.’

‘I can’t sir.’

‘I think you can Emms.’

Hector Benton was beginning to get impatient. His irritation when this boy had questioned the legality of such a punishment had been surprisingly softened by his plea. But cowardice in the face of the inevitable only increased the initial irritation.

‘If I have to get Mr Mills to remove them for you I shall increase the strokes to twelve. Do you wish that Emms?’

‘No sir.’

‘Then do as I say and let us get this unpleasant matter over with.’

Peter Emms brushed his hand under his glasses to stem the flow of his tears and then allowed his trembling fingers to push his shorts down to his knees.

‘Take them off. Right off.’

Peter Emms did as he was bid. His utter shame was now complete and he steeled himself for what was to follow.

‘And the underpants. All of the others were caned on their bare bottoms. I do not see why you should be the exception.’

Peter Emms knew this was not true in the case of Berriston but saying so would serve no purpose. He reluctantly removed his pants and placed them on the floor with the discarded shorts. He was as ready as he ever would be.

‘Now go to the table and bend over and hold tight. It will not take long.’

The boy did as he was bid holding down his vest in front of him and, bending over the table, grasped the far edge of the surface as hard as he could. The assistant master lifted the back of his vest and as Peter Emms absorbed this defining humility the onlookers took note of the small and pale nether cheeks that were revealed. These were much smaller than the Berriston or Brindley bottoms and less fleshy than the flushed faced Ashtons. Hector Benton noted that such a small target could not take the force he had applied to the others but, as he laid his cane across the centre of the small cheeks, he doubted that master Emms would be aware of it. The boy shuddered at the cold touch of the cane to his flesh and, two taps and one command to lift his bottom later, squealed as it lashed across the centre of his nakedness. His bottom had received its first ever unwelcome stroke.

The caning did not take long. The second and the third strokes were evenly placed above and below the first and three livid red marks painted themselves on Emms' small and trembling bottom. The fourth and fifth strokes filled in the small gaps between and, as the boy both sobbed and squirmed and gripped, Hector Benton laid on a high sixth and low seventh. All had been conducted quickly. Emms resolve to hold on to the table was being severely tested. And when the eighth stroke, harder than the previous seven, cut across the cheeks of his well marked bottom, the boy jumped up and clutched the source of his angry pain. It took a few minutes of sobbing and rubbing before Peter Emms retrieved his pants and shorts and, suitably covered, Hector Benton allowed him to leave. By his standards it had been a light caning, much less severe than the strokes that had collided with David Brindley’s well presented bottom, but he doubted if the still rubbing Emms would see it that way.

 

Hector Benton spent a very pleasant weekend. After the drama and exertions of Friday a couple of days gardening was a much needed relaxation. Peter Emms’ father came to see him on Sunday morning and, in between discussing governor’s business, passed on the information that his boy was well and appeared to hold no grudges. Other than Mr Emms saying that he hoped his boy took his caning well, no more was mentioned of the subject. Both knew why Peter was on the list and neither thought it merited amplifying. The matter only came up again as Mr Emms, suitably fortified with a fine sherry, was leaving.

‘Peter tells me that you did not cane one of the boys on your list. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Loke boy he said.’

‘Loke-Eaton. Yes. I changed my mind.’

‘Not like you, Benton.’

Mr Emms paused on the doorstep considering whether to pursue the conversation. His curiosity got the better of him.

‘May I ask why?’

‘Bad timing. The school had a call about half past nine saying that his mother had been in a car crash and was in hospital. Nothing serious but she would be in for a few days. An uncle was going to collect him at two o’clock and take him to see her. Until he arrived it was best if we said nothing.’

‘But you still put him on your list?’

Hector Benton looked pained.

‘I am not that unfeeling, Horace. I was not made aware of the drama until after they were all changed and lined up.’

‘And then you decided to let him suffer a bit?’

‘Something like that.’

Emms laughed at Hector Benton’s return to normality.

‘You are hard man, Hector. Peter tells me that you made them take their pants down before caning them. That doesn’t surprise me.’

And on that note Peter Emms father departed leaving Hector Benton to his thoughts.

Young Loke-Eaton’s caning was postponed not cancelled even if the boy himself wasn’t aware of it. But a caning and a car crash in one day would have been too much. But it was not Loke-Eaton who occupied his mind, nor the son of this school governor. The father may have been content at his boy’s caning, and the reasoning behind it, but he would have been shamed at the pleas for reprieve. But Horace Benton did not dwell on this. Emms was done and Loke-Eaton could wait. No, the boy who occupied his mind was David Brindley. The boy who had taken his caning better than any of the others. The boy who found a transparent pretext to seek him out later in the day.

 

‘So Berriston got off light and old misery Eaton missed out all together. Seems only us three truly suffered.’

‘And Ashton. Don’t forget him.’

David corrected a brother who had been in full flow ever since they had arrived at the café.

‘Oh him. He’s got such a fat arse I doubt if he felt anything.’

‘He looked pretty upset to me.’

‘We all were, David, even your brother.’

Peter Emms broke a silence he had maintained for some time.

‘He just seems to have forgotten.’

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing. Go and get us another coffee. I want to ask David something.’

Robin Brindley looked from Peter Emms to his brother and considered refusing but a discretion usually foreign to his nature prompted him to get to his feet.

‘Had a feeling you two would want to talk, Suits me, I am getting bored with Friday’s antics.’

Before the others could remind him that he had talked more about being whacked by Benton than either of them, Robin had left. He arrived at a counter with a fortuitously long queue before Peter spoke.

‘Why did you fail the test, David?’

‘I could ask you the same question. We were both capable of passing it.’

‘I did it to avoid being beaten up. My father approved Benton’s actions.’

‘Was it worth it?’

‘It didn’t seem so at the time. I am not sure which was worse.’

David Brindley waited for his friend to continue. When he didn’t he prompted a reply.

‘Being caned or being beaten up?’

‘Being caned or being exposed.’

‘Ah.’

‘He didn’t need to make us strip. That cane would have stung like hell whatever I was wearing.’

‘Adds to the humiliation, Peter. You’ll get over it.’

‘I have. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you fail?’

David smiled at his friend. It was a smile that said you do not really want to know but, if you do, you will not understand. Or that was how David Brindley intended to convey the smile. He could not know how the smile was received.

‘I failed because I wanted to.’

‘I know that.’

‘I wanted the experience. Of being caned.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I just wanted to find out what it was like. Robin got it last year and I was fascinated by his marks.’

‘I’m fascinated by westerns but I have no desire to have a bullet in my head. You must have been mad.’

‘I thought so while he was whacking me. But I don’t regret it.’

Peter Emms studied his friend. He did not understand and said so.

‘I don’t understand. How could you possibly want to go through all that?’

‘I don’t know. I only know I wanted the experience,’

David paused and then quietly offered a little more information.

‘I told Mr Benton.’

‘When?’

‘When I asked him why he hadn’t caned Loke-Eaton.’

‘And?’

‘It didn’t surprise him.’

Peter Emms was about to ask the first of many more questions when a beaming Robin returned with their second coffees.

‘Seconds are half price on Sundays. First bit of good news for days.’

He sat down and stared at two serious and reflective fifteen year old boys consumed with their separate thoughts.

 

Hector Benton did understand. David Brindley had come to his study at four o’clock to enquire about Loke-Eaton. The boy had been collected by a relative during afternoon lessons and David, party to information not known to others, thought there might be a connection. Hector Benton told him all he knew and also told him to keep it to himself. At least until the extent of Mrs Eaton’s injuries were known. They were not considered serious and telling David seemed a small matter. Especially if it put his mind at rest.

‘I did not know you were a particular friend of Loke-Eaton, David?’

‘I’m not sir. But I don’t dislike him like some of the others. And we all went through a lot this morning.’

‘Yes. Well that is in the past.’

‘Yes sir. Thank you for telling me.’

David started to depart and then stopped by the door. Horace Benton suspected that the real reason for his coming to his study was about to be revealed.

‘Was there anything else David?’

‘Yes sir, there is.’

‘Well?’

David blushed and shifted his feet nervously.

‘You said, this morning in the gym, that you were disappointed that I was on the list.’

‘I was. I still am.’

‘I wanted to be, sir.’

‘I see.’

‘I could have passed the test. But I wanted to fail.’

Hector Benton studied the boy carefully. He had met a few like him and he needed to choose his words carefully.

‘You wanted to be caned?’

‘Yes sir. I wanted to be caned.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know sir. I just know I wanted it. And even though it hurt I am glad you did it.’

David paused again.

‘Did it the way you did.’

‘With your shorts down?’

‘Yes sir. It seemed right.’

‘Your friend master Emms would not agree with you.’

‘I am not like Emms.’

‘Clearly not. Well thank you for telling me David. I was surprised, initially, when I marked your paper.’

When David Brindley departed he left a master wondering if his comment on initially being surprised had registered. Horace Benton had been too long in the game to be fazed by anything emanating from the boys in his charge. He had been well aware, long before Brindley had stuck out his naked bottom in the gym, that this boy had a desire for the experience. He was at the opposite end of the scale to the frightened Emms. But if the cane was to be used, and this rare foray had been approved, the motives of the bending were less important than the justice of the act. All had been caned as deserved. If some cried against it and at least one cried for it, all were equally chastised. Horace Benton had fulfilled a much needed task. His contemplated evening malt would be much wanted and much enjoyed.

 

Alfred Roy © 2008