I first started writing CP stories around ten years ago when recovering from an operation. Missing the pleasure of active participation it was my form of intellectual wanking. I posted much of my early work on the Malespank website, they are still there, and still receive feedback from appreciative readers. This story, one of my first, has always been one of my favourites. I make no excuses for belatedly posting it on my own site. I am really far too old to live this particular fantasy but it doesn't stop me occasionally trying. The birch is an awesome and very special instrument. Alfred Roy.
The Saxon Horse of Edwin Cart.
Christopher
Watson-Haynes poured himself another drink and read the letter in his hand for a
second time. It had been some time since anyone had communicated with him. So
long in fact that he was firmly convinced that most people would be of the
opinion that, if he was not dead, he must be living out his few remaining days
in one of those dreary nursing homes which populate the south coast of an
increasingly dreary country. Hardly surprising. He was only officially listed
in two books, the dry and humourless ‘The Complete History of Saxon Manor
School’ and the grubby and idiosyncratic tome ‘The Graveyards of Suffolk’. He
was in the former because he had served at the school, both as housemaster and
headmaster, from 1958 to 1989. His inclusion in the latter was, presumably,
because of a short treatise he had written on a famous Victorian murder case in
which, regrettably, a member of Saxon
School had played a
prominent part. In both these, long out of print, books his date of birth was
inadvertently listed as 1912. A quick calculation therefore placed his current
age as 93. An age eminently qualified for the worst excesses of any self
respecting nursing home. Christopher Watson-Haynes inwardly shuddered. He may
not be in the incipient flush of the age of innocence and energy but, at 73, he
still had his moments of joy and expectation. Years of pureed peas and hot and
milky evening drinks thankfully remained as distant threats.
Those
two publications had incorrectly listed his year of birth. If the first was one
of those natural, but irritating, mistakes which happen from time to time, the
second was merely a lazy repetition. A short phone call would have elicited the
fact that the Christopher Watson-Haynes in question was born in 1932 not 1912.
Such was illusory fame. Whenever he went to his grave, history would record
that he had enjoyed, or suffered, twenty more years than nature had determined.
And these tangential thoughts brought him back to the letter he held in his
hand. The style of the writer did not suggest he was writing to a person in
advanced stages of senility and, equally illuminating, they did not
particularly suggest that they were interested in the historical perspective of
either the sadly declining ‘Saxon Manor School’ or the long forgotten ‘The
Latin Master and the Downstairs Maid’. They merely referred to the fact that
the recipient of the letter was ‘A much revered author of his particular genre’
and the writer was keen to make his acquaintance. So Christopher Watson-Haynes
had poured himself another drink and sat down to read the letter for a third
time. And, having read it and digested all its implications, he picked up his
elegant pen and composed a small and precise reply.
‘Mr
Christopher Watson-Haynes was delighted to receive your recent missive and, to
assist you in your current research project, takes pleasure in accepting your
request for an interview. Hopefully Saturday the 13th instant at 3.00 pm would be acceptable. Kindly
telephone the below listed number if the date and/or time is inappropriate.’
*****
‘He
bought it.?’
‘If
by that you mean Mr Watson-Haynes has kindly agreed to my request, then yes.’
David
Lacey insouciantly waved the letter in the air and, folding it neatly, placed
it in the top pocket of his immaculate blazer. He and his friend Kevin Johnson
were on their way to first classes at the start of the new term and, having
received the letter over the weekend, Master Lacey was keen to advertise his
small success.
‘Does
he know you are only fourteen?’
‘It
is not relevant Johnson. I am a researcher. My age is immaterial.’
Kevin
Johnson pulled his friend’s tie, the garish lime green and sky blue of a Saxon Manor
School forced into
modernity, and quizzically screwed his face into anticipatory contortions.
‘Remember
how you found him. Your Mr Watson-Haynes was probably a bit of a cane wielder
in his day. I should watch your bum.’
And
with that final, telling, point David Lacey’s friend laughed uproariously and
made his way to his own class. As he disappeared into the distance, graphically
rubbing his backside in a childish illustration of scholastic pain, David Lacey
considered both his unexpected letter and its implications.
He
had found Christopher Watson-Haynes on the internet. His project for the term was
‘Secret Histories of Saxon Manor School’. Along with his fellows he had been
given a free hand to explore any aspects of its past which particularly
appealed. There were no rules. They could pick any incident or angle from the
years and develop it as they saw fit. ‘Think outside the box.’ That is what
their housemaster kept saying. Initiative could score as many points as literary
eloquence. David Lacey had no idea how he would play this particular project.
He instinctively knew that a recording of dry facts would both bore himself and
his audience and, more pertinently, was unlikely to glean many bonus points. In
desperation for a spark of individuality he had typed the names of all the
headmasters of Saxon
Manor School
into his computer and with Christopher Watson-Haynes he had struck unexpected
gold.
Initially
the short piece flagged up had not seemed particularly promising. Christopher Watson-Haynes
was headmaster of the school from 1976 – 1989. Born in 1912 he had joined the
school, in those days a private establishment, in 1958 as a teacher of history
and drama and achieved the headship in 1976. He had published two books
relating to the school in the 1960’s and, following the publication of a third
book in 1988, had retired early to continue a literary career. David Lacey was
just about to pass over this unpromising material to read an unfortunate piece
on Mr Watson-Haynes’s successor, appointed 1989 and drowned in a fishing
accident in 1992, when his inherent mathematical skills arrested his cursory
search.
If
Christopher Watson-Haynes was born in 1912, then he was 64 when he achieved his
position as Headmaster of Saxon Manor School and 77 when he retired. That
suggested both an unlikely late appointment and an exceptional stretching of
the phrase ‘early retirement.’ The dates were clearly wrong. Christopher Watson-Haynes
had retired early, following the publication of a third book, and that book was
not listed in the bibliography details. The internet piece helpfully listed
both ‘The Complete History of Saxon Manor School (1961)’ and ‘The Graveyards of
Suffolk (1967)’ but made no mention of the third book, published in 1988.
Fourteen
year old David Lacey was clearly a boy for whom the phrase ‘Think outside of
the Box’ was invented. He did exactly that. He abandoned the internet search
and, at the first opportunity, took himself off to the offices of the local
paper. It took him half an hour to master the old fashioned disciplines of
microfiche and a further fifteen minutes to find the relevant local paper from
1989. But when he did he knew that Christopher Watson-Haynes, whether he liked
it or not, was going to be the all consuming subject of young David Lacey’s
latest project. For buried amongst the variety of local affairs was the small,
but illuminating, fact that the revered Headmaster of a most prestigious local
school had reluctantly resigned following the publication of an historical
document entitled ‘The Saxon Horse of Edwin Cart.’
The
book was published in 1988 and, six months later, a very successful Headmaster
of a most prestigious school, had quietly retired. And at 57 years of age.
David Lacey closed down the old fashioned microfiche and sat in the offices of
the local paper for a further fifteen minutes. He did not rise and respectfully
thank the staff until he had determined his next step on the quest to find more
about his Mr Watson-Haynes and, of more immediate import, to secure a copy of his
1988 book.
*****
‘I
congratulate you on your perseverance.’
‘The
dates didn’t make sense sir.’
David
Lacey was sitting in the splendid reception room of Christopher Watson-Haynes
equally splendid flat. He had accepted the small sherry as if to the manor born
and, feeling unusually warm, had readily offered the details that his amiable
host had been eager to extract.
‘And
you tracked down the book that caused me a little difficulty. I am impressed.’
‘Google
helped sir.’
‘Google?’
‘It’s
a search engine.’
‘Ah.’
Mr Watson-Haynes made this exclamation as if he understood. ‘A search engine?’
‘Yes
sir. I put in your name again and found it listed a number of times.’
‘The
Victorian murder case no doubt.’
‘Yes
sir. Your piece on that Latin Master crops up in various anthologies.’
‘And,
presumably, the history of Saxon
School?’
‘Yes
sir. 1882-1961.’
David
Lacey paused before hesitantly voicing the full reference.
‘The
Complete History of Saxon
Manor School.
From Edwin Cart to the present day.’
‘Ah.’
‘It
was only after my visit to the local newspaper that the name Edwin Cart became especially
significant. So I looked him up.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes rose from his chair and poured himself a second glass of the
medium dry sherry. He did not offer his fourteen year old companion a refill.
The boy had hesitantly sipped his first glass and, politely placing it on the
small table at the side of his chair, had shown no inclination to continue. His
one, tentative sip, had induced an effect he had no desire to increase. Christopher
Watson-Haynes eyed the boy intently. He was carefully considering how he should
let this interview develop. The boy was clearly extremely intelligent. But he was,
nevertheless, a boy. No more than fourteen or fifteen. Watson-Haynes was
seventy three. The fifty nine years between them should give him the slight
edge in the conversation stakes. But talking to this boy, hearing what he had
to say, the gap in years had perceptibly narrowed. The retired Headmaster had
received an initial shock when he opened his door to a writer he had expected,
from his letter, to be at least twenty years of age. The mousy haired and
freckled face fourteen year old, clutching an impressive file, simultaneously
raised and crushed an inward smile.
‘You
found a copy of the book?’
‘No
sir.’
‘But
you are aware of its contents. Its subject matter?’
‘Yes
sir. Edwin Cart was the first headmaster of Saxon Manor
School’
‘1882
– 1893’
‘Yes
sir.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes sat himself down in his large leather chair and asked the
question to which he already suspected the answer.
‘And
you wish to use Mr Cart, Mr Edwin Cart, as your school project?’
‘No
sir.’
The
retired headmaster and author patiently waited. This boy may be immature in
years but he was very self assured. The silence would not be long in being
filled. David Lacey cleared his throat and took a second sip of the intoxicating
sherry.
‘I
have decided to call my project ‘The Changing History of Saxon Manor School
Discipline.’
‘1882-2005?’
David
Lacey missed the amusing irony in his host’s voice. Either that or he was
warming, courtesy of the sherry, to his theme.
‘Yes
sir. And you are an important person in it. I realised that when I read the
newspaper article on your 1988 book.’
‘The
book that got me into an awful lot of trouble.’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘Do
you know why?’
‘No
sir. I have not read it. But I gather it was explicit.’
‘Too
much so, I am afraid. You are far too young for it. Mr Cart took great pleasure
in thrashing his charges over the Saxon horse and, according to the school governors,
I clearly got too much pleasure writing about his disciplinary deeds.’
‘So
they asked you to leave?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even
though it wasn’t published under your own name?’
‘Everyone
knew. The local paper was dropping enough hints.’
David
Lacey, an increasingly nervous David Lacey, considered carefully before
continue his interview.
‘I
looked Edwin Cart up on the internet sir.’
‘So
you said. The internet is clearly a useful tool.’
‘Yes
sir. There was little information that I did not already know. But it did list
a couple of books. One of which was ‘The Saxon Horse.’
‘I
rather liked that title.’
‘And
it listed the author. Christopher Baker.’
‘My
mother’s maiden name.’
‘So
I looked up Christopher Baker.’
‘On
the internet?’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘And
what did it say?’
‘Christopher
Baker wrote four books on Victorian and Edwardian Educational methods. ‘The
Saxon Horse of Edwin Cart' was the first of a series’
‘Ah.’
‘The
last of the four was published in 1997. They are all out of print.’
‘Yes.’
‘But
as you are Christopher Baker I was hoping you may have copies that I could
borrow.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes eyed the self possessed boy sitting in the other leather chair.
It was so large it dwarfed his slender frame. If his admiration for the self
assured young man was increasing by the minute he was nevertheless aware that
he needed to tread carefully to elicit the full, complex, motives for his
unexpected visit.
‘And
that is why you wanted to see me?’
‘Partly.’
‘So
there is more than one reason?’
‘Yes
sir’
‘Discovering
that I am Christopher Baker is not enough?’
David
Lacey blushed to a bright beetroot colour. It occurred to him that his amiable
host may consider that the rich and warming sherry was the cause, so he was not
duly concerned. He was not yet ready to reveal his second reason. That required
considerable courage and a careful choice of the appropriate words.
‘I
was hoping that I could read the books and then consider how I wish to develop
the project.’
‘It
would be an awful lot of reading.’
‘We
were given three months to complete sir. And at the end we need to write a
paper and deliver a short lecture.’
‘To
the whole school?’
‘No
sir. Just to the project class. There are twenty five of us.’
‘All
fifteen year olds like you?’
‘I
am fourteen sir.’
So
Master David Lacey was fourteen years of age. Never had Christopher
Watson-Haynes met such an assured fourteen year old. Modern youth was clearly
frightening. His letter had intrigued. A successful thirty year career at a
prestigious private school had been brought to an abrupt end because of a book
that some considered highly salacious. ‘The Saxon Horse of Edwin Cart’ had
released a peculiar passion and provided a lucrative income. The school
governors were uncomfortable with Mr Baker’s detailed revelations of Victorian
bare bottom birching at their revered, expensive, establishment. And knowing,
or suspecting, that the author was none other than the expensive
establishment’s current headmaster created undeniable ripples. So he had
resigned and, by the skin of his teeth, avoided a major scandal in both local
and national papers. The author of ‘Edwin Cart’ was never officially revealed
at the time. And now, seventeen years and three other books later, this boy had
written to him. He stretched his legs and walked, purposefully, around the
spacious reception room of his large flat. He reached the full length double
window which, framed by expensive green velvet curtains, overlooked the town’s
principal park. Two small boys were chasing an equally small dog and, in the
distance, a woman was pushing a perambulator. Other than that the park was
unusually quiet. And that silence echoed the silence in Christopher
Watson-Haynes flat.
He
turned and looked at his young companion. David Lacey’s eyes had followed him
around the room and, judged by the expectant demeanour, was eagerly awaiting a decision.
‘So
let me get this clear. This project is some form of competition. There is a
prize no doubt?’
‘Yes
sir. The winner gets a shield. And £200.’
‘Ah.’
‘The
best five essays are selected by our housemaster and the winners read them out
to the whole school.’
‘I
see.’
‘And
the school votes for the winner from these five.’
‘All
very democratic. Are there any rules?’
‘We
have to think outside the box.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s
what Mr Fraser says. He’s our housemaster. He is looking for the unexpected.’
‘But
it must be relevant to the school?’
‘This
year. Not always.’
‘And
you decided on Saxon Manor School Discipline. Interesting.’
‘Not
initially sir. I got that idea from reading about you.’
‘And
now you want to read my books?’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘It
would certainly make for an interesting lecture. Assuming you reach the final
five.’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘Certainly
thinking outside the box.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes came to a decision. It may have seemed instant but he had been
musing on it for the last half an hour or so.
‘All
right. I will lend you my books young man. All of them, except the one on Edwin
Cart. It is my only copy. The others are almost as explicit and you are
probably too young for them, but they will certainly give you an insight into
the changing disciplinary methods of the last hundred years. I hope you have a
strong stomach.’
‘Yes
sir. Thank you. There is one more thing sir.’
David
Lacey stood up, in preparation to leave, and instantly regretted his two small
sips of the sherry. He knew that what he had to say would increase his
nervousness and an alert mind was crucial.
‘We
have to think outside the box sir.’
‘So
you said.’
‘To
win the prize the talk must contain elements of surprise, be unexpected. Grip,
entertain, inform and educate.’
‘You
sound as if you are quoting your housemaster?’
‘I
am sir.’
‘I
am sure you will. You are an intelligent boy.’
‘Thank
you sir. But it needs something else. Something special. Something to lift it
above all the others.’
‘And
what is that Master Lacey?’
‘Forgive
me for saying this sir.’
‘Saying
what?’
‘School
discipline has changed since your day.’
‘Some
would say that is no bad thing.’
‘Corporal
Punishment was abolished in 1990.’
‘So?’
‘I
would like to describe a caning, or a birching, in my lecture.’
‘You
will find many descriptive passages in my books.’
‘No.
I have thought about this.’
David
Lacey paused and his face flushed an even deeper red. He cursed the seductive
sherry.
‘I
have thought about it for a long time. Ever since I read that piece in the
local paper. It showed a picture of the book’s subject.’
‘The
Saxon Manor birching horse?’
‘And
then I found out more on the internet and I knew what my project would be.
That’s why I wrote to you.’
‘And
I was flattered. I still am. At my age you get few visitors.’
‘I
wanted to meet you. And I wanted to read your books.’
‘And
so you shall. Wait here while I get them.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes smiled at his engaging young guest and prepared to leave the
room. What David Lacey said next stopped him in his tracks. Perhaps it was the sherry;
perhaps it was the fact that his host was amiable and relaxed. Or perhaps David
Lacey realised that this was the moment. But whatever the cause, the words
uttered froze in the air and halted the retired headmaster’s exit.
‘And
I want you to discipline me.’
His
host stopped his departure and turned to face the boy. David Lacey enlarged on
his strange request.
‘As
they did in the old days.’
‘You
want me to cane you?’
‘Or
birch me. As they did in the old days. I think it would add that extra element
of surprise to my lecture. I have been thinking about it for a long time.’
‘Thinking
outside the box?’
‘Yes
sir. To describe the actual experience would be unexpected.’
‘Grip,
entertain and inform?’
‘Yes
sir.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes laughed. It started quietly and then, slowly, built up to raucous
and almost manic levels. And it went on for a good two minutes. And when he
finally subsided and, apologising, wiped the tears from his eyes he bade his
young guest to sit down again and left the room to find the various books
attributed to Christopher Baker of Edwin Cart and his Saxon Horse fame.
*****
‘You
must have been mad.’
Kevin
Johnson poured the rest of his orange drink into his glass and, precariously
turning the bottle on its head, looked in amazement at his friend. He and David
Lacey were filling in a lazy couple of hours on an equally lazy Sunday
afternoon. The town café was one of the few places not out of bounds to idle
fourth formers.
‘What
did he say? Assuming he could speak.’
‘He
turned me down.’
‘I
should bloody well think so. What an earth possessed you?’
‘I
thought it was a good idea. I still think so.’
‘Well
you will have to come up with something else to win the £200.’
‘Not
necessarily.’
Kevin
Johnson paused in his attempts to balance his upturned bottle and eyed his
friend carefully.
‘Oh.
Why do you say that?’
‘Because
of what Mr Watson-Haynes said.’
‘After
he stopped laughing?’
‘He
fetched me the books and said that I had a week to read them. And as I was
going he said that my request, ingenious as it was…..’
‘Mad
more like it.’
‘…..ingenious
as it was, lacked verisimilitude.’
‘What?’
‘Verisimilitude.
It means truth. He pronounced it very carefully and then told me what it
meant.’
‘And?’
‘In
other words to comply with my request, I would have to give him a reason. A
reason for disciplining me.’
‘Bloody
hell.’
That
eloquent expression from Kevin Johnson was almost the last word on David
Lacey’s recent interview until they had left the café. If Master Lacey had the
assurance of a boy bent on a purposeful mission, his friend was a restless
mixture of bewildering confusions. It was clear to David Lacey, already forming
an incipient plan, that Kevin Johnson was silently arranging a number of
questions into some form of sensible order. They had reached the edge of the
river, a quarter of a mile from the school, before he spoke. His first question
would clearly set the tone for the rest of the walk. Kevin Johnson, therefore,
chose carefully.
‘Why
do you want him to thrash you?’
‘I
don’t want him to thrash me, as you call it. I just want to experience a small
taste of old fashioned discipline.’
‘Same
thing.’
‘There
is a distinction.’
Kevin
Johnson didn’t think so but refrained from further argument on this debatable
point.
‘But
why do you want him to ‘discipline’ you?’
‘I
told you. I think it will help me to win the prize. Last years winner spent a
night in the local cells as part of his project.’
‘That’s
different.’
‘Is
it?’
‘They
didn’t thrash him.’
‘They
locked him up. Rather clever I thought. Pretending to be an illegal immigrant
and drunkenly attacking cars.’
‘Irresponsible
Lacey, Irresponsible.’
David
Lacey laughed at his friend’s rather good imitation of a particularly po-faced
master. Not everyone was enamoured by the previous winner’s escapades. But he
had thought outside the box and, having done so, produced a blinding piece on
prejudice, isolation, and desperation. David Lacey was convinced he could do
the same.
‘He
grabbed everyone’s attention with a piece of true theatre and his eloquent
prose did the rest. You need both elements to win.’
‘And
you reckon being thrashed will do it for you?’
‘Yes.
How many more times do you need telling?’
Kevin
Johnson sensed his friend’s irritation and ambled down towards the river. One
burning question could wait. As a group of ducks hopefully swam towards him in
the expectation of a late afternoon snack, he raised another consideration.
‘It
has occurred to you that, assuming you got what you want, your Mr Watson-Haynes
could be done for assault?’
‘No
one will know. Besides I intend to do it as a dream sequence. A boy,
researching school disciplines from the past, finds himself the recipient of an
hundred year old whacking. The experience will be described. Vividly.
Ambiguously. The question of whether it did or did not happen will
tantalisingly hang in the air.’
‘You
really have thought about this, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
And
with that David Lacey continued his walk to the school. Having teased the ducks
Kevin Johnson caught up his friend and delivered a lighter, but more relevant,
question.
‘And
how do you propose to get him to thrash you? Remembering our old friend Vera
Similitude?’
David
Lacey laughed again. You could never remain too serious for too long with
Kevin. That is why they had remained friends for so long. His own sombre nature
needed the refreshing blow of a Kevin Johnson. And, having found him in their
junior years, he had steadfastly clung to a relationship severed by dividing
academic paths.
‘For
that I may need your help.’
‘Oh?’
‘I
need to think it through. There is plenty of time.’
They
had arrived at the school gates and, being in different houses, this was where
they split. They would meet in the week and David Lacey would discuss his plans
and, having read the various borrowed books, would update his friend. For all
his negative questioning, Kevin Johnson was fascinated by the strange turn this
school project had taken. Before they parted he had one final, burning,
question. He touched his friend’s shoulder and, as he turned, quietly aired it.
‘And
you will get no pleasure from it?’
‘The
project or the plan?’
‘Don’t
be obtuse. The thrashing?’
‘No.
What makes you think that?’
‘People
do, apparently. My brother is a bit of a fan of Swinburne. Showed me his
poems.’
‘We’ve
all heard of ‘The Whippingham Papers’ Johnson. It’s nothing new.’
‘But
being thrashed is. Especially if your Mr Watson-Haynes does it in the old
fashioned way. Trousers down on the bare bum. Have you considered that?’
‘One
must suffer for one’s art.’
‘So
you have considered it?’
‘Of
course.’
‘And
you don’t mind?’
‘You
ask too many questions. See you tomorrow.’
And
with that David Lacey squeezed his friend’s cheek, a little harsh in Kevin
Johnson’s opinion, and sauntered off to his dormitory. Kevin Johnson watched
him depart and aimlessly wondered where this particular project was going. He
was still wondering along these lines when, three days later, he found himself
standing nervously in the spacious flat of Christopher Watson-Haynes. An extremely
annoyed Mr Watson-Haynes, meticulously re-capping the events which led to
Master Johnson’s presence.
*****
‘So
let me get this right. David Lacey, your friend, has been in the process of
devising a plan which would incur my wrath.’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘Do
you know why?’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘I
see.’
‘And
having, very wisely, abandoned an initial plan to steal my car, he decided to
break into my flat and steal some of my books.’
‘Only
one sir.’
‘The
Saxon Horse of Edwin Cart?’
‘Yes
sir.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes smiled. Such a theft in such circumstances had a delightful
piquancy. He sat down in the most comfortable chair in his flat and, crossing
his legs, eyed the standing and nervous boy. When he finally spoke again, he
did so very quietly.
‘So
how come, returning unexpectedly, I find you in my flat?’
Kevin
Johnson took a deep breath and filled in the illuminating details.
‘David
reckoned that it did not matter who actually broke in and stole the book. You
would automatically assume it was him. It was meant to be a symbolic crime.’
‘That
sounds like Master Lacey.’
‘It
was sir.’
‘So
how were you given the task? The broken window will cost you a pretty penny.’
‘I
volunteered sir.’
‘You
volunteered?’
‘Yes
sir.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes waited, convinced that there was more to come.
‘He
is my friend. He wanted to give you a reason to thrash him, but his heart
wasn’t in it. The project is very important to him. So I volunteered.’
‘He
must be a very special friend for you to make such a sacrifice.’
‘I
didn’t expect to get caught sir.’
‘No.’
And
with that final comment Christopher Watson-Haynes rose and paced around the
room. He spent a good five minutes explaining to Kevin Johnson that he had
landed himself, and his friend, in a good deal of trouble. He could call the
local police and have him arrested for breaking and entering his flat. The
complex reasons were immaterial. He then spent a further five minutes outlining
the considerable financial cost to Master Johnson’s purse. Not only was a large
window pane broken but, on entering the flat, a valuable ornament had been
irretrievably cracked when falling to the floor.
But
he was not an unreasonable man and it was unlikely that the local police would
understand all the subtleties of this particular drama. So he would not call
the authorities and he would not either press charges or insist on
re-imbursement for the damage done. But such generosity of spirit carried its
own particular price. And Christopher Watson-Haynes spent a final five minutes
outlining in some detail the exact scholastic value of that price. And as he nervously bent down, with his
trousers firmly around his ankles, Kevin Johnson painfully discovered that some
friendships carry unexpected burdens. Protected only by a thin pair of light
coloured underpants, Kevin Johnson’s small behind twitched and danced to an
implement that had been long in retirement. It was two days before he was in any condition
to apprise his friend of the dramatic details and, disconcertingly, to pass on
his departing message.
*****
‘Twelve
strokes of his cane. On my bum. All for a bloody book.’
‘You
could have refused.’
‘Could
I?’
David
Lacey considered this retort, still redolent of his friend’s experience. They
were sitting in the local park, not more than the proverbial stone’s throw away
from Mr Watson-Haynes ground floor flat. They had met after lessons earlier in
the day and Kevin Johnson had, mysteriously, taken his friend to the toilets
and lowered his pants. David Lacey had gasped at a wealed behind which told its
own story and, in the following silence, they had made their way to the park.
Sitting on the grass, away from any prying ears, Kevin Johnson had filled in
the dramatic and graphic details.
‘I’m
sorry Kevin.’
‘Not
as much as me. You are the one who wanted a thrashing. I can assure you it
ain’t much fun.’
‘No.’
‘I
was gob smacked. When he went to his bureau and brought out the cane I thought
I was going to wet myself.’
‘But
you went through with it.’
‘I
had no choice. The alternative was both of us in clink. Anyway it’s your turn
now.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t
look so surprised. It is what you wanted. Well you have got your wish. He wants
to see you.’
‘When?’
‘This
Saturday. Tomorrow. And I reckon you may be in for more than me.’
‘Why
do you say that?’
‘Something
he said when I was leaving. I hardly took it in. Do you know how much your bum
throbs after a caning?’
David
Lacey ignored this comment.
‘What
did he say?’
‘He
said I took it well. He hoped that Master Lacey, meaning you, would show the
same fortitude. Especially as you had earned considerably more. And now I must
go. Your project has got me into enough trouble.’
David
Lacey watched his friend depart, ruefully rubbing his backside. A couple of
weeks ago this picture of scholastic pain had been joyful mimicry, now it was a
sore and burning reality.
Kevin
Johnson had suffered a special indignity and it was all David Lacey’s fault. So
his impending thrashing was doubly deserved. It had started out as an oblique
twist to an interesting lecture. An artificial experiment in old fashioned
values. But circumstances had determined that, when he was thrashed, David Lacey
would realise the many genuine reasons for it. He slowly walked back to his
school thinking both of Mr Christopher Watson-Haynes and, more fearfully, the
twelve vivid red weals across the bare backside of his special friend.
*****
If
David Lacey got very little sleep that night, his prospective chastiser could
not have been more relaxed and cheerful. It had been a long time since
Christopher Watson-Haynes had thrashed a boy’s bottom. He may have had some
sympathy for Johnson’s predicament but he did break into his flat and he did
cause considerable damage. A caning, rather than involvement of the police or
his school, seemed a satisfactory outcome to both parties. And in spite of a
few tears Kevin Johnson did not appear to carry any ill will towards him. If
his smarting bottom engendered any feelings of injustice they were clearly
directed elsewhere.
And
now David Lacey was due to visit him and this meeting would be considerably
different from the first. He liked the freckled faced David Lacey. He was a
bright and personable boy. And he was impressed by his project and the manner
in which he had approached it and researched it. His parting request was, to
say the least, unusual and Christopher Watson-Haynes had lightly dismissed it.
In all his years as a schoolmaster no boy, to his knowledge, had ever requested
chastisement. A few may have displayed a certain inner excitement prior to
being beaten, but none had bent their form willingly. David Lacey did not
strike him as a boy fulfilling a strange, unspoken, need. His quiet assurance
suggested no more than an intelligent boy determined to succeed in his chosen
task. If his strange request for the rod had been granted he would have
realised, even with a light application, that theory and reality occupied
widely differing territories.
But
now he was to come to him, at three
o’clock, and the stakes were somewhat different. Not only had David
Lacey abused his friendship, he had allowed his schoolfellow to undertake a
grave risk on his behalf. He would, therefore, achieve his intended aim. But
his thrashing would be no gentle demonstration of a distant, forgotten, art.
There would be no friendly chat, no objective discussions of methods, and no
indication of equals conducting an experiment. No thinking outside the box. When
Christopher Watson-Haynes thrashed David Lacey he would do so with true
scholastic venom and a feeling of necessary justice. Before he rose back to a
standing position the boy would painfully realise that old fashioned
discipline, justly applied, could never be experimental. And with that thought Christopher
Watson-Haynes poured himself a small sherry and sat down in his comfortable
leather chair to await the arrival of his young, most welcome, guest. Fifteen
minutes later he found himself in familiar, and old fashioned, flow.
‘It
must come as no surprise to you that I find recent events singularly
disappointing.’
‘No
sir.’
‘I
do not play games Master Lacey. I had no intention of being an active
participant to your research project. If my amusement conveyed otherwise, then
I regret it. You are an intelligent boy. It should have been obvious that
lending you my valued books was as far as I was prepared to go.’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘But,
given the circumstances, I have changed my mind. I shall accede to your
request. But I very much doubt that you will be in any condition to make mental
notes for your lecture. I suggest that we waste no more time on this sorry
affair. Come with me.’
And
with that final, peremptory, comment, Christopher Watson-Haynes rose from his
chair and, taking off an immaculately cut jacket, made his way to the far door
of his flat’s reception room. As David Lacey nervously followed he quickly, and
disturbingly, noted two small details. The first was that his indignant host
was purposefully rolling up the right sleeve of a glistening white shirt and
the second, registering only a moment behind, was that he had not gone to the
bureau in which resided the implement of Kevin Johnson’s chastisement. Either
that cane was already waiting for him in an, hitherto, unknown room or a
different weapon was bound for scholastic exercise. David Lacey instinctively
knew that this was the moment of no turning back.
He
could run of course. He could charge out of Mr Watson-Haynes flat and refuse
ever to return. There was a risk that the police, or his school, could be
brought into the proceedings. But that was unlikely. Kevin Johnson had already
been caned. Mr Watson-Haynes would not risk that small fact being brought to
the attention of the authorities. But David Lacey, anxiety rising, would not
run. To do so would deny both a project bent on a vicious twist and the
painful, unnecessary, sacrifice of his beloved friend. On both counts David
Lacey would, therefore, have to take the best, or worst, of what Christopher
Watson-Haynes was preparing to offer. He inwardly sighed and, head bowed,
followed his host into a separate part of his spacious flat. It should have come
as no surprise to find, on entering a small, carpeted, windowless room, that the
main and dominant item was an imposing, brown leathered, vaulting horse. As
David Lacey stared, absorbing its modernistic gleam, he was acutely, and
painfully, aware that the sight that met his watering eyes was, undoubtedly, a
very special piece of equipment. In the centre of that room, prepared for a
special mounting, was the highly prized and fearfully threatening Saxon Horse
of a certain Mr Edwin Cart.
*****
Christopher
Watson-Haynes pleasingly registered the increase in anticipatory tension.
‘You
could say that this was my special retirement present. But I doubt, at the
moment, that the history of this piece is your greatest concern. It has played
host to many unwilling bottoms. It awaits yours, Master Lacey. Remove your
clothes.’
David
Lacey continued staring at the leather horse. It stood about three or four foot
off the ground on four short and sturdy wooden legs. Attached to each of those
legs, around eight inches from the ground, were equally sturdy leather straps.
There could be no doubt of its purpose. And then David Lacey stared at the man
standing at the side of this horse and, for the first time, became sickeningly
conscious of the disparity of their ages and position. The tall distinguished
and shirt sleeved gentleman of some seventy three years was about to embark on
the thrashing of his small, not so assured, fourteen year old acquaintance. The
exquisitely bound birch rod in his hand, a dozen long and thin twigs
tantalisingly splayed, signalled a careful preparation. The mousy haired youth
and the grey haired schoolmaster and sometime author were a long way from
civilised, sherry filled, conversations.
‘I
said remove your clothes.’
‘All
of them sir?’
David
Lacey heard himself speak but the sound that emerged was beyond normal
recognition. His throat was dry, his legs shook and his stomach lurched with
sickening fear. He would go through this ordeal and he would desperately try to
remember the details. But the enormity of what was to come bombarded his
fevered brain. The horse, the straps, the birch, all threateningly combined for
an attack on his fragile body. And all orchestrated by a man, cold tones
contrasting the warmth of their initial engagement, patiently waiting for his
acquiescence.
‘All
that is necessary, Master Lacey. You have read my books. You, of all boys,
should be aware that a birch is always applied to the bare behind. I see no
reason to make an exception.’
‘No
sir.’
‘Then
do as I say and we can bring these unpleasant proceedings to a close.’
‘Yes
sir.’
And
with that final, dutiful, response David Lacey removed his jacket and placed it
on a convenient chair. He then carefully removed both his shoes and his socks
and, hesitating only slightly, his lime green and sky blue school tie. The
removal of the tie was unnecessary, both in the room knew it was merely a diversion
from more important matters, but its divesting indicated a boy readying himself
for total submission. And that boy stood fearfully before an impatient, but
understanding, Christopher Watson-Haynes. As the latter absorbed the revealing
picture of his fourteen year old acquaintance, now down to crisp white shirt
and long grey trousers, he inwardly sighed. The best was yet to come. And
slowly it did so. David Lacey delayed for only a moment, perhaps giving his
chastiser a fleeting second in which to reconsider, but no reprieve came forth.
Reluctantly, and with heavy resignation, David Lacey’s trembling fingers undid
the buttons on his trousers and, pushing them to his feet, cast them aside and,
with watering eyes, waited further instructions.
‘Take
off your underpants, Master Lacey. I did say that this birching would be on you
bare behind. Your friend was allowed some small protection from my cane. You
are neither granted, nor deserve, that privilege. So please remove them. Now.’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘And
when you have done so, come here and bend over the horse. As you are about to
find out it is especially designed for the bottoms of boys who need to learn a
hard lesson.’
David
Lacey put his fumbling hands underneath his shirt and, nervously finding the
waist, pulled his small cotton pants down to his ankles. The action took only a
moment but the effect was electrifying. As he placed this meagre covering of
his most private parts with his other discarded garments he became painfully
aware of his vulnerability. Not wearing a vest, only his crisp and cool white
school shirt covered his nakedness. A nakedness that was firm, and smooth and
pale, and unsullied. A nakedness soon to suffer an anguish for which, in spite
of that easy assurance of a first meeting, he now realised he was ill prepared.
He made one final, despairing, plea.
‘Please
don’t birch me sir. Couldn’t I have the cane instead?’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes, on the cusp of a chastisement he could not be denied, relished
both the naked fear and the heady anticipation. His voice, thick with
expectation, remained outwardly calm.
‘No
Master Lacey. Think yourself fortunate that you are not getting both. I did
consider it. But I reckoned that eighteen strokes of this birch, delivered with
some force to your bottom, will be more than enough. So when you are ready.’
*****
It
was at this moment that the trembling David Lacey openly cried. The enormity of
what was about to happen finally got to him. Perhaps it was because of standing
there dressed only in a shirt which barely reached to a small but obvious
penis. Perhaps it was seeing the impatient flick of the birch in Christopher
Watson-Haynes hand, or registering the alarming way his backside suddenly
started to twitch uncontrollably. Or perhaps it was a combination of all three.
But whatever the reason David Lacey started to cry and begged to be spared his
ordeal. He was still crying when Christopher Watson-Haynes gathered him by the
head and led him to the horse. He continued to cry and plead as he was laid
prone and tied, first by the hands and then by the legs, to the four feet of
that uncompromising horse. And when Christopher Watson-Haynes lifted his shirt
up his back to expose his small and round buttocks he cried even more. His bare
behind was now only a moment from the kiss of a much discussed birch. The
subtle downward slope of the horse meant that all parts of a boyish importance
were raised unusually high. As he felt the gentle touch of splaying twigs on
his nether regions, he cried, pleaded, and begged for an understanding mercy. But
it made no difference. Any chance of reprieve was lost in this defining moment.
Merging into the boyish landscape of the curved back and unblemished legs was a
bottom gifted from heaven. Two delightful, fleshy, peaches of unfreckled purity
glistened tantalisingly below the crumpled shirt. Was ever such a behind
fashioned by nature for such a birch? The twin cheeks begged scholastic
atonement. Christopher Watson-Haynes raised that birch and finally, remorselessly,
and with exquisite skill, lashed it down across the upturned naked cheeks of a
boy regrettably, for him, designed for such attention.
It
had been many years since Christopher Watson-Haynes had thrashed with such
aplomb. Apart from Kevin Johnson he had not waved a cane across a boy’s
backside for nearly twenty years. And birching a boy was clearly the heady
stuff of ageing fantasies. But here before him, bottom bare and reddening, was
a boy who virtually offered himself. He had asked to be disciplined. And
circumstances had designed such matters in a way that meant his birching could
be justly, and seriously, applied. And Christopher Watson-Haynes was not to be
denied his opportunity. The more David Lacey screamed the more he lashed the
unrelenting birch across his arched backside. Each combined thrash of the
twelve individual twigs found every inch of the boy’s delightful mounds.
By
the fourth stroke David Lacey was lurching both to the left and the right. By
the eighth stroke, realising that unremitting straps held his naked frame
firmly in place, he screamed and begged for release. On the twelfth stroke he
registered a leaking bladder and, sobbing uncontrollably, stared at the distant
wall in the vain hope that the remaining swings of the unrelenting birch would
spare both his more tender places and crumbling dignity.
‘Please
sir, no more sir. Please.’
The
fourteenth stroke of the birch caught the underside of David Lacey’s buttocks.
‘Please
sir, my bum, my bum,’
The
fifteenth stroke revisited, for the final time, the top of the writhing,
restless, cheeks.
‘No
more. Oh god, no more.’
The
sixteenth and seventeenth strokes lashed across the dividing curves of a young
and, still smooth, backside that cried out for the worst that this birch could
do.
‘No
more. Oh god, please sir, please sir. No more sir. Please no more. I’m dying.’
The
eighteenth stroke, firm and true, fell hard across the centre of all that had
gone before.
‘Aaaagh.
Oh god. Help me.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes birch had done its work for the final time. The last stroke
embedded itself in the bare flesh of the young boy and, having left a final
mark, dragged down the outstretched legs and reluctantly rested. The restrained
positioning of the bending boy had meant that his two, small, testicles were
fetchingly exposed, but not once had the birch strayed from its determined
course. David Lacey may scream, as he continued to do so, but only his buttocks
would emit any lasting tenderness. The upturned behind displayed, at its
centre, a true manifestation of a delightful boy. But not a single twig had
strayed. Mr Watson-Haynes could not help thinking that Mr Edwin Cart would be
well pleased.
*****
David
Lacey gradually ceased his screaming but continued to sob and bleat. Even that
faded away to nothingness till, eventually, an eerie silence and stillness
enveloped the room. Only the picture of a beaten boy, stretched virtually naked
across an old fashioned vaulting horse, remained. Christopher Watson-Haynes
studied his handiwork and then gently lowered the boy’s shirt. It did not totally
cover the wealed buttocks but it returned a degree of dignity and, satisfied, the
boy’s tormentor left the room. He did not return for ten minutes but, when he
did, a still and exhausted boy had resumed his quiet sobbing.
David
Lacey did not finally leave Christopher Watson-Haynes flat for another two
hours. On his return the man who had mercilessly birched his bottom gently
released the restraining straps and, equally gently, lifted him off the horse. For
a moment he felt unbalanced and dizzy but, as the man put a steadying hand on his
shoulders, his own hands moved to ease his burning rear. Neither said anything.
Still clutching and rubbing his stinging behind, and dressed only in his
flapping school shirt, David Lacey was taken to the bathroom. Christopher
Watson-Haynes turned on the shower, lifted the shirt over the boy’s head and,
handing him a large bar of expensive soap, instructed him to take a very long
and hot shower. In spite of his total nakedness David Lacey felt no tremor of embarrassment.
Even at the tender age of fourteen he instinctively knew you could have few
secrets from a man who had just birched you on your bare behind. He gratefully
took the soap and, as Christopher Watson-Haynes left, he stepped into the
shower and willed the hot water to ease his pain. Twenty minutes later, adorned
in a very large and splendid towelling robe, he was hungrily devouring a lavish
afternoon tea. Only the reddened eyes indicated a recent brush with savage
Victorian pain.
*****
‘Eighteen
strokes with a birch. On your bare bum. God, I think I would have screamed my
head off.’
‘I
did.’
‘But
you don’t want to report him?’
‘Not
now, no. He was right to do it.’
‘Your
eyes are still red.’
‘So
is my bum, but I shall recover. That birch shall have no repercussions.’
David
Lacey and Kevin Johnson were sitting in a corner of the school’s spacious
library. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, the day after David’s ordeal, and
Kevin Johnson was eager to catch up on events.
‘Can
I see the marks?’
‘Not
here you can’t.’
‘Ho,
ho, ho.’
‘It’s
not like yours. More thin stripes than thick weals.’
‘So
I got it worse then?’
‘It stung like hell, but it’s going off now.
Doubt if I will be able to shower for a few days.’
‘I
did. Friday. After sports. Owington asked me who had been thrashing me.’
‘Is
it still that obvious?’
‘You
saw.’
‘.What
did you say?’
‘I
told him that I went home for the weekend and Grandpa applied some old
fashioned discipline.’
‘Your
Grandpa’s dead’
‘So
is Owington. From the neck up. By the time he realises I shall have a behind
like driven snow.’
‘Very
unfashionable this season, Johnson.’
‘So
it would seem.’
Kevin
Johnson closed the book he had been pretending to read and abandoned direct
discussions on their respective beatings.
‘So.
What are you going to do?’
‘I shall continue to work on the project. I’ve
lots of spare time next week. And next month Mr Watson-Haynes is going to read
my first draft.’
‘You
are going to his flat again?’
‘Why
not?’
‘Careful.’
‘Why?’
‘He
might have got a taste for you. You are a very attractive boy, Lacey.’
David
Lacey laughed at his friend’s pompous impression of a particular teacher who,
in their opinion, spent far too long in the changing room after games.
‘And
you are an ass, Johnson. Besides I need to return his special book.’
‘Which
one?’
‘Can’t
you guess?’
‘The
Saxon Horse book?’
‘Yes.’
‘The
book that got me a caning?’
‘The
very same.’
‘Well
knock me down with a birch rod. So we suffered for nothing.’
‘Definitely
not. I earned that book.’
‘We
earned that book.’
Kevin
Johnson rose and ambiguously rubbed his backside.
David
Lacey closed his own book, equally unread, and made for the library exit. There
was still an hour or so of the afternoon to kill and a walk along the riverside
would do them both good. They had been walking aimlessly for around ten minutes
before either spoke. It was Kevin Johnson who dropped the bombshell.
‘David?’
‘What?’
‘Can
I see?’
‘What?’
‘You
know. Your marks. Can I see them?’
‘Here?’
‘There’s
no one around. We might not have another chance.’
‘I’ll
show you in the toilets when we get back.’
‘No
here. Let me see them now. I showed you mine.’
David
Lacey stared at his young friend. There was an unfamiliar urgency in his voice
and his face was very flushed.
‘Please
David. I think you owe me this.’
David
Lacey looked around him. Kevin was right. There was no one around. It could do
no harm. He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers and, undoing them, pushed
them and his underpants to his knees. He turned away from his friend and lifted
his shirt high to enable him to have a close look. They were shielded by a
large tree and David’s face was pressed so close to the bark he could smell it.
He
stood there for about five seconds conscious of the gentle wind brushing both
his naked behind and his dangling penis. It was not unpleasant. And then, very
lightly at first, and then more roughly he felt Kevin Johnson’s small hands
explore the contours of his buttocks. He held his breath as exploring fingers
traced the line of a particular stripe of yesterday’s birch. And then Kevin
Johnson quietly sighed and, still gently cupping David Lacey’s left cheek, his
right hand moved around the naked thigh to discover the true shape and texture
of his friend’s virgin prick and balls. David Lacey drank in a tiny moment of
the ensuing sensation, flirted briefly with a growing awareness of undiscovered
pleasure, and then hastily pulled up his clothes. He sat down by the trunk of
the tree and looked anywhere but at his standing friend. Neither spoke. After a
few silent moments David Lacey rose, checked the respectability of his attire,
and started to walk towards the school. Kevin Johnson followed, initially a
couple of feet behind, but eventually falling in beside his companion.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t
apologise.’
‘I
don’t know what came over me.’
‘Forget
it.’
‘I’ve
never done anything like that before.’
‘It
doesn’t matter.’
‘It
does.’
David
Lacey stopped and turned to his friend. He had a serious intense look on his
small and freckled face.
‘Kevin.
It doesn’t matter. You touched my bum. So what. I let you do it.’
‘I
touched more than that.’
‘So.
I encouraged you.’
‘Did
you?’
‘I
thought that was obvious. I stopped you because I was enjoying it, not because
I thought it was wrong. Now do what you are best at and make me laugh.’
Kevin
Johnson pulled a silly face and Master Lacey delivered a friendly punch.
‘Not
that. Tell me a joke.’
‘Shan’t.’
‘Or
give me one of your impersonations. I desire normality Johnson.’
‘Not
until you answer the most puzzling question in the universe.’
David
Lacey screwed his face. His friend was giving a very good impression of a
particularly tiresome philosophy teacher.
‘What are you on about Johnson?’
‘Promise
you’ll answer?’
‘Oh,
all right.’
‘How come you haven’t got any freckles on your
bum?’
David
Lacey laughed all the way up to the school. In that moment of schoolboy
flippancy a heavy burden magically lifted.
In
their separate beds that night both boys reflected on the events of the last
week, especially their small moment of unexpected intimacy. Kevin Johnson had
become increasingly aware of his growing sexuality since his caning. He had not
enjoyed it and did not desire a repeat but he could not deny that the throbbing
in his bottom had churned his emotions and the continuing line of weals had
provided an unexpected fascination. No wonder corporal punishment had been
abandoned in schools. It carried too much unhealthy baggage. And seeing David
Lacey’s birch striped bum was an irresistible temptation. He fell asleep
resolving, in the immortal words of his father, to take lots of cold baths. In
a separate bed, in a separate room, David Lacey was having a number of thoughts
of his own.
*****
‘Thank
you for returning my book so promptly. I was sorry you were unable to stay. I
was hoping to read the first draft of your lecture.’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘And
now it is too late. The competition must be over by now.’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘Well?’
‘What
sir?’
‘Aren’t
you going to tell me how you got on? I assume that is why you are here.’
‘Yes
sir.
‘Well?’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes looked eagerly at his young guest. David Lacey took a deep breath
before answering.
‘I
didn’t enter, sir.’
‘You
didn’t enter?’
‘Well,
to be more precise, I withdrew. Mr Fraser was not very pleased.’
‘I
am sure he wasn’t.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes rose from his chair. He and young Master Lacey were having a
Saturday afternoon tea. It was only the second time he had met the boy since
the fateful day of his birching. The following month he had returned the Edwin
Cart book, and hastily departed pleading an unexpected visit from a wealthy aunt.
And then nothing. Two months had passed and from a boy who had both delighted
and thrilled, not a word. The seventy three year old retired headmaster was on
the verge of consigning the memory to history when, unexpectedly, he had
received a phone call requesting an invitation. And two days later they sat
down to one of Christopher Watson-Haynes splendid afternoon teas. On the last
occasion the boy was, naturally, in some discomfort but this latest visit
reminded of the assured fourteen year old who first graced his spacious flat.
‘Why
did you withdraw? I think you had a winner. Definitely thinking outside the
box.’
David
Lacey inwardly flinched at this reminder of a promising project which had come
to naught.
‘So
why did you decide to abandon it?’
David
Lacey took another deep breath.
‘Kevin
Johnson, sir.’
‘Kevin
Johnson?’
‘The
boy you caned.’
‘Ah.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes allowed his mind to wander for a second to the day he had swished
twelve strokes of a much loved cane to the upturned backside of a schoolboy
burglar.’
‘That
was well deserved.’
‘Yes
sir. We both deserved our respective punishments.’
‘I
am glad you say that. Even in my headmaster days I never disciplined without
good reason.’
‘It was as I planned, even if the way you did
it was much more real than I thought it would be.’
‘Verisimilitude?’
‘Yes
sir. But Kevin’s caning was different. It changed us. It….’
‘Yes?’
David Lacey blushed, the brightest beetroot
his freckles could engender.
‘It made us aware of our bodies. Especially
Kevin.’
‘Ah,’
‘He
got very depressed. His parents transferred him to another school a couple of
weeks ago. They said….’
‘Yes.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes was aware that this conversation was becoming painful for his
guest. He said the word quietly and, sitting down again, waited.
‘Go
on.’
‘They
said that I was becoming a bad influence on him.’
‘And
were you?’
‘No
sir. But he had clearly told them something. And I think your name came into
it.’
‘Ah.’
David
Lacey’s host paused, carefully choosing his words.
‘Did
he tell them that I had caned him?’
‘No
sir. He assured me of that. But he did tell them about your books.’
‘He
had seen them?’
‘I
showed them to him when I was working on the project.’
‘Not
a sensible idea. He is not as intelligent as you.’
‘No
sir.’
David
Lacey had the grace to blush.
‘And
so you did not write your lecture to save me further embarrassment.’
‘I
had already written it. But I destroyed it.’
‘Because
of your friend, Kevin Johnson?’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘You
thought your project, your lecture, might get all of us in considerable
trouble. Because of the effect on your friend. Is that about it?’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘Finish
your tea and I will make some more.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes gathered up the teapot and prepared leave the room.
‘Pity
you destroyed it though. I would have been very interested to see what you made
of your experiences.’
‘It
hurt sir.’
‘A
birch on a bare bottom usually does’
David
Lacey flinched as his host, gently smiling, left the room. When he returned,
ten minutes later with a fresh pot, his young guest had painstakingly
re-ordered his other thoughts into a clear and precise order.
‘That
is not my main reason for coming to see you today. I thought of writing.
Apologising for not contacting you earlier. But it would not be fair. What I
have to say needs to be said in person.’
‘Go
on. I am listening’
‘It was your book that started all this off
sir.’
‘The
Saxon Horse of Edwin Cart?’
‘Yes
sir. I knew nothing about him until I discovered you.’
‘And
he fired your imagination.’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘He was a strange man.’
‘Yes
sir. But he was more than that. To me.’
‘Really’
‘Yes
sir. He was my Great Grandfather.’
‘What?’
‘Edwin
Cart was my Great Grandfather.’
‘Your
Great Grandfather?’
‘Yes
sir. I have always known that. But I never knew about his Saxon horse.’
‘Until
you found that piece in the local paper?’
‘Yes
sir.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes leant forward and poured the fresh pot of tea. As he did so, idly
watching the stream of liquid escape the gleaming pot, he quietly spoke.
‘For
that deception, Master Lacey, you almost deserve a second birching.’
‘That
wouldn’t be fair sir.’
‘Oh.
And why not?’
‘Even
you indulge in deception.’
‘Do
I?’
‘Yes
sir.’
‘Go
on.’
‘Your
book on that Victorian murder case. I researched that as well.’
‘The
Latin Master and the Downstairs Maid?’
‘Yes
sir.’
Christopher
Watson-Haynes handed the boy his tea and waited.
‘And?’
‘His
name was Baker. Nathaniel Isaac Baker.’
‘And
she was a downstairs maid.’
‘He
was your Grandfather, sir. And a great friend of Edwin Cart.’
‘Ah.’
‘Google
is very helpful sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘So
I was thinking of doing that case as my lecture next year. With your permission’
For
a moment Christopher Watson-Haynes said nothing. His mouth opened desperately to
form a suitable response but, failing, he ended the nervous silence with a
gentle laughter which perceptibly grew and filled the room. Before too long
David Lacey had tentatively joined in.
Alfred Roy (2006)
