A Grammar-School Boy Looks Back

But to return to the daily assembly; the Headmaster entered and deposited his papers and mortarboard on the desk in front of him. He then announced the hymn for the day, telling us just which verses we would sing; we must have had hymn books though I cannot recollect that we did; he then stepped down from the dais, seated himself at the piano, his monocle by now dangling there on a silken string around his neck, where he then proceeded to bash out the hymn himself; the man just dominated everything and everybody; he managed to put the fear of god in all of the pupils.

Post the "devotional" part of the assembly, the Headmaster then moved on to his announcements for the day. Usually there was nothing special, except on Fridays when the Headmaster announced the names of those boys whom he wished to see in his study at the mid-morning break. A deathly hush always fell over the gathering when came to this announcement for it signalled those lads who were going to be thrashed that morning. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief once he had finished reading out the list, and one realised that one's name was not on that day's list. It was not that this was the only day when boys were caned at the school, for that was not the case. The cane was in regular use throughout the week; but that Friday ritual was something special: something that every boy dreaded. The Friday morning break was the one sure date on the weekly calendar, for barring a miracle, a number of lads would find themselves standing outside the Headmaster's study, waiting to be called in to be beaten.

The Headmaster had decreed that the Friday morning break would be of one half-hour rather than the usual fifteen minutes in order to allow him enough time to deal adequately with the boys whom he had convoked for punishment. So there was a very uneasy atmosphere about the entire school during this long break, as everyone knew that a number of "executions" were being carried out by the Headmaster and that there, but for the Grace of God, anyone of us could be awaiting our fate. So what was it about the Friday list that set it apart from the regular canings? I think it was that fact that it seemed to be an immutable fact of life. Come Friday, a list of boys to be beaten would be read out. But how was this list made up and what distinguished it from other equally painful occasions?

Well, as I mentioned earlier the school had a system of demerits which could be awarded by the masters for numerous peccadilloes; but each detention automatically had one demerit attached to it. Any boy receiving a detention was detained for an hour after school that very day; but the date of the detention was noted in the register kept by our desiccated friend, the school secretary, Miss Priston. Any boy receiving two detentions in one term, which lots did, was obliged to attend a Saturday morning detention. Now Saturday morning detentions could also be given for what was thought by any master to be a serious offence, but one which did not merit a beating, But get two Saturdays in a term and you were on the Friday list for an automatic beating. So there you have it: it was a sort of on-going "debit" system, as each detention added another demerit to your file.

But, of course, there were countless other "infractions" which led to your file being credited with demerits. Any master who felt that you needed a reprimand for whatever offense you were deemed to have committed would issue you with a demerit slip, which you had then to deposit in that dreaded box for Miss Priston to add to your file. It is obvious that most lads lost track of just now many demerits they had accumulated at any particular time and it was precisely this uncertainty that conditioned the atmosphere at the Friday assembly when the Headmaster announced the list of those whom he wished to see at the morning break. The big question was always on every boy's mind was whether his name would be called out.

My first day at the school had been the first Monday in September 1945 and the Friday of that first week I became acquainted with the "Headmaster's List". Of course I had no idea at the time what the significance was of what was happening. Very surprisingly as term had only just started, the Headmaster named three older boys whom I did not know. What they had done to merit a beating on what was only the fifth day of term, I do not know; but there it was; they were to present themselves to the Headmaster at the morning break by which time all of us new boys had been brought up to speed on what was to happen. Little did I realise that the next week my name would be read out and I would make the first of what, over my school career, became many visits to the Headmaster's study.

That second Friday morning I had not the slightest idea that I was to be singled out for punishment, for as far as I knew I had committed no offence. But I had reckoned without the dreaded system of demerits, which unbeknown to me had accumulated on my file to such a level that the Headmaster had evidently decided that it was high time to address my backside with the cane. Five names, all of older boys had already been read out to the deathly hushed assembly and then, after a sight pause, the Headmaster said: "And finally I wish also to see Robertson, a new boy in Form 1A". I could not believe my ears when I heard my name announced. I had an immediate release of adrenaline which sent a shiver of fear my body. What had I done to be on the list? As far as I could see, nothing at all. But there it was; along with the other five older lads, I had to go along to the Headmaster's study at the beginning of the extended break period that very day and await my fate. That morning I could not concentrate on either of the two classes before the dreaded break and I collected two demerit slips for inattention to my work, one from each of the masters.

So there we were, the six of us, standing waiting in the corridor outside the Headmaster's study waiting to be called in. One might have thought that the Headmaster would have shown certain empathy and dealt with me, the youngest first, in order to spare me the agony of an extended wait. But the concept of empathy seemed unknown to Mr. Barton and I was finally alone in the corridor waiting for the last of the five older lads to emerge and be called in myself. I had no idea what any of the others had done to merit a beating, but evidently three of them had jointly broken some rule or other and the Headmaster called the three of them into his study together, leaving the three of us waiting there in the corridor.

The door was firmly closed, but one could hear a muffled conversation followed by a short silence which was then broken by a series of twelve hard cracks of the cane mating with a pair of buttocks. After the sixth stroke, the unfortunate recipient clearly could hold himself in control no longer and was howling with pain as each successive stroke landed. There was another pause and the same procedure was followed: twelve well spaced cracks of the cane across the unfortunate lad's backside, to be followed shortly afterwards by the third victim. The door opened and three sobbing lads emerged rubbing their backsides. What they had done to merit twelve cuts of the cane I have no idea, but they had paid a very painful price for their misdeeds.

Then each in turn, the other two boys were called into the study and again I heard the same through the closed door. This time however, the lads received only six cuts of the cane each, so I guess their offences, whatever they were, were less serious. But by the time I entered the Headmaster's study he had already given no less than forty-eight strokes of the cane that morning. I suppose that I vainly hoped that he might now be tired, which of course he was not! The room was quite large; in addition the Headmaster's desk, on which lay a selection of canes; there were numerous bookcases and in the middle of the room an easy chair and a padded foot-stool. The Headmaster, monocle in his eye and fully gowned sat magisterially and gloweringly behind his desk. It was a frightening site for an eleven year old boy I can tell you.

"Robertson, I think you are fully aware of why you are here today; I have to say that as you are a new boy, I am somewhat surprised that you have accumulated sufficient demerits in such a short time as to oblige me to see you this morning. So what have you to say for yourself, boy?"

Sufficient demerits? Fully aware of why I was there? I had no idea what the man was talking about. "I'm sorry sir, but I do not understand why you have called me here today, sir; I was unaware that I had any demerits at all, sir; so perhaps if you could explain to me sir."

"Robertson, correct me if I am wrong (which, of course, he knew he was not) but it is my understanding that in the ten days which you have been attending this school you arrived late for roll-call on four of them. That young man is at least what the daily attendance chits say. Are they correct?"

And then it suddenly hit me. I had, in fact, been late arriving at the school on four occasions. My parent both left for work at seven in the morning, leaving me in bed to get up, make my breakfast and catch the bus. And, of course, I had overslept on those four occasions and missed the appropriate bus. I then had had to wait for the next bus which made me just a few minutes late. But at Bishop's everything was recorded and as I had not answered my name on the first call of the register, form- master Algy, had assiduously noted my name as a late arrival on the daily attendance chit. This had then been dutifully noted on my record by Miss Priston, and, hey presto, I had quickly accumulated the four demerits. How easy it was to accumulate demerits, without ever realising that you had done so.

"I see from your face Robertson, that I have jogged your memory so I think it is now the appropriate moment to give you some help in remembering the hour is which this school commences each morning. Take of your blazer, boy and place it neatly on that armchair there. Now, kneel on the footstool and bend right over so that your head and hands touch he floor in front of you; stick your bottom well into the air, boy, as it will be the centre of attention for the next few minutes."

By now I was in a cold sweat and utterly terrified of what was about to happen to me; but there was nothing at all that I could do other than follow Basher's instructions. And so a few moments later, I found myself in a ludicrously uncomfortable position, kneeling on the footstool, my head and hands on the floor and my arse stuck up into the air, waiting to be thrashed.

The Headmaster went across to his desk and picked up a long thin cane, which he swished through the air a few times; for effect I guess. It certainly put the fear of God into me as I wondered what it would feel like when it landed on my backside. The Headmaster came and stood on my left and laid the cane gently across the midpoint of my buttocks; he then said that I would receive two strokes of the cane for each of the four times I had been late for school: eight strokes in all. Then the onslaught began; and did the Headmaster know how to lay it on; each and every stroke was placed with precision and was excruciatingly painful. I could not imagine what it would have been like to take it on my bare skin; even through my trousers and underpants, I felt as if the old boy had skinned my arse. After four strokes he changed sides and gave me the final four backhand, at which he was equally adept.

I managed not to blub until the fifth stroke, but by the the pain had reached such a pitch that I just howled with the increasing pain at each successive stroke and my eyes were a flood of tears. To date this was certainly the most awful experience of my entire life. I mentally cursed my father for having insisted that I enrol at Bishop's where corporal chastisement was alive and well and very much the order of the day.

"Up you get boy, it's all, over: that's it for today. But Robertson just let me give you a warning. If you are late for roll-call once again this term, I shall have you in here that very day, immediately after assembly and I will give you twelve strokes of the cane. Believe me Robertson you will not sit down comfortably for a full week after I have finished with you. I trust I make myself clear young man!"

I managed to mouth with difficulty a very soft "Yes sir." and left. So that was how I came to be the first of the new boys to take a beating from the Headmaster. I was quite a hero among my class-mates who at the lunch hour more or less forced me into the lavatories to inspect the damage; and I have to say that Basher really knew his stuff, for I had eight clear bluish-red, very painful furrows across my backside. Somehow I felt, being the first to be caned that I was in some way superior to the others; I had arrived; I was part of the system as it were. But I swore to myself that I would never ever be late for school again: a promise which I was able to keep for my entire career. So perhaps that first beating really did some good. Of course that did not stop my arse from being beaten for a host of other reasons as I seemed to attract the cane in the way a magnet attracts iron filings.

One of the main changes in my life when I entered grammar school was the fact that I was now being taught only by male teachers; there were no women teachers at all on the staff. In fact, as I mentioned earlier, the only woman on the staff, apart from the dinner ladies, was the school secretary, Miss Priston, whereas at the elementary church school all the teachers other than the Headmaster had been women. I also had to accustom myself to being addressed by both my classmates and the masters by my surname only. This was quite shock after the elementary school, where everyone was addressed by their first name. But here in form 1A at Bishop's we all called one another by our surnames and it was not until I reached the sixth form that we tentatively started using our first names.

Another baptism of fire which I and the others too, I suppose, went through was the fact that we had to start learning two foreign languages: French and Latin. I have to say that in post-war England of 1945, I saw little point in either, as foreign travel as we know it today was not yet on the horizon. The French teacher was a crotchety, Welshman, Mr. T. B. Evans, who was approaching retirement but who taught me French for my first two years. French with Taffy, for that was his nickname, seemed to consist of mindless wrote learning of how to conjugate the French verbs in all their tenses, of which there seemed to be an endless list. To a working class English lad from the industrial north, all this was incredibly boring and it was this boredom during the French lessons which led me to my second visit to the to the Headmaster.

Taffy was a real martinet and was always threatening boys in his class with a caning, in which he appeared to be a great believer. He had a horrible habit of coming into the room, flinging down a sheaf of small sheets of paper on the first desk, with instructions for the occupant thereof to hand them around and saying; "Test". Then we would all sit there and have to write down the answers to the questions he posed on the homework he had set us the previous day. Typically such questions concerned the grammar and spelling of the language: "Write down the first person plural of the imperfect tense of the verb 'to give' in French. Or: Write down the French word for 'still'." Somehow he always managed to pull out some obscure word from the section of the French primer which we had been supposedly studying at home.

And so we it went on for ten questions, after which we all had to exchange papers with our neighbour and we went through the marking process. That completed Taffy duly recorded our scores in his register. Any boy who received a low score was called to the front and shown the register from the previous year. "What does it say there next to that name?" He would say. "You see what it says, don't you boy; it says warned; and what does that say there: it says caned." And so by the simple act of brandishing his register under our noses, Taffy put the fear of a visit to Basher's study into all of us. Oh, perhaps I have forgotten to mention that Mr. Barton, the Headmaster, was universally known as Basher: a very appropriate nickname in view of his love of wielding the cane. As far as I can remember, we never had any written homework to do set by Taffy; it was book learning followed by the dreaded tests. And upon the results of these tests, Taffy filled out our monthly assessment report, which was sent to our parents. As you might imagine, none of us made much headway in learning to speak French, but, by hell, did we know how to conjugate the French verbs! In my view Taffy was a bone-idle teacher who, by means of his incessant tests, avoided ever having to correct any written work in his own time.

It must have been in the third or fourth week of my first term at the school that Taffy hauled me before the Headmaster, with all that that implied. What happened was that I was bored with the lesson and had totally stopped paying attention to what Taffy was saying, as had the boy, whose name I now forget, who was sitting in the desk immediately in front of me. He and I did not get on at all and that day he did something or other to annoy me, so much so that I dipped my pen into the inkwell and shook the ink from the fully charged nib in his direction, over his shoulder. The ink splattered everywhere over his desk and and exercise book, which lay there open. Taffy saw this and in a great rage promptly came across to me. He grabbed me by the scruffs of the neck and there and then, interrupting his class, more or less frogmarched me to the Headmaster.

So in less than a minute after the misdemeanour I had committed, and I have to admit that I had acted very foolishly in anger, I once again found myself in that ludicrous position, kneeling on that footstool in the middle of the Headmaster's study, my head and hands on the floor and my arse stuck in the air, waiting for the Headmaster to beat me. And beat me he did and with considerable vigour. Six swingeing strokes came down across my my backside and I stood finally stood up in utter agony, only to be frogmarched by Taffy back to the classroom, where my class-mates had been waiting with bated breath and malicious anticipation at seeing one of their number being hauled off to be beaten. The whole episode from start finish could not have lasted more than five or six minutes. Talk about instant justice; well that was it. For the rest of the day I could hardly bear to sit down on the hard wooden seat of my desk. I think that I was the only boy to have been thrashed twice in my first month at the school. But certainly the incident brought home to my class-mates that Taffy was not to be trifled with.

The Headmaster was the only person in the school actually to wield the cane. But one other master also managed to give lots of us lads sore backsides: Mr. J. Reeves, the physical education instructor. He had a real mean streak and when we were in the gym, which we were twice a week, wearing only a pair of thin cotton shorts, he had the nasty habit of flicking any errant arse with an old razor strop which seemed like an extension of his right arm, to which it seemed permanently attached. This strop had had the metal hanging buckle removed and was a truly vicious instrument: no gym class ever passed but what several boys felt it applied to their backsides. His main beef was that we were slacking and he had no hesitation at all in applying his strop vigorously to the offending boy's arse. In many ways I suppose the strop was equivalent to a poor man's taws: the renowned Scottish implement of punishment which I never experienced.