Sunday 23 February 2014

Telling Lies (M/m)


A promised new story in true old fashioned style. Lots of media chat recently about returning discipline to schools. It won't happen (see previous blog) but this, for those interested, is how it used to be. Told, hopefully, entertainingly and with just a hint of historical inaccuracy.

Telling Lies
That must have hurt, Martin thought. That had landed full on, right across the centre of the cheeks of the bending boy. That must have hurt him.  He winced as the young boy gasped and shuffled his feet. He was crying now. That third stroke of the cane had really stung. And he had one more to come. He had taken the first two well. The young boy’s face had blanched when the master told him that it would be four strokes of the cane. Four strokes for all three of them. In front of an eager watching class. In spite of the boy’s pleas that he was innocent of any crime he nevertheless bent down when bid. Bent down for a caning he knew he did not deserve. And until that third stroke he had taken it well. But that had hurt. As did the fourth and final stroke of the cane. When that landed on his small bottom the boy howled. Rose and howled. And clutched his bottom. Unfairly caned. You could see that in his eyes. Eyes directed at Martin.

The second young boy, trembling, took his companions place. He had also pleaded his innocence but he had also witnessed the first caning. He was resigned to his fate. But if tears flowed in anticipation it did not stop him bending down and sticking out his small behind. Canings, even unjust ones, had to be endured. He glanced at Martin as he bent down but Martin was impassive. His own four strokes, much harder due to his age, were to come. And in front of this class of thirteen year olds. He was not sure which was the greater shame. The caning or the spectacle. Both combined in abject humiliation. Martin winced again as the first stroke of the cane struck the second boy’s bottom. This master was an expert. The boy howled but remained bending. Clutching ankles as if his life depended on it. He stayed in place for all the heady whacks to his rear. Then he rose and repeated the antics of his young classmate. All of them. Rubbing clothed bottom, wiping copious tears. And looking at Martin. Hostile looks of accusation and unfairness.

Martin rose. It was all over. His four strokes were excruciating. They had stung like hell. His bottom was numb and dead. But he had not cried, had not resisted. Would not do. Not a fifteen year old in a class of thirteen year old boys. He had gritted his teeth and taken it. Four stinging whacks, much harder than the other boys suffered, had landed on his backside. A backside now burning. But all over. All over bar the throbbing soon to come. But as he rose, resisting the temptation to massage his behind, another master had entered the schoolroom. Whispers, looks, stern faces. And then his name. Telling. Martin Telling. Go to the headmaster’s office. All onlookers seemed perplexed. The class of thirteen year olds had witnessed a familiar, almost enjoyable, drama. Now they witnessed something more obscure. A boy just caned being sent to the headmaster’s study. That was not the natural order. So they were puzzled, especially as the two masters looked equally perplexed. Annoyed, angry even, but definitely perplexed. Only the two thirteen year olds truly understood. They rubbed their respective burning rears and reflected that there might be some compensation. Martin Telling glanced at them as he left the room. They did not glance back.

Martin Telling stood to attention in the headmaster’s office. Respectfully, hands behind back, he listened to what the headmaster had to say. He wanted to close his eyes or look to the ceiling but resisted both. Any show of defiance would not go well for him. He needed to show deference and tread warily. His now stinging and throbbing behind told him that. Only ten minutes since the master’s cane had warmed his backside he was now listening to what may be a prelude to an unwelcome reprise. He needed every ounce of his wits. ‘Is it true, Telling?’ He heard the words, the headmaster’s words. The final question after a long peroration. Of course it was true. Every bloody word. But he wouldn’t say so. That would lead to more trouble, more caning. No, he would stick to his story, the story that led to him and two young innocents being caned.

It had started as a joke, mischievous work for idle hands and minds. He and two classmates, fifteen year olds all, set out to rob the tuck shop. Easy really. Manned by studious A grade thirteen year olds once a week and never, or rarely, anyone else around. Bit stupid really. It was one thing to give the younger kids a try at management but leaving them on their own was asking for trouble. They had robbed the tuck shop just as the two boys were locking up and ran off with a multitude of goodies. All done in less than two minutes. But one of them was seen. Him. Martin Telling. Sent to his form master’s study for an explanation. And what an elaborate explanation it was. Spurred on by menacing threats from his partners in crime. Leave us out of it they said. Or else they said. So he did. Took the rap himself. Well almost. He took the young guardians of the tuck shop down with him. They were in on it. Faked robbery to cover up weeks of nickings. All very clever and believable. Especially as both A grade thirteen year old boys admitted, honest souls that they were, the occasional perk. Condemned themselves. Played into Martin Telling’s hands. After that unexpected confession nothing they said was believed. Four strokes each of the cane. Martin was slightly surprised he did not get six.

And now that version was being questioned. Bit late really as three boys were nursing sore behinds. Bit late to investigate deeply after you have dished out the punishment. Or so Martin thought. So he stuck to his story. Why risk a second whacking and, even worse, a duffing up from two burly fifteen year old classmates. A no brainer. He would not change a word in spite of the persuasive tale being told by the headmaster. There was not one older boy Telling, he said, there were three. So my informant tells me. Three boys robbed the tuck shop, those young boys seem to have been speaking the truth. I shall apologise to them, they were unfairly caned. That is how it seems, given this new information. ‘Is it true, Telling?’ He knew it was, you could tell by the way he phrased the question. His informant was reliable. Martin Telling considered his options. ‘He was mistaken sir’ was all he said. ‘The three were myself and the two boys who have been caned.. There was no one else.’ The headmaster said nothing but you could tell he did not believe. Not only did he think, but would not say, that the class master who dished out three painful canings had been overhasty but he also sensed that the truth was of a different colour. Martin Telling was lying. No doubt of that. But the day of the tuck shop raid was dull and misty and his informant a master of advancing years. He had not said that he saw five boys, merely that he saw three running away and, in his opinion, they were all fifteen year olds and one was Master Telling. Hence his consternation when realising that two thirteen year olds were being caned. He could be mistaken but the headmaster doubted it. He looked at the motionless Martin Telling again. He had a certainty that Telling was lying but on all else he was puzzled. The two thirteen year olds had, indirectly, supported his fabricated tale. Hence their canings. The question was, why had they done so? Martin Telling was dismissed but with the threat, not particularly veiled, that the headmaster expected to see him again. ‘And when I discover the truth’, he said, ‘I shall not hesitate to give you a second, well deserved, more severe caning.’ Martin Telling flinched and then did so again. ‘And if it is as I think’, the headmaster had continued, ‘it will be with your trousers down.’

Martin Telling spent the next few days in some consternation and nervousness. The headmaster was an imposing individual and, so it was said, had a strong right arm when needed. His bĂȘte noir was thieving and lying. Surprisingly indulgent of a variety of schoolboy pranks and weaknesses, he once famously let off four boys caught skinny dipping in the school’s garden pond, he had no time for those who stole or lied. And Martin Telling had done both. Four strokes of the cane was a small price to pay but now, it seemed, it may not rest there. The headmaster was determined to uncover the truth and, as Martin knew, that truth was distinctly unpalatable. He had not known that his ploy of saying that only he and the two younger boys were involved would be so readily believed. A tuck shop scam engineered by him with their connivance. The younger boys had not denied it, had not mentioned his classmates, and admitted to petty pilfering. They had almost invited those four painful whacks that landed on their backsides. It was all a bit of a mystery. Martin Telling had thought so as he was bending down to get his own caning. He had been seen and named and he paid the price. But that price was beginning to look like a small instalment.

He consulted his partners in the tuck shop crime and, discovering untold facts, realised with a heavy heart that a minor impulsive prank was spiralling out of control. His fellow robbers had a vicious and nasty side that he was gradually and lately becoming more aware of. The initial felony was being compounded in disturbing ways. Threats to his own person had ensured his silence on their involvement, whatever the consequences. He had been seen, they hadn’t. ‘It’s just you and those two snotty kids’, that is what they said, and ‘they’ll do as they are told.’ They said that with confidence and now he found out why. It made for a perverted sense. When Martin Telling was seen and exposed his companions had taken decisive action to silence the tuck shop boys. That action involved compromising photographs of the two in the school toilets. ‘A word about us from either of you and these go on the school notice board.’ Decisive, nasty, quick. The two boys, forced to undress and pose, were both shamed and frightened. But when summoned the following day they had followed the script, reasoning that a few swishes of a master’s cane across the bottom was preferable to public shame and the possibility of a more savage beating from older schoolmates. It seemed a reasonable choice, the lesser of two evils. And, as noted, they were grade A thirteen year olds. But now the script had changed. The master who had seen Martin Telling did not see any running thirteen year olds. Doubts had arisen and an imposing headmaster was suspicious and inquisitive. Martin Telling cursed his companions. They had not the wit to see what he could see. The picture of that imposing headmaster interrogating two thirteen year old, grade A, honest boys. The truth will out, he thought. And when it does, mess will hit the fan. And he will sit firmly in the middle between two vicious thugs and two tuck shop cherubs. ‘Lie your way out of this one’, Telling told himself. He didn’t get a reply.

He was still considering how he could wriggle out of the spiralling situation when things took a further turn for the worst. A compromising photograph of the two thirteen year olds was posted on a prominent notice board. A master, puzzled by a crowd of giggling boys, saw it and ripped it down. It was only posted for a few minutes so no particular harm was done. Except to Martin Telling. On the back of the photograph was his name and form number. Not conclusive evidence that he took the picture but it kept him clearly in the frame of the ever growing scandal regarding the tuck shop robbery. For the second time in three days he stood to attention in the headmaster’s office. Respectfully, hands behind back, he listened to a second more sinister peroration. The headmaster was in full flow. He knew who the young boys were. Or at least he had great suspicions. The faces were blurred but, with Telling’s name on the reverse, the connection was obvious. He had no intention of confronting the boys. The incident would be buried to minimise embarrassment. Besides, entering the public arena merely convinced him of the boy’s innocence. And he did not believe that Telling had taken the photograph or displayed it. The latter would not make sense given that his name and form was on the back. The headmaster took a deep breath. ‘But you are involved Telling, up to your scrawny little neck. I know not what the motive is for this disgraceful episode but I am convinced that it explains a lot.’ The headmaster paused again. ‘I want the name of your two accomplices. Give them to me and they will be expelled, as they deserve, and you will be let off. Fail to give me the names and my earlier threat stands. Trousers down, Telling, trousers down and twelve strokes of my senior cane. Do I make myself clear?’ He did.

The headmaster gave Martin Telling twenty four hours to come up with the two names. Martin Telling reckoned that twenty four weeks would not be enough. Give him those names and he would be mincemeat. Twelve whacks of the cane was nothing compared to what else might happen. No, the headmaster would not get the names. That resolve was easy. But why had the idiots displayed the photograph and put his name on it? That did not make sense. Nothing was gained by it and, potentially, there was a lot to lose. As things stood the one sufferer was Martin Telling, his scheduled second caning had moved from a threat to a promise. That suggested revenge. But why? He had kept quiet on who were his fellow tuck shop robbers and the two grade A thirteen year olds, nursing sore backsides, had pitifully played their part. Displaying the photograph served no particular purpose. It had stopped the headmaster talking to the two young innocents but whoever posted it was not to know that. It puzzled Martin Telling for the rest of that day but a chance remark in the lunchtime queue the following day revealed the solution to the mystery. And when the mystery was solved Martin Telling did something he was pretty adept at. It did not stop him being caned but, finally, it laid the tuck shop scandal firmly to bed. Life eventually got back to some sort of normality. Because Martin Telling lied. Again.

Thugs and thieves eventually fall out. That is a given. And Martin Telling discovered that the chief thug, a nasty boy named Abercrombie, was gunning for his equally nasty companion. Brains not brawn were Telling’s speciality, and hearing the rumours of a split he tentatively approached him as Abercrombie, alone, munched on his shepherd’s pie. He did not take him long to learn the reasons for the split. The photograph had become hot property and, having served its purpose, Abercrombie reasoned it was best destroyed. Problem was his fellow thug had sold it to one of the school’s prize idiots and that fool, for a dare, had pinned it on the notice board. Abercrombie was seething, partly because the proceeds had not been shared and partly because displaying the photo was never the intention. The threat was enough. ‘And he put my name on it, presumably because I am the only one of us who wouldn’t beat him up.’ Martin said. Abercrombie grunted in what was some sort of agreement. That grunt was repeated, accompanied by an unprepossessing smile, when Martin Telling outlined his proposition. He needed to give the headmaster two names to get himself off an uncomfortable hook. With Abercrombie’s approval and protection he would name his fellow thug, he didn’t put it quite like that, and the idiot who displayed the photo. Would suit both their causes. Abercrombie grinned. He wasn’t totally stupid, he saw the symmetry of the solution in an instant. One gets his reprieve, the other his revenge. At a malicious and lying stroke. ‘Go for it, Telling’, he said and grunted again. In the hierarchical terms of the minor public school they attended that was almost a Royal command.

It didn’t totally work of course. Abercrombie’s fellow thug and the school idiot were expelled and the master who caned the two thirteen year olds offered them an apology. Nothing was said about the photograph, it was almost as if it had never been taken. The whole matter was wrapped up in three or four days and a week after his second visit to the headmaster’s study Martin Telling found himself there again. Standing to attention, hands behind back, he suffered in silence a now familiar peroration. ‘’So, three fifteen year old boys raid the school tuck shop. They are seen but only one, you Telling, is recognised. You concoct a story involving two innocent boys and, to ensure success, your companions blackmail them into compliance. I shall pass over the details. The matter only comes to light because the master who saw you sees, or hears of, the caning of those two innocent boys. You refuse, twice, to name the true felons. Not even doing so when that unsavoury photograph came to light. And then you have a change of heart and confess their sins. Am I right so far, Telling?’ Martin Telling said nothing. He was still not sure how this third visit to the headmaster’s study would end and wanted to keep his options open. ‘They admit their guilt you will be pleased to know. Or at least they admit involvement. Enough to warrant both of them being expelled. But where does that leave you Telling? Where does that leave you?’ The headmaster repeated himself, unnecessarily, and waited for an answer he knew would not be forthcoming. He continued, now in full and imposing flow. ‘You are a liar Master Telling. You have lied from beginning to end. And you were still lying when you came to me with your adulterated version of something you lightly consider to be the truth. The boy who pinned that disgusting picture on the notice board was not one of the three seen running away from the tuck shop. He wasn’t in school that day. But if I ask you who else was involved, who that third boy was, you will lie again.’ The headmaster paused and sat down in his chair, seemingly exhausted. His next statement was said very quietly. ‘It is for that, if nothing else, that you will be caned again.’ Martin Telling winced. He knew it was coming but hearing it spelt out struck fear in his stomach. ‘I will be lenient in view of the fact that you were not a party to the disgusting photograph but what I do will be well deserved. Six strokes, Telling. Six strokes for being an incorrigible liar. Think yourself lucky it is not more. Take down your trousers.’

Martin Telling knew that it would come to this but the final command still came as something of a shock. He had never been caned by the headmaster but he had heard tales of his strong right arm. And seen the results. As far as he knew none had been caned with their trousers down but then, he thought, none would probably say. He certainly wouldn’t. This was embarrassing enough without any others knowing. He gulped and undid the belt on his trousers wondering, as he did so, if he would be asked to remove his jacket. He wasn’t. The headmaster merely moved around to his side and, as his trousers fell to his feet, put his hand on the back of Martin Telling’s head and indicated he should bend down. Martin did so and placed his hands on his knees but, as the headmaster pressed again on his head, he bent further and hands almost reached ankles. It was an unpleasant and unnerving position and Martin could feel a sickness in his stomach and an almost uncontrollable trembling in his legs. He felt again the heavy hand and a slight sensation of his jacket being lifted and turned. Turned to rest on his bending back. The sensation was repeated when his shirt followed and Martin became conscious of his vulnerability. For a moment nothing else happened and then he felt the unmistakeable sensation of fingers searching the waistband of his underpants and, as they pulled away from his skin and down his legs, the vulnerability was complete. He was naked from waist to thigh and his bottom, jutting out in the age old manner, was ready for its chastisement. He had never felt so afraid. Never felt such a churning of his insides. Never felt such strangeness in his being. Exposed, helpless, threatened. He desperately wanted to stand up and run but, wired as many a schoolboy before him, he remained passively in place. This headmaster, tall and strong and stern, was going to cane his naked behind and he, Martin Telling, dutifully would remain bending whilst he did it. It was the way of such things.

A silence followed and then a movement away from the bending boy. The opening of a drawer and following a slight rustle, a movement back to him. And then a swish, the unmistakeable sound of a cane cutting the air. Martin Telling’s stomach lurched again and his bottom cheeks involuntarily twitched. And then more movement, the hand on his back again, pressing, rearranging his shirt and jacket, pushing his underpants further down his legs, the touch of the cold cane on his skin. It all took only a minute or so, maybe less, it seemed like an hour to the waiting boy. He was conscious of his fear, conscious of the pain to come, and conscious of his nakedness. Inexplicably he sensed a small rising in his exposed penis and willed himself to ignore it. And then the cold cane pressed against the centre of his backside. As if to confirm that his caning was about to commence the headmaster spoke. His voice was calm and firm. ‘You are an inveterate liar, Telling. I trust what I am about to do will curb such tendencies. I suggest you grit your teeth and hold tight. I intend all six to hurt.’ Martin Telling said nothing. He just closed his eyes and waited for the pain. He did not wait long. As the headmaster finished speaking he lashed the cane across Martin Telling’s naked bottom. The boy gasped and raised his head followed by a shuffling of his feet. ‘Stay still’ the headmaster said as he readied the cane again and studied his first stroke. A red central line was cut across the pale cheeks of Telling’s backside. He was still studying it when he lashed the cane into the boy’s behind a second time. This produced an ‘ah’ and an ‘oh’ from Telling and more shuffling of feet. The boy was clearly in distress, even at this early stage. The third stroke quickly followed and the boy half raised himself from his bending position. His shirt and jacket fell across his cheeks, cheeks now emblazoned with the first three cane stripes. The headmaster paused and pushed the boy down again and re-lifted the jacket and shirt. He had none, or little, sympathy. Telling was a consummate liar as well as being a thief and if this caning, humiliating and hard, brought about even a small change it would be well worth any distress it caused. But he was not a sadist. The boy’s bottom was fairly small and soft. It had a teenage plumpness in its contours but was not designed for a heavy beating. The three strokes of the cane were deepening to purplish weals and had clearly hurt. He would ease up, even though it was unlikely the now whimpering boy would notice. But the caning, so far, had been taken well. Telling had only half rose after the third stroke, a particularly stinging one, and had readily bent again when bid. The fourth and fifth strokes were delivered quickly and the shuffling of the feet increased in agitation. The headmaster steadied the boy, hand firmly on back, and told him that he could rise after the last stroke. Martin Telling did so, quickly and eagerly, clutching his backside and rubbing vigorously. No attempt was made to lift the underpants, dangling at half mast around his knees. All efforts were honed on the burning pain, the intense fire, which engulfed his bottom. It was not surprising. The sixth stroke, the last, contained all the power of the previous strokes and a little extra. The headmaster sensed this would be his only chance to steer this boy to honesty. He wished the caning to be remembered and feared. The last stroke, if none of the others, across Telling’s naked bottom ensured that. It was a stoical and subdued boy who slowly rearranged his state of dress and, ten minutes after the order to lower his trousers, left the headmaster’s study.

He may have vowed otherwise as he left that study but the caning, in spite of the headmaster’s fervent wishes, did not change Martin Telling. Looking at the marks across his behind later that evening master Telling may have considered, fleetingly, that an honest course was a wise one. But he considered more deeply pending sporting games and communal showers and determined, in the circumstances, that they would be inadvisable for a week or so. Nothing activates teenage boys as much as seeing livid cane marks across the backsides of their classmates. No, communal showers were out. Martin Telling was musing on this small but important matter when he made the acquaintance of a boy who looked vaguely familiar. He turned out to be a smaller, and more intelligent, version of the thuggish Abercrombie. ‘I saw you getting the cane in our class’ he said and Telling winced at the memory. ‘My brother says you are a good chap.’ Martin Telling wasn’t sure he wanted the endorsement of a boy who had caused him to be caned twice but he refrained from saying so. He merely nodded and as he did so Abercrombie junior explained his presence. ‘My brother has been transferred to another school. Wants you to know he bears you no grudges.’ There was a pause and then young Abercrombie continued. ‘He says that you got caned again by the headmaster for not shopping him. Did you?’ Like many schoolboys of a certain age he seemed eager for the information. ‘Everyone says it was on your bare bum. Was it? Did you have to take your trousers down?’ Martin Telling considered for a moment before answering.  ‘I did get caned again, six strokes. And it bloody hurt. But it wasn’t on the bare.’ The boy seemed disappointed. ‘Oh’, he said, ‘Everyone thought it was.’ ‘Then everyone is wrong’, Martin said and smiled as the boy shrugged and started to walk away. ‘If anyone asks you.’ he added, ‘I did not have to take my trousers down. Headmaster’s don’t do that at this school.’ It was a lie. Just a small and understandable one, but a lie nevertheless. Such things came easily to Martin Telling.

Alfred Roy (2014)

 

 

Monday 3 February 2014

Why the cane is history. (Media comment)


There has been a lot of chat in the media recently on new initiatives to maintain or improve discipline in schools. This issue raises its head intermittently and, inevitably, the elephant in the room eventually pops up. Bring back the cane. Kept us old uns in line when we were at school goes the cry. Worst decision ever made when they totally abolished it. Should have been kept as the ultimate deterrent. A few whacks across the backside would solve most problems. The ultimate sanction. Easy solution really. Well, at the risk of being provocative, is it? Would we cure all the ills of the modern generation if we went back to the fifties and sixties?

I doubt it. You cannot turn back the clock. In the immediate post war period life did not have many luxuries but it had a structure. In the family, from upper class to working class, the father was the authoritative head. His word, and slipper or belt or whatever, was law. You did not argue. That deference naturally followed through to school. Children, especially boisterous and growing boys, needed keeping in line. In classes of up to forty, yes forty in those days, teachers kept order with the threat of corporal punishment. And it was not an idle threat. Canes, straps, plimsolls, even rubber tubing (chemistry master) were regularly applied to the backsides of the wayward.

What seems so amazing from a twenty first century perspective is that all deferred to the ritual. Teachers wielded instruments of punishment, parents supported their use, and schoolboys meekly bent over. Even, on rare occasions, dropping shorts or underpants before the dreaded infliction. In my day I saw big fifteen year old bullies bend over for strokes of a cane from a master who physically was less than their equal. You could say that such boys were conditioned by their upbringing. You fought or bullied kids, you did not take on adults. Generally speaking, as there were always exceptions. But they were the exceptions. Most boys when in trouble took their whackings. Refuse and you might get worse at home.

Today it is all so different. Bring back the cane or any other form of corporal punishment and you would have a legion of angry parents defending their brood. And that is only for the few who submitted to such attacks on their backsides. Those of teenage years, or the majority of them, would not submit. Certainly not the ones who most deserved it. They would be more likely to resist in various degrees of hostility. Anarchy would prevail.

And that is why I think that the elephant in the room, even if sanctioned, would never work in the twenty first century. You need deference, co-operation, a sense that what is being done is right. Even if it hurt. Deep down, 1950’s schoolboys sensed the rightness of it all. It was the natural order of things. Boy misbehaves. Teacher produces cane. Boy bends down. Teacher whacks bottom. Boy is redeemed. Easy. We are too far along the current educational road to go back to those days. Yes they were hard and the nastier aspects of the nastier teachers, and there were some, should firmly remain in history. But the more civilised aspects had a structure and order which benefited both teachers and schoolboys. (I cannot and will not talk for girls). The sensible and moderate use of corporal punishment underpinned that structure. But we can never bring it back.

Except of course in stories, for those who have a taste for writing about or reading such tales. Gleaned from our schoolboy experiences. The sensation of a wooden stick across our tender backsides wired in a thrill we could never shake off. Even as adults. Another good reason, some would say, for leaving those scholastic disciplinary implements to gather even more dust. Alfred Roy

To come later this month. A new story – Telling Lies

An old fashioned schoolboy caning story (M/m) in an old fashioned boy’s school.