THE PUNISHMENT BOOK by Nigel Dean

Way, way back in the 1960's it began life, taken from a standard pack if school exercise books - nothing special about it. the first page was carefully ruled to record the required information:

• Date
• Name
• Reason
• Number of strokes
• Signature of the master concerned

The School Punishment Book.

By the time I knew it further pages had been ruled, taking entries beyond half way through the book. Page after page listing names of boys who had received strokes of the rattan cane applied to their bottoms in reward for a wide variety of misdemeanors.  Truancy, smoking, poor work, fighting, failing to hand in homework, rudeness, talking in class, the list of reasons was almost as long as the list of entries.

The first time I applied my signature to these auspicious pages I scanned the entries with a degree of curiosity. When the last headmaster to take charge of the documentation decided to change the way punishments were administered and recorded my name started to appear.  He decided that all punishments would be witnessed by a senior master would countersign the entry to confirm that everything had been properly carried out. I was such a senior master.

I am not sure how many times my signature was recorded in the book, a dozen or more perhaps.  I can not recall each and every boy who was caned but I remember the first. He was given three strokes for being a persistent truant. There was a spate of bad language towards teachers which we stamped down on by applying the cane to the bottom of every offending boy, each received a sharp stroke from the headmaster who then signed the punishment book followed by my counter signature.

Corporal punishment was initially suspended for a trial period of twelve months, during this time it was allowed to continue while the government gave notice that it would be removed a year later and no longer be available to schools as a tool with which to maintain discipline. In that twelve month interregnum no further entries were made in the punishment book, neither my signature nor any other was added to those carefully ruled pages. But there were three more boys who received one of the hardest thrashings in the school's history, yet their names were never recorded. That was in April 1986, perhaps it is now time to compose an addendum and add the names of Peter Jones, Charles Wyatt and Steven Bond to the punishment book. Each received six.

Was he really speaking to me ?

I was astounded.

This small Welshman, fife foot nothing in stature who was normally placid and a perfect gentleman was hurling untold abuse at me. You could have been forgiven for believing that it was I who was the recalcitrant culprit. In his left hand he held the familiar red cylinder, in his right the still dripping hose. As he waved it in anger splashes of liquid hit out at a wide degree of differing angles.

"I will deal with this Mr Jennings," I tried to say over his no-stop verbal explosion.

He did not respond, just continued to fill the corridor with his shouts and violent explanations of what he would do were he in my position. 

"I will deal with this Mr Jennings," I repeated.

But he was not in my position and he was not listening.  I was a housemaster and he an assistant caretaker.  In the school hierarchy there was the headmaster, his two deputies and then the housemasters.  Way, way, way down the line was the caretaker, the  eventually the assistant caretaker.   Jennings was not even a part of the school's proper caretaking team, he was the resident caretaker at the cottage the school owned. perched on the side of a hill, just over the border from Shropshire the school kept the cottage which had been renovated for use as a small field study centre.

"I said I would deal with this Mr Jennings, leave it to me."  I added a tone of authority to my voice, reached out and took the discharged fire extinguisher from his hands then repeated my words, again.  "I said I would deal with this Mr Jennings, leave it to me."

"Just mind that you do."

"I beg your pardon !" The impudence of the man, how dare he speak to me like that ?  I was angry, very angry.

Waiting in the small student dormitory were the subjects on whom I would take out my anger. They must have heard the encounter with Jennings and knew me well enough to recognise the anger in my voice spelling big trouble ahead. Yes they knew me well, each had come into my house when they joined the school at the age of eleven.  That was seven years ago, soon they would be leaving for the outside world of work and university.

I could tell straight away from the look on his face that Steve was guilty. "You set off the fire extinguisher !"  I did not ask but made a statement. I was angry, god I was angry, my voice was raised and full of venom. Steve was sitting on the edge of a bed and visibly moved backwards as I invaded the space between us.

"Why ?"  I demanded.

"It was a prank," he stuttered.

"Prank ? Who else was involved ?"

Steve tried hard not to look at any of the others in the room as he said softly, "Who do you think ?"

I spun round to locate Steve's best friend Charlie. "You as well ?"

"Yes Sir," Charlie confirmed.

"Who else ?"

"Me Sir."

It was Phil.

"And who else ?"

"Nobody else Sir,"  Phil said. "It was only Charlie, Steve and me."

"You three stay where you are, everyone else get out."

Those innocent of the crime departed as quickly as they could, leaving me alone with the culprits.

As a teacher you should never lose your temper, it seriously impairs your judgment and can take away all ability to maintain long-term discipline.  I had lost my temper, Jennings the assistant caretaker was responsible for my fury far more than the three sixth form boys guilty of the prank. Prank, as Steve had put it, a prank which had left me with a situation to deal with. I had lost my temper but I had not lost any discipline, I was about to administer discipline in the most severe way I could.  Sixth formers or not, adults by age or not, I was going to give these three the thrashing of their lives.

On the floor by one of the beds  was a pair of tennis shoes.  I picked up the right shoe, clenched the heel in my fist then pointed it to each boy in turn.  "Prank, I will give you prank. Six each.!"

The boys looked stunned and afraid. Steve and Charlie I knew had both been caned when younger, mine had been the signature witnessing the headmaster giving them one stroke each. At the field study centre there was no headmaster, no cane and no punishment book, the tennis shoe would have to suffice and I would make it a more painful experience than the single whack given to them by the headmaster.

"Two, two and two,"  I snapped.

"What's that Sir,"  Phil asked.

"Two on your trousers, two on your pants and two on your bare bottom."

Phil's face drained of colour.

"And you can be first, cone here and bend over."

Phil got up and stood in front of me, he turned then leaned forward to brace his hands on his knees. I adjusted his stance and made ready to administer the punishment. Inside I was bursting with anger, a fury I fully intended to translate into the degree of pain I would place on that adolescent backside there presenting itself before me. Once done it would do the same for the other two.

I eyed the place where I intended to strike, tightened my grip on the heel of the tennis shoe then moved my arm high above my head. I turned my body slightly in  order to twist it back as I swung in and apply more force. My bicep tightened and I was ready. In an instant I brought the slipper down with a resounding smack on the cheek of Phil's left buttock.  The sound of contact filled the room, drowning almost every sound. A thunderclap condensed into the space of an eardrum but it was not loud enough to cover the instinctive cry of pain from Phil.

The boy instinctively stood up and clutched his hands to his bottom. I allowed him his moment of pain and to comprehend that was just the first of six. Once he had done this I barked "Bend over, I have only just started."

He did as he was told, returning to the position ready for the second. This I applied with the same force but to his right buttock.

Knowing that the next two were to be delivered over his underpants Phil stood up and made a move to unfasten the waist of his trousers.

"You can wait for the rest,"  I snapped. "Stand over there while I deal with your friends. Stop and think how much more pain you have to come. I'll teach you to set off a fire extinguisher."

I looked at Steve. "You are next, bend over."

Steve was of a slighter stature than Phil, his bottom smaller and tighter but that was no mitigation for mercy. Indeed I applied the whacks of that tennis shoe slipper every bit as forceful as I did for his friend. When  he stood up I could see he was fighting back the tears.

"Wait over there !" Then turning to Charlie, "Your turn."

Charlie was a stocky rugby player. His bottom was the biggest of the three. I took a moment to eye where I would place the slipper then mentally summonsed up additional energy, the biggest bottom would be given the hardest whacks. I think I slippered Charlie slightly harder as I intended but he showed no emotion or indication of pain. he did not clutch his buttocks as had Phil nor look at me with a glazed and tearful eye as had Steve.  If he was in pain. of course he was in pain, he did not show it.

Time to move on.

"Right trousers off, all three of you. Keep your pants on."

I decided on a slight change in my modus operandi, I ordered the three to stand in a line then bend over together. As they followed my orders I took a moment to adjust their underwear so it clung tightly to their already stinging bottoms and offered the least possible protection. Each was wearing briefs, none had a pair of boxers. All three items of underwear were made from thin material. Good.

In front of me the boys were arranged with Phil to my left, Steve to my right and Charlie in the middle. Three eighteen year old bottoms presented for their second round of punishment. A round of punishment I was determined would hurt more than the initial first. I paused momentarily at the right hand end of the line. eyes Steve's bottom and his cheeks pressing tight through the thin cotton fabric of his pants.

WHACK ! I brought the slipper down hard on his right cheek then immediately again  on the left. A pace to my left to repeat the punishment on Charlie. Then another pace and two whacks for Phil.

I had put so much effort into the twelve stroked thus far delivered the muscles in my shoulder offered a faint twinge of pain.  It was nothing to the pain my freshly disciplined charges were experiencing, but their climax of punishment was about to start.

"Pants off," I demanded.

Each dropped their underwear then bent over to resume the stance and receive the final two strokes.  As I positioned myself to the right with Steve in front of me I took note of the boys' naked backsides. While each had a reddened area I was disappointed that no clear imprint of the slipper could be seen. I would have to punish them even harder. I wanted them to remember for a long time to come the price they were obliged to pay for setting off the fire extinguisher.

This was it, the final two of my two, two and two administered punishment. Two final whacks each with my slipper, two that had to count. I eyed my first target, drew back my arm and clenched the heel of the slipper so tight it was squashed into a fraction of its normal volume. Then down with an expert swing.

The resounding crack of rubber on a bare bottom make all before sound modulated. the gasp from my punished youth arose from the dying sound of the crack as it echoed about the room. He was still exclaiming the pain as I administered the final blow to his left cheek.

I paused to look and see if this time I had managed to make a mark beyond reddening. Perhaps I had, I was not sure.

On then to the largest of the three bottoms, to rugby player Charlie.  Although I was in truth at the limits of my physical strength what more I could find I secured to thrust down symmetrically on each side.  Yes, this time a clear print of the tennis shoe sole was clear.

Only Phil remained to have his bottom receive its final strokes.

When it was all over a sense of anti-climax descended.  For a tiny-tiny moment I wondered if I had perhaps over-reacted, if I had allowed my temper to rule my head. No, the thrashing was well and truly deserved and I trusted the pain would be a reminder to the three senior boys, a reminder that every folly has a price to be paid.

"Can we get dressed now Sir ?"  It was Steve who spoke, his voice shaking and fighting back tears. It was not his semi-naked state that was troubling him but the fear that I may decide to advance the punishment and go beyond the six.

I set his mind at ease. "Yes."

While the boys were adjusting their attire I delivered my post chastisement lecture, concluding with "When we get back to school this will be recorded in the punishment book."

It never was recorded, the last event of corporal punishment in the school faded into history as nothing more than a legend. Although Phil, Charlie and Steve left our school that summer the legend was passed down from schoolboy to schoolboy for many years. Eventually the legend became a myth and nobody believed it truly happened.  For the present generation having one's bottom smacked for any form of misconduct is something the adolescent just does not understand.

From time to time I wonder what happened to our old punishment book, the book where the administration of corporal punishment was so carefully recorded, every event that is save the last.