January 2010

Tommy and I walked out of the customs and immigration doors at Heathrow airport together after our arrival back in London. I'd made my usual trip back to Canada for Christmas, but Tommy had been unwilling to let me go by myself after my heart attack in the fall. He was quite right... as it was the trip left me very tired; if I'd had to carry all my luggage and deal with the details I might have had a very bad time of it indeed. We had plans to spend a few days recuperating in our flat, then we'd drive up to see Tommy's parents – of course being in Canada with me had meant he'd missed spending Christmas with his mum and dad.

Gerald and Justin were waiting to pick us up; I could see little Stevie peeking nervously around his daddy's leg as we walked towards the little group. We'd made a bad mistake with the little guy while I'd been in hospital; he'd insisted on coming to see me but had arrived on rather a bad day. We should have cancelled the visit and rescheduled it for another day, but hindsight is twenty – twenty as they say; we had all thought that an eight year old would be able to cope with the issues.

I'd been in a good deal of pain after my angiogram and angioplasty procedures – it wasn't until some time later that we discovered the angiogram had resulted in a complication called a pseudo-aneurysm which was causing the pain – with two drips sticking out of me and a maze of monitoring wires strapped to my every extremity. The final kicker came when the sister arrived for a blood test – I should have had Stevie taken out of the room while it was being done – the sister had had trouble drawing the sample and I allowed the pain to register on my expression.

Stevie had wanted to hug me when he had come into the room with Gerald but his grandfather had stopped him – a little unnecessarily, I thought at the time – and had been told to be careful not to hurt me. He gave me a sweet kiss on the cheek instead – but I was too preoccupied to see the fright in his little eyes as he did so. I'd found out later that the poor kid had had nightmares for several days after the trip, and he'd not wanted to come for another visit.

We hadn't pressed the issue with the lad – we should have brought him back after my condition had improved to reassure him – but with everything happening so fast it was just too easy to forget the needs of a little boy. I feel awfully sorry about it – I should have made the effort to remember the child – but I didn't. He had been brought to the airport to meet me today after a lot of coaxing and we hoped that the anxiety could be put to rest: I loved the child dearly and was deeply upset that he was so frightened of me.

Justin coaxed his little son out to meet me and I knelt down on the ground with my arms out to greet him. He slowly came out to me – and stopped briefly to ask his daddy a soft question before proceeding. I saw Justin nod and reply briefly – I didn't hear what was actually said – and Stevie continued toward me.

Finally he was close enough to hug – and he carefully put his arms around me. I responded with a tighter hug, and the little face reached up to give me a tentative kiss on the cheek.

I looked down and smiled at the boy: “Stevie – don't worry, I won't break, you know.” I pause briefly and continued: “I can't pick you up anymore – but I'm just fine – the doctors fixed me up really well.”

The relief in his eyes was almost palpable as I hugged him again and I received a more enthusiastic kiss. He stood up a little on his tiptoes and whispered into my ear: “I thought you were going to die like Papa Nick did. I was so frightened Uncle Stevie... are you sure you're not going to die?”

None of us had any idea the boy would have remembered being taken in to see his great-grandfather as Mr. Ford was dying – Stevie had been barely three years old at the time – but it was quite clear that he did [see Being a Man – Daniel for the story].

Stevie's mother had rejected him at birth – she'd wanted nothing to do with a child – the damage this had done had left the boy far more vulnerable to fears of loss and rejection than with most children; we'd seen these anxieties surface before [see The Magic of Christmas].

He'd largely been brought up by his grandparents as Justin had been a student at the time and unable to care for a child on his own: it occurred to me with a shock that the boy was well aware that I was almost the same age as Gerald.

I made a mental note to discuss with Gerald the fact that Stevie might have unspoken anxieties about his grandparents as well as the fear he articulated about me. I recollected that little Stevie had been close to his great – grandfather and that we might not have treated the issue of Nick Ford's rather sudden death with the care that we should have.

I hugged him even tighter to me; breathing in the scent of the little boy as I did – the scent of innocence – Pears soap, clean laundry, and just the merest whiff of fresh childish perspiration. I felt a little dampness on my cheek – his chest was heaving a little – and realised he was crying gently as I held him close to me. My hand reached up to the tiny face to wipe away the tears running down the soft little cheeks with my index finger: I leant over and kissed his forehead gently.

“Stevie... it's alright, sonny, I'm not going to die.”

It wasn't the time for scientific caution: of course anyone can die at any time and even little Stevie himself wasn't immune from this. The events of the last few months have brought this home to me very firmly indeed – but this was a case where the emotional needs of a little boy firmly overrode my innate honesty.

I smiled at the lad and said very softly indeed: “Stevie... I've been ill but it's all over now. The doctors fixed me up and I'm going to live a long time yet.”

June 1969

“Do you have a few minutes to spare for a little discussion, Weeks?” Mr. Birch looked at me as I stood there with my workbook in hand. I'd come to see him during break to ask him a question about a math problem since I wasn't happy with the answer I had calculated.

I looked at him enquiringly: “Of course I do, Sir. It is break, after all, Sir.”

He looked a little exasperated: “Weeks, for such a bright boy you can be rather thick at times: I'm perfectly well aware that it is morning break right now. I am also very well aware of the salient reason we give you boys a midmorning break.”

He gave the long suffering sigh of a secondary school mathematics master and continued: “The reason for my question was to ascertain whether or not we need to end the conversation in time for you to answer the call of nature before you proceed to your next class. Is that sufficiently clear to you, boy?”

Ah. The penny dropped and I blushed slightly at the question. “I'm fine, sir. I stopped at the lavatory before coming up to see you.”

“That's good... at least I won't have you fidgeting all through the discussion I mean to have with you. I had actually meant to speak to you in any case and was planning to set an appointment with you in class today.”

I tensed up a bit over this – I couldn't think why the master would want to speak with me – my work was far better than merely satisfactory and I was reasonably certain that I'd pass third form maths with distinction.

St. Edward's school reports were set up differently from the reports I'd brought home in Canada – reports my father had always complained about because he said they told him nothing – and I suppose I should mention them briefly here. There were four possible pass grades – conditional, satisfactory, honourable, and distinction.

A conditional pass usually was granted to a boy who'd missed a substantial amount of school and needed to complete some work in consequence: though it could also be awarded if the masters thought that a boy deserved a second chance. A satisfactory coincided with C and B minus marks; honourable with B or B plus, while distinction, of course, was given for work marked at A or above.

Beside the actual mark was given a boy's class standing – this was the part my father had missed in my Canadian schools – so that the report would be of this form: “Pass – Honourable. Position in class: 9^th out of 35 pupils.”

Beneath this line was a brief space for master's (or headmaster's) comments. An example would normally be something like: “Solid performance. Working to his capacity in this subject.”

In my case there would be two exceptions on my report: I was midway through fifth form in both English and History. The final report would list this as “Fifth form work in progress. Position in class: not applicable”.

The comments section would explain this fully – although I was aware that the entire report would be discussed with my father over the telephone by my headmaster before I returned home for the summer. Mr. Roberts was well aware of my dad's volatility where schoolwork was concerned and wanted no possible chance of any misunderstanding.

Mr. Birch noticed the look of apprehension on my face and hastened to put me at ease: “You're not in trouble, Weeks. I merely wish to have a discussion, that is all.”

“Firstly, in regards to your original question, you are quite right. The answer you get by following the procedure in the text is actually incorrect in this case. There is a method for solving this particular example which you will learn in fifth form; it is rather beyond the scope of third form maths.”

“I have included this problem deliberately – in fact it has been dropped quietly into the course every year even before I started teaching in 1953 – so as to separate the boys who actually understand the material from those who are merely following the rules. Usually at least one boy spots the problem and asks me about it – though I assume more see it and just don't bother asking for clarification.”

He looked at me intently: “It's hard to reconcile the young man sitting in front of me right now with the little boy who arrived here two years ago and had such a hard time with long division.”

I blushed deeply as I remembered that period – I had landed in a class in the junior school when the testing I had undergone showed that I had missed many of the concepts of basic arithmetic – I didn't really enjoy being reminded of the fact at all. It had been deeply humiliating to be eleven in a class of eight year olds: there had been some very cruel remarks made. It couldn't be completely hidden from the other boys since several of the kids in Mr. Riley's class had brothers in the senior school: the situation had culminated in a very unpleasant incident in which I'd participated in bullying a smaller boy.

“I will just mention in passing, however, that only two boys have ever actually worked out the correct solution to this problem in all those years. One of them, of course, was your friend Hardy. He came to me with a very elegantly worked out solution – and he was only eleven himself at the time.”

“Of course, when it comes to maths, Hardy is very unusual indeed... a true prodigy. I do wish, however, that he'd spend more time on his other subjects: he'll not be accepted into either Oxford or Cambridge with the marks he's currently achieving in them.”

Another very intent look at me: “The other third form boy who solved the problem correctly was here some years before I started teaching: I have discussed the matter at length with the headmaster, however. I'm not really supposed to tell you this, but it was your father.”

“Your dad could have gone very far indeed in mathematics if he'd tried harder in school... I know that Mr. Roberts was very deeply disappointed with the results he achieved in his higher school certification exams – he only barely qualified for university acceptance at all and decided not to even try.”

I didn't like this one little bit since I was beginning to see where this was going. I knew – for one thing, I'd been told by Mr. Roberts – that I had great aptitude for maths. I really didn't enjoy the subject at all, however; my father had managed to create a solid fear of the subject in me which had held me back almost as much as the amount of school I'd missed due to illness.

I was well aware that I was not putting as much effort into the subject as I possibly could. I didn't care, though, since my progress in maths was good enough to keep both my headmaster and my father happy – and at thirteen that was all that really mattered to me.

“Weeks – I know where all my boys are in their studies right now. I know, for instance, that you only need to make 78% on the final to achieve a distinction. You are currently third out of a class of thirty-one pupils and you'd really have to collapse for that to change significantly. In point of fact, to achieve a satisfactory, you only have to show up for the exam and gain 38 marks out of one hundred. I am also quite certain that you realise this already.”

“Of course, if you did that without a valid excuse such as illness, you'd be severely punished. I do believe you'd also have a very uncomfortable trip home since they certainly wouldn't let you stand up for the entire flight. I rather think your reception at home would be somewhat unpleasant as well.”

It certainly would be. Dad would flip and my entire summer would be ruined – or at least several weeks of it would be. I had no intention, however, of doing anything like this and rather resented the threat.

I had, of course, made the calculation myself and found the fact that I'd pass my year even if I blew the exam very comforting indeed. It took a lot of stress off me to be in this position and Mr. Birch was not helping me by trying to put it back.

He switched to my given name – I don't think he was aware how much he'd antagonised me – trying to gain my confidence and trust: “Stephen – we both know what your report for maths should really say if you finish your year the way you stand now. Pass – distinction. Position in class: 3^rd out of 31. Comments – Could do so much better if he tried.”

“I don't think I could bring myself to write that – and I also don't think your headmaster would let it stand. Nevertheless we both know it's true... if you really made a concerted effort you would come in first and win the Junior Maths prize. I'd like to see you win that prize – I think you deserve it.”

Third form was a watershed year at the school: boys who passed their third form year graduated into long trousers, got many more privileges in the school, and were no longer regarded as little boys. Third form was also the year that junior academic prizes were handed out. This was done in an end of year ceremony to which parents were invited – my parents were making the trip to England to attend this year – it was the highlight of one's career in the lower half of the school, only to be surpassed by the final sixth form honours assembly when one left St. Edward's for good.

“Stephen – I am currently contemplating handing the prize to a dolt who learns by rote. He has slightly better marks than you do – but he doesn't understand the material at all. He'll gain his O level in maths – but he's going to hit a brick wall soon after that. He's not a mathematician and never will be one at all. I don't want to hand him the prize – he's not worthy of it.”

I was even less pleased by this since I knew very well that Mr. Birch was referring to my friend Lewys Jones. Jones was very far from being a dolt and I knew it – although I also knew he wasn't a mathematician, either. He worked very hard and was my principal rival for many of the junior prizes – those that I was eligible for, anyway, since I wasn't in competition for English or History.

Mr. Birch didn't like Lewys very much since he had tended to be rather cheeky in class over the years – he certainly had the temper usually ascribed to the red of hair – there was obviously quite a bit of tension between the two of them and had been since they'd met and clashed in first form. Coincidentally, the “dolt” now holds a doctorate in biochemistry and is a tenured professor at a very well known university in the south of England.

I spoke up with a little tremor in my voice – I was having trouble keeping my own temper by this point – to answer my maths master in as civil a fashion as I could: “Sir, I'm certainly going to do as well as I can on the final exam – but I have a lot of work besides maths. I have finals in botany, chemistry, geography, and French as well as two major essays in English and history. I'm rather behind in French, Sir, and I need to put quite a bit of effort into getting an honourable pass in it.”

I gulped a little and continued: “I'm sorry, Sir, but I'm putting as much effort as I can into maths and I just can't increase it if I want to maintain my other marks. I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Sir, but I'm not a mathematician, either, Sir. I'm really not awfully fond of the subject even though I'm doing well in it.”

I finished: “I mean, Sir, I do intend to do my best in the final – but I'm already giving my best as it is.”

I knew immediately that I'd made a mistake after saying that last bit. I saw his eyes narrow at me and his expression hardened after I had said my piece. I wasn't putting my absolute best into that class and both of us knew it. My best was going into my essay on the Industrial Revolution for Mr. Hornby at the moment – and there was no way that that was about to change.

“Very well, Weeks (I noted the reversion to my family name), if that is your final answer I have to accept it, I suppose. I am, however, giving you notice that I expect that you will finish at least third in my class, and I will be severely displeased if your position in class slips.”

He looked at me very severely indeed: “Your answer to me was, to say the least, impertinent, but I shall overlook it unless you fail to perform in your exam. I give you fair warning that you will be sent to the headmaster if you do, and I intend to discuss the matter with him later today. You are dismissed.”

I was not a happy camper when I entered my maths class that afternoon, and my mood was not improved after I received a withering look from the master – all the boys could see that he was in a toweringly bad humour – when he entered the room. There was a little current of nervousness throughout the class since Mr. Birch was a whacking master – most of the maths masters caned on a regular basis – it was only a matter of who and how long before it happened.

He looked up and down at the boys in the room – pausing on particular pupils as he slowly regarded us – he didn't spend very much time on me for which I was thankful. He looked at a boy in the second row... I saw the child flinch visibly as the Mr. Birch spoke: “Sanderson – bring your workbook up to me and show me your preparation from last night.”

Sanderson paled: he obviously had not completed the work. Sanderson was a day boy whom I did not know well – day boys, of course, were supposed to complete their prep at home – who happened to be near the bottom of the class.

I didn't know for sure, of course, but I was reasonably certain that the boy was likely to fail this particular subject. I had been in his position myself many times in Canada and I felt for him deeply; of course, in Canada, I had only had to face public humiliation, not a public caning. In our master's present mood, a public caning was a dead certainty.

Sanderson walked slowly to the front of the class with his workbook open to the place where his prep should have been if he'd done it. He looked at Mr. Birch and decided not to prevaricate: “I'm sorry Sir, I haven't completed my prep. I couldn't understand the work, Sir.”

“Hurry up boy, and show me what you have done. You know very well that you should have come to see me during break to discuss the issue – why didn't you see me then?”

Sanderson made a serious tactical error: “Sir – I had to go to the lavatory during break.”

The boy reached the master's desk and put the workbook down. It didn't take a clairvoyant to see that his answer hadn't pleased the irate master one little bit.

“You had to go to the lavatory?”

He took a deep breath: “Pray tell me exactly what you were doing in the bogs for thirty whole minutes? Are you severely constipated, boy?”

There was a general, nervous giggle throughout the classroom at that.

The wretched boy blushed deeply and shook his head: “No sir.”

He looked directly at me: “Weeks – please tell Sanderson how you managed to see me during break this morning without denying the call of nature.”

There wasn't very much I could say: especially since I knew that the boy had nipped into the toilet at the same time as me this morning, done his business quickly, then spent the remaining twenty-five minutes of break playing cricket with the other boys.

My primary school in Hamilton had a boy's room which was inadequate for the numbers using it – boys often spent the entire fifteen minutes of recess waiting in line to empty their bladders – but that was certainly not the case at St. Edward's. The playground toilet might not be very salubrious, but it was certainly able to accommodate large numbers of boys at the same time.

One entire wall was taken up by a huge trough urinal – there was seldom any queue at all and certainly never more than a two or three minute wait to use it. Boys tended to avoid moving their bowels in the place unless it was absolutely necessary to do so – but again, there was no shortage of facilities if they did need to go. Sanderson's excuse was completely lame and everyone in the room knew it.

I answered the question truthfully: “I left my last class, Sir, walked out to the playground lavatory, used the toilet, and then went up to your office to ask you a question.”

Mr. Birch nodded: “And how long did that take you?”

I blushed a little : “About ten minutes, Sir, since I needed to... err...”

He blushed himself and cut me off quickly: “That's quite alright, Weeks, we don't need the... err... precise details.”

“Suffice it to say that you used the playground facilities after your class, then had plenty of time to visit my study and have a short discussion about your preparation.”

He turned back to Sanderson: “Boy – when you are up to your neck in a hole you need to stop digging. Unless you want to be sent up to the headmaster with a note, you'd better start being truthful right now – do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Now – I don't think you had any trouble with the work last night because you didn't bother to even attempt it, now did you?”

“No Sir. I didn't attempt it.”

“Sanderson, do you know what mark you need on the final exam in order to obtain a satisfactory pass?”

“No, sir, I don't.”

“Well, happily for you, I do know. You must obtain a mark of seventy-two percent on the exam to pass this subject. That will be difficult for you but it's not beyond the bounds of possibility – do you understand that?”

He looked dejected at that – I don't think he'd realised how far underwater he was – and nodded: “Yes, Sir, I understand.”

“Well, Sanderson, it is possible if you actually do the work – it's impossible for you if you don't bother to complete your preparation.” He paused briefly: “Do you know what will happen if you don't achieve a satisfactory in this class, boy?”

“I'd have to repeat my year, Sir?”

Maths were compulsory in third form and had to be passed in order to progress fully into fourth. A boy in this position might be doing mainly fourth form subjects but would still be officially in the third form and subject to third form rules: he would be required to continue wearing short trousers with his uniform.

“Precisely. You'd have to repeat your year. Do you know what happens when a boy repeats his year in one of my classes, Sanderson?”

A very quiet, tremulous, reply: “No, Sir.”

“He ends up wishing fervently that he had passed because I make his life absolutely miserable for the whole year. I'm on his back like a dirty shirt the whole time... the whole time, mind you. He brings his prep up to me at the beginning of every class, and he gets his bottom warmed every time I find it's not done.”

Another gravid pause: “I check his work carefully every day, and if it's not done with a reasonable standard of care he gets his bottom warmed. If that unhappy boy manages to fail a test or assignment at any time during that year, he gets his bottom thoroughly warmed by the headmaster. Do you get my drift, boy?”

Gulp. “Yes, Sir.”

“Sanderson, boys rarely have to repeat my classes. If you were incapable of achieving a pass you wouldn't be here – you would have been dropped down in second form to the lower stream. I know you can pass this class – and you are going to do so – either the easy way this year or the hard way next year.”

He paused again: “The choice is yours: you can pass this year – or you can have the worst year of your sorry little life next year. I hope for both our sakes you will pass this year; this will save both my caning arm and your backside quite a lot of trouble. Do you understand me clearly, boy?”

“Yes, Sir, I do.”

“One last word before we get down to business – you will see me during break every day for the rest of this term with your preparation completed. If you fail to make at least a sincere effort to complete your work I will cane you: if you fail to show up at all the headmaster will cane you much more severely than I am allowed to do.”

A whispered “Yes, Sir.”

“Jones, Weeks, move along and leave a space on your desk for Sanderson to bend over.”

We shoved along the bench of our desk and scrunched together to provide room for Sanderson's punishment.

Mr. Birch looked towards the unhappy boy and scowled deeply at him: “Remove your blazer, pull your shirttails out of your trousers, and bend over the desk. Check your back pockets and make sure they're completely empty.”

Sanderson complied with the order, and presented his bottom in the prescribed manner for punishment. It occurred to me that there was something unusual about the appearance of the boy's buttocks; I wondered if he had donned an extra pair of underpants for the occasion. I also noticed that the boy had rather a strong body odour – he'd obviously been perspiring heavily – which probably explained why he'd chosen to sit alone at the back of the classroom that day.

Mr. Birch noticed the same things I did: “Sanderson, stand up. Now!”

I'd thought the master was livid before – but now his rage was palpable. Every boy in the room cringed before the force of that anger – every boy praying not to attract it towards himself.

“Sanderson – you are wearing extra clothing – and don't tell me it's because you are cold. It's seventy three degrees outside today.”

He paused and took a breath: “Boy, take your shoes off, lower your trousers, and remove every item of clothing that is covering your bottom. I want your backside absolutely naked – do you understand, boy? DO IT NOW, BOY!”

I gulped – I knew very well that masters were not allowed to cane boys on the bare – and particularly not in public. I knew Mr. Birch was furious – had he forgotten the rules? Was his anger with me causing him to lose control of his temper?

I battled with the fear and decided to jump in: “Sir!”

He turned and looked at me with irritation at the interruption: “What is it Weeks? Can't you wait until the end of the class?!”

“Sir – only the headmaster can cane on the bare, Sir!”

Sanderson stopped removing his clothing – as a day boy he hadn't often been caned, and he'd certainly never had to remove his clothing in the classroom before – he was terribly embarrassed and blushing furiously.

Mr. Birch went to the desk at the front of the room, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out a copy of the school rulebook. He leafed through it, opened a page and thrust the book at me. He indicated a passage with his forefinger and told me to read it aloud.

I looked down at the page and started to read:

A third form boy may receive up to four strokes at the master's discretion over his uniform trousers and normal underclothing. Blazer should be removed, pullover (if worn) should be rolled up, shirttails pulled out and tucked out of the way. Masters are to remind the boy to remove any articles whatever from the back pockets of his trousers before proceeding.

If the master has reason to believe the boy is wearing extraneous clothing, this is to be treated very seriously indeed since it is an indication that the act for which he is being punished was premeditated. In this case the master may either refer the matter to the headmaster – or else he may take steps to ensure that all extra clothing has been removed before proceeding with the punishment.

The boy is to be required to remove all clothing covering his buttocks – the master should make quite sure they are completely bare – then the boy is to be instructed to resume normal underclothing and his uniform shorts. The master does not need to concern himself with the boy's modesty during this process – the intent is to both punish the boy concerned and to discourage others from following his example.

“Well, Master Weeks? Any further objections from the defending counsel?”

I shook my head sheepishly: “No, Sir.”

He turned to Sanderson: “Get those clothes off boy, and stop dawdling. We're late enough as it is, thanks to Master Weeks's attempt at schoolboy law.”

Sanderson lowered his trousers to the ground, picked them up, and laid them on top of the desk in front of me. I could see he was, indeed, wearing extra clothing: he had on a pair of games shorts which were none too clean and soaked in perspiration.

I have already mentioned that the temperature was warm for a British early summer day – it was sunny and the outside temperature was well over seventy Fahrenheit – the classrooms were uncomfortably warm even with the windows wide open. It had been warm enough in our last class that the science master had instructed us to remove our blazers while remarking that he had no desire to smell the body odour of thirty-five overheated boys. Sanderson had also played two vigorous games of cricket today wearing this extra clothing... he was decidedly un-fresh already and we had two more classes left in the day.

He peeled off his gym shorts and placed them on the desk with his trousers – Lewys and I recoiled a little from the pungent aroma – then we saw that he'd worn another pair beneath the first. He took these off as well and revealed a pair of boxer shorts beneath.

These were non-regulation although we were aware that some of the older day boys did wear them instead of the white Y fronts mandated by school regulations. Boarders could not, of course, get away with non-regulation underwear at any time: the laundry would refuse to wash it and Matron would subsequently confiscate it as contraband.

I was even more surprised when he drew down the boxers to reveal a pair of Y fronts underneath – he was wearing flannel shorts, two pairs of PE shorts, a pair of boxers, and cotton Y fronts in weather that was uncomfortably warm by British standards – soaked with sweat to the point that it looked like he'd actually urinated in them. They clung to him as he peeled them off reluctantly – which was a little silly since the wet white cotton already revealed everything he had to offer – then he dumped them onto the pile of sweaty, aromatic clothing that was already on top of our shared desk.

Lewys was clearly disgusted – the smell of body odour was quite strong by now: it was clear that most of the clothes had needed washing even before being worn this morning. I was a bit disgusted as well – but there was something else – I found the smell of the boy somewhat erotic. I was also hoping that no one would notice the bulge in my trousers as I sniffed gently at the effluvia and looked (I hoped discreetly) at the boy's private parts hanging down limply not six feet away from me.

I hadn't often seen Sanderson naked in the past – very briefly indeed in the changing rooms of course – but day boys tended to be far more modest than boarders and usually turned towards the wall as they showered or changed their clothing. His willy bore a fairly sparse bush of pubic hair for a fourteen year old; I'd had more hair than that when I was twelve. I noticed with interest that his willy had, like mine, been circumcised. This was unusual in Britain and I later learned that the boy had had an accident which left the surgeon with little choice but to complete the job.

Sanderson wasn't the smallest boy in the class – Lewys Jones was the size of a ten year old and only ever reached five foot two as an adult – but he was among the least developed of all the third form boys. Lewys' small stature, by the way, did not affect that particular part of him – no one seeing the lad's naked genitals would mistake him for a ten year old – he was quite well endowed and sported a spectacular bush of fiery red hair which I had admired with appropriate caution many times in the dormitory showers.

Mr. Birch evinced disgust himself at the state of the boy: “Sanderson – when I am finished punishing you, you are to report to Mrs. Preston (the Matron who was responsible for the day boys) to have a shower and a change of underclothing.”

“You are under no circumstances to return home on the Southport train stinking like a navvy while you are wearing a St. Edward's uniform; and if I find you have done so you will be severely punished. I do not want to have dozens of Old Boys on the telephone to the headmaster complaining about your lack of hygiene – do you understand me?”

The commuter train that ran past the school and north to Southport was a bit of a minefield for the thirty or so day boys who travelled on it everyday. A large percentage of the business men who also used the train to get to their offices in Liverpool were Old Boys who took the depredations of St. Edward's pupils in uniform very seriously indeed.

Sanderson stood there with his roundhead cock and balls dangling in the breeze looking absolutely miserable as Mr. Birch continued: “Boy... I hardly know what to do here... I really don't want to tell you to put those disgusting objects back on your person... they're soaking wet and terribly unhygienic.”

He considered: “Put the gym shorts back on under your trousers – they're the least worst of the lot – then wait while I get a bag to put the rest of your clothing away before it causes some form of epidemic disease in the school.”

Sanderson put his PE shorts and trousers back on, then leaned dejectedly back in place on the desk. I was handed the bag and told to place the rest of his clothing into it – I started to demur because I really didn't want to touch it – but a look from my master silenced me at once.

Mr. Birch picked up his cane and brought it down on the waiting bottom with a very great deal of vigour. The sound was like a gunshot – and poor Sanderson let loose with an anguished yelp as it connected. I was inches from the boy's face and could see the expression of pain very clearly indeed as the cane struck home. I reflected briefly that trousers and pants weren't really helping the boy very much at all.

Another savage stroke – this time I watched as the cane connected with Sanderson's bum – the cheeks deformed quite a lot as I heard another anguished cry. The lad hadn't often been caned before – he was a quiet boy who rarely misbehaved seriously in class – and wasn't used to it at all. I was practised at being stoic – most third form boarders were – but the day boys were caned far less often than us and didn't have quite the same set of ethics as we did.

I saw tears begin to fall: in fairness, of course, humiliation and embarrassment probably played an even larger part than pain did in his crying. The cane raised again – I flinched a bit as I saw it fall – then heard the sound as rattan bit into boy bottom for the third time.

Almost as if it was in slow motion I saw the whippy cane bend itself following the contours of Sanderson's bum – the tip must have contacted the hip as it fell – and the lad howled again. He bucked hard this time and nearly stood up – Mr. Birch told me to grab the boy's hands and force him down again – he didn't want to have to repeat a stroke.

I did as I was instructed – and watched open mouthed as the final stroke came down hard. I could tell it was a diagonal: I knew from personal experience that Mr. Birch's cane strokes were aimed very precisely and would fall almost exactly one and one half inches apart – starting from the gluteal fold upon which one would have to sit most uncomfortably for the next few days – ending four and a half inches higher right across the middle of the cheek. These three would be crossed by the diagonal which would run all the way from the left iliac crest all the way south to the right gluteal fold, where it would intersect the lowest horizontal at pretty close to a forty-five degree angle.

We knew this because we'd checked last year after he'd caned the entire second form class for some egregious misbehaviour while he'd left the room to speak to the headmaster. Those of us who were boarders had noticed the regularity of our welts while bathing that evening: Tommy had insisted on bringing out his ruler and protractor to determine exactly how accurate they actually were. We'd all been astonished by how consistent the man had been – Matron caught us measuring our stripes and almost collapsed with hilarity when she discovered what we were doing.

We found that Mr. Birch had spaced the horizontal welts one and one half inches apart with only 3/8 of an inch variation every time over 17 separate bottoms of widely varying size and shape. There was a similar consistency with the diagonal – the angle it produced with the lowest horizontal varied between 42 and 48 degrees over the same 17 bottoms.

This last stroke produced what could only be described as a howl – I had a little trouble keeping him down as the cane struck – and he abandoned any pretence at stoicism at all. I hadn't realized – I'd been looking at his front side while he was naked and couldn't have inspected his bottom at all without drawing unwanted attention to myself – that he'd recently been the recipient of fairly severe parental discipline and had already been sore before entering the classroom.

In point of fact, Mr. Birch should have checked with Matron after noticing that the boy had already been punished, but this was seldom done in practise by our masters unless the damage was visibly quite severe. It later occurred to me that that may well have been the reason the lad had not finished his prep and had donned the extra clothing before leaving for school that morning.

Mr. Birch did mention it, though: “Sanderson – you may get up now.”

He turned to us and continued: “Mr. Sanderson had already been punished fairly recently before I caned him – you will not remark to anyone upon the way he reacted to his punishment – and I imagine he's very sore indeed right now. Please remember that alluding to another boy's punishment is a serious offence in itself and may well result in a trip to the headmaster. Thank you, gentlemen.”

Sanderson was beginning to get control of himself and straightened up slowly, rubbing his hands slowly and carefully up and down his agonised bum. This was something that would normally have drawn a sharp reprimand from Mr. Birch who did not allow boys to rub their bottoms in his class after punishment; obviously he felt that the boy had been through enough already.

The master walked back to his desk and sat down – he took a sheet of notepaper out, wrote a very brief note on it, then sealed in an envelope. He gestured to me to come up to the front and handed the note to me – I noticed it was addressed to the headmaster.

“Weeks – escort Sanderson to Mrs. Preston and ask her to allow the boy to shower and change into a clean pair of pants. Take that disgusting bag of soiled clothing along, tell her what it is, then request that it either be disposed of or laundered and sent home with the boy when it is no longer quite so offensive.”

He paused: “You may then continue to the headmaster and hand him that note.”

I followed the instructions to the letter – dropped the still sobbing boy off with his Matron who was rather shocked by the state he was in – then made my way to the building in which the headmaster's study was located. I was in a bit of a state myself – nervous and rather upset by the day's events – and was slightly winded when I finally reached my headmaster's office with the note which I'd been asked to deliver.

I was allowed into the study after a brief wait outside and explained my visit: “Mr. Birch asked me to deliver this note, Sir. I'm not really sure what it's about but I suppose it concerns Joseph Sanderson. Mr. Birch just caned him in class.”

My headmaster opened the sealed note, put his spectacles on and began to read it. I noticed a very surprised, almost shocked, expression cross his face – he put the note down on the table and looked at me very severely indeed.

“Stephen – the note concerns YOU. Please sit down while I finish reading it – I imagine that we'll be having a rather serious conversation afterwards.”

My tummy turned over as I sank into the chair – Mr. Birch had given me no indication at all that he was sending me to the headmaster. I felt rather ill and dizzy with shock as I watched Mr. Roberts read the letter, and it didn't get any better as I could see by the expression on my headmaster's face that the matter was very serious.

“Stephen – I think we'd better have a little chat about this. Mr. Birch states that you've been guilty of gross impertinence on several occasions today.”

I blanched – gross impertinence was one of the most serious offences a pupil could commit – it meant not just cheekiness or backtalk, but actual down and out rudeness. Normally boys who were charged with it had told their teachers to sod off or said something even worse: I knew boys had been expelled for serious violations of this rule in the past.

Mr. Roberts' expression changed to concern – I suppose I'd gone pale – and continued: “Stephen – I think we'd better put in a trunk call tonight to your Dad – I think we'd better discuss the matter with your parents before I make any decisions in the matter.”

He looked at me again: “Stephen – are you alright?”

My head was spinning and my tummy began to heave: “Oh no! I'm going to be sick!”