Diary of a Rebel

Here’s a piece of social history recently uncovered in the files of a long defunct activist newspaper. It’s a diary entry written in May 1967.This was the time of great social unrest in Britain with students occupying their universities and taking to the streets, many of them demanding revolution. The protests permeated into state-run schools, mostly in urban areas. What is less well known is that rebellion also took place in small elite so-called public schools. This diary entry was written by Stephen Fletcher who was a senior sixth-former at a place called St Tom’s, a boarding school in the south of England. He had just turned nineteen years old at the time and would have been the same age as many of the university students protesting on the streets. Fletcher was one of three pupils identified as ring leaders of a protest at the school which had attracted attention in the local newspaper and later, because of the elite nature of the school which catered for sons of the privileged classes, in the national media more generally.

21 May 1967

Jenkins, Clarke and myself were summoned to the headmaster’s study. No guesses needed for the Old Man’s intention. None of us could have imagined the stink our small protest would have caused. Clarke rather enjoyed standing on a soap box in Brocklehurst Market to berate shoppers about the iniquities of life at St Tom’s. I think he has a bit of a Lenin complex. We handed out leaflets and that was it really. If I’m brutally honest the good workers of Brocklehurst weren’t the least bit interested in our plight. It would have ended unnoticed if by chance an off-duty reporter from the Bugle hadn’t been buying his greengrocery. He quickly contacted a photographer colleague and next thing we knew we were front page news on Friday. This was the first the Old Man heard about it. Then this morning, we were in most of the sleazy Sunday newspapers.

The three of us knew we were for the high jump. Expulsion without doubt. I had already started to think how I would explain this to father when I got back home. But, the Old Man is full of surprises. Not, expulsion. We were too close to our examinations; it would be impossible to find other schools to take us at such short notice.  He sounded almost liberal, but I suspect he was worried about the reactions from three sets of parents (and possibly the loss of three lots of fees).

So, not expulsion. Instead, he announced with that supercilious way that he has that we were to be caned. “And be grateful I do not convene a special assembly and flog you in front of the entire school.” Grateful? I suspect when news of that adventure got out, we would be in all the newspapers again. Since one of our demands was the abolition of corporal punishment such a brutal display of it in action could only help our cause.

 I don’t suppose any of us were surprised by the penalty. St Tom’s is a traditional school: traditional curriculum with Latin and Greek, traditional religion with prayers twice a day, traditional sport (rugger not association football) and naturally traditional discipline, which at St Tom’s means the whippy cane (although given the support of the governors the Old Man would certainly prefer to wield the birch.

The cane is in constant use at St Tom’s; the headmaster, housemasters and form masters regularly swish the rod. Although the practice is fading out in many public schools, at St Tom’s prefects are allowed to give up to four cuts. So, we were not surprised at the Old Man’s verdict, but I have recently turned nineteen and my two fellows are both eighteen so many people might think we are a little too old for this.

To my surprise both Jenkins and Clarke point blank refused to be beaten. I swear I saw the Old Man’s jaw drop. He hadn’t expected this at all. He hadn’t really wanted to expel us and now they were giving him no choice in the matter. If they thought they had called his bluff they were sadly mistaken, he dismissed them from his study and before supper they were driven to the local station to catch the last train out.

It hadn’t occurred to me to refuse. I have been caned many times before. St Tom’s is that kind of school. The fact that many of us had returned time after time to bend over this chair or that desk for a whacking only goes to prove how ineffectual corporal punishment is. No, I would take a caning, and then, I reasoned, I would tell the world about it. I might even become the subject of a pamphlet. “Nineteen-year-old schoolboy caned for seeking abolition of corporal punishment” (or something along those lines).

The Old Man could not contain his fury as Jenkins and Clarke exited. Judging by his complexion which varies in colour only from deep red to puce, he either had very high blood pressure or he was constantly on the booze (and I concede it could be both of this things). For several moments he was unable to speak coherently. He gabbled on about where was the country going to. I think I heard the words Communist and Bolshevik in there.

Eventually he calmed sufficiently to be able to communicate clearly. He was sweating profusely and removed the heavy academic gown that he perpetually wore. His mortarboard cap was already hanging on the hat stand. I had left my blazer in the dorm and was wearing only a white cotton shirt, the school tie and pale grey trousers. I too was perspiring, but the Old Man never opened the windows in his study so it always felt like a hot house.

He rose from his chair and crossed the room. It might help if I described the study. It is huge which befits the pomposity of a headmaster at St Tom’s. At one end there is a desk the size of a racquets court. It is made of walnut and has two sets of three drawers. It must have taken a gang of men to carry it to the study. Nearby are two leather chairs, they are overstuffed and the arms are so padded that a boy can easily bend over to present his bottom to the Old Man for caning. An open and unlit fire dominates one wall and another has stained glass windows which I have never seen opened (perhaps they are so ancient they have jammed). Glass fronted shelves house ancient books and close to one wall is a smaller more modern desk. It has a telephone on it and judging by the files that were open, this is where the Old Man carries out the administration activities of the school.

In one corner is a narrow tall cupboard. It is towards this that the Old Man made his way. No guesses needed about what it contained. The Old Man is a bit of a ham actor and he delved into his trouser pocket to find a bunch of keys. He inserted the smallest in to the lock on the cupboard door and opened it with a flourish, rather like a magician showing that a pretty girl he had locked inside moments ago had now vanished. The cupboard was not empty, inside was his collection of punishment canes. I once had the displeasure of being invited to choose from among them the weapon that the Old Man should use to beat me. There were sticks of all lengths and thicknesses; some of light rattan, others dense Malacca. Some have curved handles, others do not.

The headmaster removed one cane, studied it hard for several moments before returning it and choosing another. It was as if he had never seen them before but I knew – all we boys at the school knew – he was intimately acquainted with each and every one of them. He knew what damage each could inflict.

Eventually he took the one that he intended to use on me. He turned to show it to me. He flexed it between his hands and then swished it vigorously through the air. The swooshing noise it made as it flew seemed to fill the room. He was trying to intimidate me. I refused to be so intimidated. I noticed that as canes went this was on the more moderate side; being about three feet in length and not quite as thick as a pencil. He had more powerful weapons he could have chosen. I was immediately suspicious: what was he up to?

He jawed me for a while, reminding me of the great traditions of England’s public schools and how I was being prepared to lead. It was my destiny etcetera, etcetera … He spoke about how the country was going to the dogs and how it was his duty, he actually used the word “duty” to help stop it. He swished the cane a couple of times and told me to stand by the smaller desk. He pushed the telephone to one side and carried the files and set them down on an armchair.

He stood close to my face; I could smell his rancid breath. The armpits of his shirts were wet with the heat. His crabby face was lined and I saw he had not shaved properly that morning. He was, I thought, actually a bit of a slob. He had malevolence in his eyes. He flexed the cane inches from my face and then came his bombshell. “Take down your trousers and your underpants and bend across the desk.”

I had not expected this, not even from such a reactionary gook as the Old Man. I have never heard of a chap being caned on the bare. Nor, for that matter on the underpants. It is true that boys are regularly beaten on the seat of the pyjamas which since underwear is forbidden in bed would have the effect of getting it trousers down.

He swiped the cane and I detected a cruel twist at the corner of his mouth. “I’m waiting,” he said. I stood trying to work out what he was up to. I’m sure he didn’t want me to refuse and therefore be expelled as my two chums had been. He couldn’t have thought that caning me on the bare would increase the severity of the punishment much, because the cane he had chosen was quite light; he could have caused more pain beating me with one of his Malacca canes across the backside with trousers and pants up.

Later, I concluded his intention must have been to humiliate me. Here I was nineteen years old being ordered to lower my trousers and my underpants and then prostrate myself across the desk to allow this figure of authority to whip his cane into my bared backside. It would demonstrate that he indeed was the master and I was the subjugate. What better metaphor could there be for the predicament of the English schoolboy.

Although I didn’t work this out until later, I had enough presence of mind not to be flustered by the Old Man’s command. Without making eye contact with him I unbuckled my belt and unbuttoned the fly of my trousers. They fell to my feet of their own accord. We are required to wear white cotton Y-front underpants and I quickly tugged them down. I was now naked from the waist to the ankles. I am used to being entirely naked in front of others; we bath together daily and, of course, shower after our rugby games. But it was unusual to be half naked like this before an older man who himself was fully clothed.

He touched the desk with his cane, “Bend over,” he instructed. Without hesitation for I knew I was being martyred for a wider cause I leant forward and rested my stomach and chest on the desk. It is a small desk and I was able to reach over to the far side. I am a little tall for my age and was obliged to bend my knees so that my bottom rested on the edge of the desk. I was ready for anything he could throw at me. I wish now I had been brave enough to say out loud, “Go on do your worst.” Or to make some revolutionary statement about how in time the proletariat would defeat the ruling class.

I didn’t. I waited for the Old Man to get on with it. He wasn’t quite ready. I heard the floorboards creak as he approached me and then I felt him take hold of my shirt tail and quite carefully he folded it up my back so that it was away from his target area. My bare bottom was now on full display for him.

I know in the pamphlets there are accusations that some masters get a thrill out of beating boys on their bottoms. If this is so how much more exciting to beat a bare bottom and the bare bottom of a nineteen-year-old? I will leave it to your imaginations to decide whether the Old Man was “getting off” of the experience.

The floorboards creaked once more and then I felt the cold cane sawing across the centre of my bottom. It lifted away, there was a silence for a second or two and them a terrific swooshing noise followed by a loud crack! when the cane connected with my naked bottom. It took a moment or two for the pain to register. The Old Man might have pressed a red-hot poker into my flesh, the agony was so intense. I have been caned many times in the past but nothing compared to this. I gritted my teeth and thought of the cause. How would the Old Man be able to justify his actions when news of my caning got out? The Observer and the New Statesman would write editorials about me.

The second cut hit about a quarter of an inch lower than the first. It now felt like my whole bottom was aflame. By now I was wriggling and writhing and holding on to the desk for dear life. I would like to report that I took the thrashing without a murmur in defiance but the truth is that the body reacts to pain. My wrigglings were merely reflex actions my body insisted I make to absorb the pain. You should not think ill of me that I was unable to remain stoical.

I am an average C-student and my powers of the English language are limited so I can’t find the words to describe each stroke the Old Man delivered. Let me say that he gave me twelve and by the time he allowed me to stand my bottom looked like a map of Clapham Junction, vivid pink lies criss-crossed the surface of my buttocks. There were traces of blood where the cuts intersected. My bottom felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size and when I touched it try to relieve some of the pain the heat coming from it felt like a barbecue.

My head had almost exploded and the ache in my temples rivelled that in my rear end. My heartrate was off the scale and all saliva had drained from my mouth. My eyes were wet with tears and as I rose from the desk, I rubbed the sleeve of my shirt across my face to hide them. As I pulled up my pants and trousers, I watched the Old Man return to the cupboard and replace the cane within. He walked unsteadily, he too looked like he had been taken through the mill. His face was purple and the back of his shirt wrung with sweat. I didn’t think at the time to look at the front of his trousers.

 There followed an awkwardness. Usually, after a beating the boy is expected to say something like, “Thank you sir,” some also add, “I deserved it, sir.” Some wags claim they say, “Thank you sir, I enjoyed that,” but I doubt any boy has the bravado to say such a thing. I definitely wasn’t going to thank him and I hadn’t thought to prepare as short speech about how his days of oppression were numbered. The Old Man garbled something incoherent and then ordered me to leave the study.

I am writing this later in the day. I have been unable to sit on any hard surface and I was unable to go for tea. A friend brought me food and I ate it standing at the mantlepiece. There has been some bleeding and my underpants stuck so that I had to get a sponge full of water to get them off. The swelling has eased the welts are diminishing. I will have bruises by the morning, I suppose and these will be with me for several days. My pal Anderson has taken pictures and I am happy to make these available to any organisation that undertakes to publish them.

Viva The Revolution!

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Tyrone misses curfew

Clubbing

School caning, aged 19

 

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com