The Education of a Journalist


by Stephan Kay <Asheer@netvision.net.il>

'You broke into the school office, used school equipment and supplies, and for what? For this!'

The Head held out the primitively duplicated three-page 'newspaper' as if he were holding slime.

The Head stood looking down at me. Although I was fourteen and a half years old, and almost as tall as he was, I always felt I was looking up at him.

'This,' he said, 'is the most disgusting, rude, sickening piece of trash I have ever read in my life.'

He was a middle aged man with a twinkle in his eyes, and he often smiled and joked with the boys. He wasn't smiling now.

My eyes glanced furtively around the Head's office, furnished with heavy dark wooden pieces. Behind the Head was the caning stool over which I had bent on a number of occasions. I was sure I was going to be over it soon now with my trousers around my ankles.

He sat down heavily in his large leather chair and looked at me for a long moment.

'I'm going to read at random:

'"His face is like a fish's. When he opens his round mouth, it looks like he's swallowing water. But when Mr Goodman speaks, you KNOW he's swallowing water. He BUBBLES."

'Is this supposed to be funny?

'But what you wrote about Mr Urdu is repulsive. "His body the color of _s_h_i_t_, and the brains in his head the same. When he pisses on the ground, the earth is blackened for miles around. But when he speaks, WE are blackened for miles around."'

I looked at the floor. 'It wasn't for the masters to see, sir. It was just a private joke, something I did for the entertainment of a few of my friends.'

Having my humor read aloud to me by the enraged Head made it sound less humorous than it had seemed when I wrote it.

'Stephan,' said the Head, 'you have insulted, humiliated and ridiculed the best masters in this school. Most of them do not yet know what you wrote about them. All of them are going to find out. Usually I cane recalcitrant boys myself. In your case I am going to do things differently. Every master named here is going to cane you. Most will do so in this office. One of them -- I haven't yet decided who -- will cane you in front of the whole school.'

I opened my mouth in horror at that. I had only heard of one boy who had been caned in front of the whole school. He had been stealing systematically from the other boys. He was given twenty-five strokes on his bare bottom and then dismissed from the school.

'Will I be dismissed from school then, sir?' I asked, fearfully. 'My father will be furious.'

'No, my boy,' answered the Head with a contemptuous shake of the head. 'You are too talented a boy for me to want to lose you. Next year I intend to use your talents profitably. But first you are going to apologize to every master mentioned in THIS.'

For the next hour he rehearsed with me exactly how I was going to do it.

Jones, my prefect, leered at me. 'You are to report to the Head's office at 3 p. m. The head says you have been given full instructions. Be sure you follow them.'

I had waited three days for this first call. As I walked back to my room, I wondered which master was going to cane me this first time. In my room, I quickly stripped off my warm winter clothes and put on my P. T. shorts (no underpants) and shirt. I then dressed again. There was an icy wet wind blowing outside.

At ten to three, I walked quickly to the Head's office, and entered the anteroom.

I was glad that there were no other boys waiting. I quickly removed the outer clothes and my shoes and socks, and sat down shivering on the bench in the unheated room.

Exactly at three, the door opened, and the head invited me in.

There was a crackling fire in the fireplace, but the room seemed chilly to me in my skimpy clothes.

'Prepare yourself,' said the Head. He walked over to the door and locked it.

I looked quickly around the room. There stood Mr Brick. I hated him, and the things I had said about him had come from the heart.

I stripped off my shorts and hung them on a hook next to the door. I was now wearing only a very short P. T. shirt. The Head had warned me: 'If your shirt comes more than an inch or two below your navel, you will have to remove it.' So I was completely naked form the waist down. I had never before been caned while exposed in this way.

The Head picked up my newspaper. 'Before you accept young Stephan's apology, let me read you what he wrote about you. "Mr Brick is a dick. His head looks like the end of one and what his lower parts look like is terrifying to imagine. When he is sick he vomits, but that's nothing compared to what he does to his pupils. He has never given a boy a fair grade in his life, nor has he ever said a nice thing to any one since he was six years old. In fact, it is difficult to imagine any one less suited to be a teacher in our school."'

As the Head read aloud, Mr Brick's face turned red. I was hard to believe, but he apparently had not known what I had written about him.

'Now, Stephan, it's your turn.'

This was to be the ritual for each of the master's canings.

'Sir,' I said, 'I'm terribly sorry about what I wrote about you. I want to apologize most humbly. I realize I have hurt you and respectfully request that you punish me harshly in return. Please, sir, if you would, give me six strokes of the cane as hard as you can.'

'With pleasure,' said Mr Brick.

The Head gestured, and Mr Brick walked over to the desk and took out a long, thin, flexible cane from a polished wooden box in which the Head had several canes of different thicknesses. I breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't a heavy cane.

'Stephan!'

'Oh, I'm sorry, sir.' I should have gone at once to the stool and bent over.

I rushed to the stool, putting each bare foot outside the stool legs, and then, bending over as far as I could, grabbed the rung on the far side of the stool. I felt completely exposed.

Whack! A sharp sting felt on the center of my bum, where I sit down. Whack! Another one, a little higher.

Whack! The third stroke landed where the first had been, and I gasped and jerked a little. Whack! Another one a little lower.

Whack! This one landed right between two earlier ones, joining the three weals into one big one. I gasped in pain.

Whack! Another one that fell on an earlier one. I gasped again.

It was surprising that even as I gasped at the short, sharp pain of each stroke, yet I felt so relieved that the pain was not greater, that it hardly bothered me it all. If every caning is like this one, I thought, I'll get through the next few months easily.

'You may get up,' said the Head.

I rose and faced Mr Brick.

'Thank you, sir,' I said, barely able to keep from smiling. 'I really appreciated that.'

I paused. I had almost forgotten what I was supposed to say next.

'Please, sir, you haven't punished me sufficiently. Would you give me another six, sir, please. I would help me very much in the future.' I almost gagged on that last sentence. The Head had given me the whole speech written out and rehearsed me until I knew it by heart.

'I think you've had enough,' answered Mr Brick.

'Oh, no, sir,' I continued the rehearsed speech, 'you've only given me six strokes. I don't think I've learned my lesson well enough. Please give me another six.'

Mr Brick looked at the Head with a smile on his face.

'Well behaved little bugger, isn't he?'

He looked back at me. 'I'm glad you've learned your lesson. I've overhead what some of the boys say about me behind my back, and I must say that your remarks were considerably more imaginative.'

I burst out laughing. 'Thank you, sir,' I said cheerfully.

'You may get dressed, Stephan.'

To think that I had hated Mr Brick.

I went through the next days feeling pretty cheerful. The other boys told me I had got off easy, and I felt that way too. I hoped the other masters would be as good hearted about it.

On the following Wednesday, the prefect leered at me again. 'Three o'clock, Stephan.'

This time there were four boys waiting in the anteroom, all warmly dressed for winter. I stripped off my outer clothes and shoes and socks and sat shivering, waiting to be called.

'Ah, good,' said the Head, when he opened the door exactly at three. 'Come in Stephan.'

I walked in and looked around. There was Mr Goodman, my favorite master. He was my English teacher, and a published writer too, and I looked up at him as God. He had always given me the greatest encouragement.

I took off my shorts and hung them up as the Head locked the door. There was a strong rain blowing outside, and the wind beat branches of a tree on the window.

'There's no need to read aloud from that .... ' said Mr Goodman. 'I've already read it.'

'Your turn then, Stephan,' said the Head.

'Sir,' I said, as I had said the time before. 'I'm terribly sorry about what I wrote about you. I want to apologize most humbly. I realize I have hurt you and respectfully request that you punish me harshly in return. Please, sir, if you would, give me six strokes of the cane as hard as you can.'

'You have betrayed a great trust,' said Mr Goodman. 'Your actions deserve the firmest of punishments. Bend over.'

As I did so, I tried to look back to see what cane he was going to select. 'Don't look back!' he said to me.

I looked down at the floor, my toes pressed against the legs of the stool, my hands gripping the rung tightly.

Thump!

My whole body jerked. He had hit me on the muscle at the upper part of the buttocks. The pain was excruciating!

I twisted my head around and looked at what he was holding in his hand. It was a club! It must have been an inch in diameter and at least three feet long.

'Don't look back!'

Thump! 'Ah!' I cried out. Tears rushed into my eyes. I hadn't cried while being caned since I was thirteen years old, but I couldn't help myself.

Thump! A long pause. Thump! Each stroke hit on the same spot. The pain was so great I thought I was going to faint.

My arms were shaking. My hands were shaking where I gripped the stool. My legs shook spasmodically.

Thump! The same spot on the upper part of my arse received the stroke, but I felt as if my head had exploded as well as my arse. The excruciating pain filled my whole body. My knees bent briefly, as if my legs for a moment could not support my weight.

I began crying out loud, just as if I were a little baby. 'Please, sir, don't hit me any more, please, sir.'

I didn't want to say it but it just came out.

Thump!

I screamed. 'Ahhh!'

There was silence. My whole body shook spasmodically. My tears continued to flow. I didn't know how I could take another blow.

'You may get up,' said the Head.

I could hardly move. I almost had to undo my fingers from the stool rung. I stood up, my whole body shaking.

'Well, Stephan,' said the Head.

'Thank you, sir,' I said through clenched teeth. I could say no more.

'Continue, Stephan.'

'Oh, please don't hit me any more Mr Goodman. I'm sorry, sir. I'm really sorry. You're my favorite master, I didn't mean to hurt you. Please sir, don't hit me any more.'

'You seem to have forgotten your lines,' said the Head. He handed me a piece of paper. 'Perhaps you can read them through your tears.'

I took the paper which the Head had given me when I rehearsed the speech.

'Please, sir.' I stopped. I couldn't read it. I couldn't.

'Stephan! Perhaps you would like six from ME before we continue with Mr Goodman?'

I tried to control my tears. 'Please, sir, you haven't ... punished me sufficiently. Would you ... give me another six, sir, please.' I began crying. I spoke through my tears. 'It would help me very much in the ... future.'

'All right,' said Mr Goodman, 'bend over and we'll give you six more of the same.'

If the door hadn't been locked I would have charged out the door. I looked at the window. Was it locked? I could see the branches striking the window. I could see the bolts which held the windows in place. I'm sure that if I had thought I could get the window open I would have rushed out, naked as I was, into the rain.

'If you don't bend over right now, I'll give you twelve.'

I walked back to the stool. With each step, I could feel the terrible pain in my bum. I faced the stool. Spread my legs apart. Tears began flowing again.

I bent down and held on. Waiting.

'Ow!' Someone had pressed on the bruises! I cried out. Both Mr Goodman and the Head were examining me. I could feel their hands running over the swollen weals.

'Ow!' Someone had pressed again. If this was the pain from the pressure of a hand, another stroke with that club would kill me!

They stepped away from me.

'Perhaps we should finish tomorrow,' said Mr Goodman.

'Yes,' said the Head. 'It will do him good to think about his misbehavior before we continue the punishment. Get up, Stephan.'

Tomorrow! I stood up painfully. Were they really going to continue tomorrow?

'Speak your piece, Stephan.'

Surely he didn't want me to go through that again?

'Here, read it from the paper.'

I took the paper from his hands.

'Oh, no, sir,' I continued, 'you've only given me six strokes. I don't think I've learned my lesson well enough. Please give me another six.'

'Not today, Stephan. Tomorrow or the day after.'

'Thank you, sir.'

I could hardly lift my legs to put my shorts back on. The Head held my arm as I pulled the shorts up each leg. Otherwise I think I would have fallen over. When the cloth touched the bruises, I winced.

When I walked into the anteroom, Mr Goodman followed me out, walked by me and out the door. Another boy entered the Head's office.

'You really took your punishment like a man,' chortled one of the boys. Another boy snickered. I wanted to hit them, but I was shaking so badly I could hardly move. I sat down painfully on the bench, and only after a long time was I able to get dressed and go out into the rain.

That night my father came into my room in the evening.

I was lying in bed on my stomach.

'I read your little newspaper. The Head has told me what you punishment is. I agree with it fully.'

I twisted around in pain and look at him.

'You drove all the way up from London to tell me that?'

'The Head asked me to come. He said that you had been beaten quite hard today and he wanted me to know why.'

I looked at him sideways.

'You deserve every stroke. If the school hadn't done it, I would have.'

A day passed and another day and another day. The first two days I felt feverish, and could hardly sleep at night. Every time I turned over in bed, every time I sat up, every time I stood up, every step I took, every time I sat down, it hurt.

After three days I realized that they had been playing with me. Mr Goodman wasn't going to cane me again.

To think that I had liked Mr Goodman. That I had thought he was a good man.

On Wednesday of the following week, the prefect notified me again. 'Three o'clock.'

Evidently I was to be caned every Wednesday. It would be the end of the spring before all of the masters mentioned in my newspaper would have punished me.

But this time, and most of the subsequent times, it was like the first time I had been caned, by Mr Brick.

After Mr Goodman's caning, most of the subsequent canings I received seemed harmless. Six strokes with a flexible cane on the center of the bum where I sit down. A punishment which only hurt when I sat or lay down seemed gentle indeed.

Afterwards I would run my hands over the ridges on my bum. It hurt, and yet it was nothing.

Maybe it was because I had no choice (even my father had been against me), but I actually found I enjoyed the aftereffects of the canings.

The canings themselves hurt more than I liked, but for the next day or two I enjoyed the warm swollen feeling in my bum, and even the pain when I sat down.

I looked forward to the weekly caning, and only found myself frightened on the day of the caning, as the hour of three approached. There was always the possibility that I wouldn't get an ordinary caning, but something much worse. Mr Goodman again?

The one thing that really terrified me was the public caning. I didn't know when that would be, or who would give it.

The humiliating part of my special canings was standing half-naked in front of the master and begging him to hit me. Usually when the Head caned, we would drop our trousers, bend over, receive the punishment, stand up, and pick up our trousers. MY punishment was special: I was forced to strip and had to look at and speak to the master in that state.

The Head had explained it to me as follows:

'As you have "exposed" others in your little expose, so you will be exposed to those you have exposed.'

Although I was tall, I felt very immature. I was terribly embarrassed that I had only a thin layer of fine hair below, and felt clumsy and misshapen there. It was one thing to be seen in the showers by other boys my age. It was much worse to be seen by the Head and the master in the Head's office.

It would be far worse to be displayed to boys of all ages and all the masters too.

Still the private caning that Mr Urdu gave me was exceptional. It wasn't that much more painful, but it was done with exceptional cruelty.

I came in, stripped, asked Mr Urdu to cane me and bent over.

I heard Mr Urdu opening a package he had brought with him.

'I would like to use a Malaga cane, which I have brought with me,' he said to the Head. 'It is what we use at home. We call each stroke a cut. When properly applied, every cut draws blood.'

I had only heard of such things, but in our school a boy was never caned to draw blood. Would the Head allow him to use it?

'The young man will not forget it,' continued Mr Urdu.

'Let me test it out,' said the Head.

I looked back to where the Head was picking up the Malaga cane, and saw a two foot long, very thin, extremely springy dark brown cane. The Head swished it in the air. I could imagine it swinging through the air, and cutting my bare arse.

'Don't look back,' said the Head to me suddenly. 'If you look back again, I'll give you twelve with this before Mr Urdu begins.'

I stared back at the floor.

The Head came up behind me and ran the cane slowly across the my arse, slightly above the center. Then there was a pause, and Swish! I heard the cane swish through the air, but stop before it touched me. I could feel the motion of the air on my arse.

My whole body tensed up.

Once again he ran the cane roughly across my arse, this time right at the center. Again a pause, and Swish! Again the cane stopped, this time just barely touching my arse.

Every muscle in my arse was tense. Completely exposed, I felt a terrible tingling and the most horrible fear growing over me. When would he finally hit me?

Again he ran the cane roughly across my arse, this time a little lower. Again a pause and Swish! Again I felt the air move, perhaps the gentlest touch.

I felt as if my arse had grown to gigantic size, that it had swollen just waiting for the first of those terrible cuts to start.

The Head walked across to Mr Urdu and said, 'Go ahead, sir."

Mr Urdu approached me and ran the cane across the center of my arse as the Head had done. Then Crack! It fell across my arse.

I gasped in pain.

Once again he measured the distance. Crack! I gasped again.

For the third time he ran the cane across my arse, then Swish! I felt the air move and my legs jerked, and I cried out. If he had hit me I wouldn't have reacted so strongly.

The swings which didn't hit doubled the torture. If they didn't hit, they increased my tension and made the bent-over position increasingly intolerable. To be exposed this way, helpless, waiting for the next stroke, which may or may not come, was awful.

Once again he swung, this time connecting with a terrible Crack! This one fell right across the two previous welts, and I felt the blood surge out of my skin, I felt as if every blood cell on the line of the stroke had burst.

This time when he ran the cane over the triple welt, tears came into my eyes. When he swung Swish! and didn't connect, my whole body jerked, and I actually cried out!

The fourth stroke came, painfully, and I pictured in my mind blood welling out of the cuts and flowing down my legs. I had never before been caned till the blood flowed.

Again he ran the cane across my arse, again he swung Swish! stopping short. I was terrified that I would leap up screaming and beg him to stop, even though he had only given me four strokes so far. I knew that if I got up, they would start the six all over again, and I didn't know how I could stand that.

Crack! The fifth stroke! Or was it the fourth? I had lost track.

The cane again ran across my arse, which I felt had swollen to the size of a basketball, reaching out to make a perfect target for Mr Urdu's cane. Swish! Again he stopped short! I couldn't stand it! I cried out again!

The cane again ran across my arse. Then Crack!

'You may stand up.'

I stood up and ran my hands over my burning, swollen, screaming arse. I brought them in front of me. There was no blood. The Malaga cane was on the Head's desk. Mr Urdu had a regular flexible school cane in his hand.

'Keep your hands off yourself!' said the Head. 'You are not permitted to fondle yourself while being punished. Speak your piece.'

Dumbfounded for a moment at the way they had made a fool of me, doubling the punishment of an ordinary caning by making ME make myself miserable, I could hardly open my mouth.

At last I thanked Mr Urdu in the usual way, asking him to give me another six. Unlike all of the other masters, he did too, and with obvious great enthusiasm, expecting me to wince and cry as I had with the first six.

But the second six 'cuts', now that I knew that it was the usual cane, and not a Malaga cane, went by so easily and harmlessly that I felt no fear at all, and even enjoyed pretending that none of the 'cuts' hurt me at all.

Spring came, and the weather was sunny. I was caned on warm days with the windows in the Head's office open. Had it been Mr Goodman caning me with his big club, I could have lept out the window and run away. But these were easy canings, and I gasped and jerked but suffered not at all.

There was only one master who really hurt me.

It was Mr Ridge, the chemistry master.

I came to the anteroom wearing only my P. T. clothes. The weather was warm. As I came into the Head's office, and started to remove my shorts, Mr Ridge waved and said, 'there's no need for that.'

Was he going to let me leave my shorts on while he caned me?

But he was looking at the Head. 'There's no need to lock the door,' he said.

Mr Ridge looked at me. 'Stephan,' he said. 'You have suffered quite a bit of physical pain the last few weeks. I read some parts of your newspaper. I want you to know that words can hurt more than any punishing blow. You have been hit many times in your life and probably you hardly remember most of those times. Yet one cruel sentence said to someone, one humiliating remark, can twist inside him forever. I hope that that is the lesson that you carry with you for the rest of your life.'

I wasn't caned. But I left there sorry, really sorry for the first time, for what I had done.

'You'll be called up on stage during the Assembly this morning,' said my leering Prefect. 'You're to sit in a seat in the left-most side of the hall, where you can up on the stage quickly. And remember, you wear P. T. clothes and nothing else. No underpants, no shoes. Be ready. This is going to be fun.'

I hated him.

'Boys,' said the Head, standing at the lecturn looking out over the hall, 'one of your comrades has published a cruel and mocking newspaper. In it he maligned some of the finest and most decent men in this school. The matter cannot be left to private punishment. Justice must be seen to be done.'

He turned toward where I was sitting. 'Stephan, come up to the stage.'

Every boy's and master's eye was on me as I went up on the stage.

'Prepare yourself,' said the Head.

I removed my shorts and looked around for a hook to hang them on.

'I'll take them,' said the Head. He put them in his pocket!

There were giggles from some of the boys.

'Quiet,' said the Head, 'or some others of you will join us on stage.'

Naked from the waist down, I faced hundreds of boys. There were bright spotlights shining down at me from the back of the hall, and at the front of the stage there was a row of footlights shining up at me. I could be seen clearly by everyone. But this was only the beginning of my humiliation!

'Here is what our talented journalist has written about your fine master, Mr Grove. Listen!

'"His face is the face of a rat. His eyes are tiny, beady and glistening. His snout bulges out and he sniffs and twists his lips as he looks around the classroom, looking for blood. Suddenly he finds it! He pounces on a terrified pupil, ripping the skin from his face, sucking the blood from the neck. The pupil is left, collapsed on his desk, as the Rat Grove hunts for another victim among his terrified pupils."'

He stood silent for a moment.

'Boys! That was one of the mildest descriptions written. Was it as a description of a master? NO! That was not the description of Mr Groves. Boys! Our journalist was describing himself! Was there ever a greater rat than Stephan himself, looking for innocent victims?'

He turned and gestured. Two of the older boys brought forward a simple formica-topped table about three feet square, with long thin metal legs, much higher than the usual table. It came almost up to my chest. How could I bend over that?

Mr Grove, who had evidently been standing at the back of the stage, came forward and looked at me.

'Now, Stephan, it's your turn.'

He wanted me to say my piece.

'Sir,' I said to Mr Grove, 'I'm terribly sorry about what I wrote about you. I want to apologize most humbly. I realize I have hurt you and respectfully request that you punish me harshly in return. Please, sir, if you would, give me six strokes of the cane as hard as you can.'

'Now, Stephan,' said the Head, 'the worst punishment a criminal can get is to have to look square at everyone, and have everyone look at him and see what kind of a man he is. I want you to place your chin in the center of that table, and look out at all of the boys and masters in the hall. Do not look away. Face them with honor and take your punishment as a man.'

I bent my chest over the table and placed my chin down.

'Grab the far legs of the table on each side.'

I reached out over the top of the table and tried to grab the legs of the table, but I couldn't quite reach them.

'Stand on your tiptoes!'

Standing on my tiptoes I held the table legs. I knew I was supposed to spread my legs apart, and I tried, but I could hardly spread them very far apart standing the way I was.

I looked out over the table and saw a sea of faces looking at me. I turned my eyes up and saw the spotlights pointing at me from the back of the hall. But where were the footlights at the front of the stage which pointed up at me?

Then suddenly I realized. My face turned red. The footlights. They were pointing up under the table. I couldn't see them with my chin in the middle of the table. But they were illuminating all of the lower part of my body which must have been brightly visible to the whole hall.

I felt a something touching my bottom. It rubbed for a bit in the center, where I sat down. I was relieved at that. He wasn't going to aim for the top of the muscle.

Then I heard footsteps as if someone were walking behind me. Then suddenly three rushing footseps and Crack! My feet were knocked out from under me with the force of the blow! I held on to the forward legs of the table and gasped as the rear of the table pressed into my chest, knocking out the wind.

I felt as if the table had rocked a bit. My legs landed back on the floor, and my toes tried to support my body again.

Once again the cane moved gently over my bum. This time it ran over a swollen line which I could feel sharply.

I didn't understand what had happened until I again heard the footsteps walking away, and then the sudden three rushing footsteps and Crack! I gasped and tears came into my eays.

I thought, Mr Groves is taking a running start! He's swinging at me with the whole weight of his running body!

I'm only fourteen years old. How can he do this to me?

Again he ran the cane over my bum. Now there were two sharp creases across it. My legs began to shake. My toes could hardly support my weight.

Again the footsteps and the run. Crack! I cried out in pain. 'No!'

I couldn't take it! How could I take it? My bum was sore and swollen. And I was being hit so hard by a huge man who was running at me and hitting me with his full weight!

Crack! Tears ran down my cheeks. The punishment Mr Goodman had given me must have hurt more. Surely it had hurt more days than this caning will hurt afterwards. But I was crying like a baby in front of the whole school. I couldn't help myself.

My whole body shook. I felt the whole lower part of my body shaking and thought that to anyone looking at me from below it must look like a naked boy dancing.

Crack! 'Ow!' I almost let go the table legs and fell on the floor. I could feel my hands slipping. I got my toes back in place, and lifted myself up, grabbing the table again, pulling myself back into position. If I fell down, they might start all over again.

Once again the cane ran over my bum. I could feel it examining the huge thick swollen area. The five strokes had all fallen in the same general area and I could hardly stand the thought of another one there.

I lost track of everything. It was almost as if I no longer knew where I was. Perhaps I had half fainted. Crack!

I cried out again, my knees jerking up, the table wobbling under me. Tears ran down my cheeks.

'You may get up,' said the Head.

I let go of the table legs and almost fell over backward. I gripped at the table and steadied myself.

'Now, Stephan, it's your turn.'

My reply had been beaten into me, and I could now say it without even thinking about what it meant.

'Sir,' I said, 'I'm terribly sorry about what I wrote about you. I want to apologize most humbly. I realize I have hurt you and respectfully request that you punish me harshly in return. Please, sir, if you would, give me six strokes of the cane as hard as you can.'

'Stephan!' said the Head. 'You already said that.'

I stood stunned. 'What am I supposed to say?' I whispered.

'It starts with "thank you".'

I remembered.

'Thank you, sir,' I said, barely able to speak. 'I really appreciated that.'

'Louder,' said the Head. 'Much louder.'

I tried to speak louder but my voice cracked.

'Please, sir, you haven't punished me sufficiently. Would you give me another six, sir, please. I would help me very much in the future.'

'Gladly,' said Mr Grove. 'Get back in position.'

My arms ached and my feet hurt and bum was swollen. I couldn't get back there again.

'Please, sir, don't hit me again,' I cried, tears rolling down my cheeks uncontrollably.

I heard giggles from the hall.

'Quiet! ' said the Head, walking over to the footlights and looking down. 'Prefects. Keep a sharp eye out. The next boy who giggles will be up here with Stephan.'

There was silence in the hall.

'We are waiting for you,' said the Head, turning towards me.

There was deathly silence in the hall as I walked painfully back up, put my chin on the table and grabbed the far legs of the table, standing on tiptoes.

The cane ran softly over my swollen bottom,

And then suddenly I thought, they're playing with me! They're playing with me. I felt such a sense of relief. It was like with Mr Goodman. They're not really going to hit me.

Whack! It's not so bad, I thought. Whack! There were no footsteps. Whack! It's just an ordinary caning. It's nothing. Whack! Whack! Whack!

'You may get up,' said the Head.

I lowered myself gradually to the floor, and stood shakily. I turned in the direction of Mr Groves and saw that he was standing near the back of the stage. The Head was standing near me with a thin cane in his hand. The Head had taken over the caning. I was grateful for that.

'Well?' said the Head. 'We are waiting for you.'

I would have to say it again. Would he cane me again?

'Thank you, sir. I really appreciated that. Please, sir, you haven't punished me sufficiently. Would you give me another six, sir, please. It would help me very much in the future.'

'All right. Get back in position.'

I got back into position.

He gave me another six, just an ordinary caning. Nothing at all.

'You may get up,' he said.

'Thank you, sir. I really appreciated that.' I really did. 'Please, sir, you haven't punished me sufficiently. Would you give me another six, sir, please. It would help me very much in the future.'

He looked at me for a long time.

'I think you've had enough. You may go back and sit down.'

As I began walking toward the wings of the stage, Mr Grove came up and walked beside me. When I came to the stairs to go down, I suddenly slipped and almost fell. He caught me by the arm, and pulled me up.

'Please, sir. My shorts. I've left them on stage. I can't go out there like this.'

'No,' he said. 'You can't. Where are they?'

For a moment I couldn't remember. What had I done with my shorts?

'The Head has them,' I said at last.

Mr Grove went back out on stage, came back with my shorts and helped me put them on. I couldn't do it myself. I could hardly stand up. Then he walked me back to my seat, holding me by the arm, and lowered me down.

'Thank you, sir.'

The remaining punishments were nothing.

All of the rest of the masters punished me. The Head told me that all of the masters had now caned me.

And then, on Wednesday, the prefect said leeringly to me, 'Three o'clock, Stephan. P. T. clothes. No underpants, no shoes.'

When the Head invited me in, he looked at me strangely. Then I saw that Mr Goodman was there. I thought I was going to get the next six with the inch-thick cane. They must have seen the look on my face.

'We're not punishing you. I think the prefect has played a little joke on you. Mr Goodman has arranged a part-time job for you for the next school year. Your going to be writing about school sports for the town newspaper.'

I was so relieved it took me a moment to grasp what he had said.

'That's wonderful, sir!'

That was the beginning of my career as a journalist. But one thing has really remained with me in all those years. Many times I've been offered a position with one of the scurrilous papers which publishes scandalous items about people. I'm a popular enough writer that my byline would bring in readers. They've offered me terms that any writer would dream of.

But I've always refused. For I've never forgotten what Mr Ridge told me about how words can hurt more than any caning. He didn't hit me even once, but he hurt me more than anyone else.


More stories by Stephan Kay