This account concerns events that took place in the winter of my third form year at a prestigious Australian boarding school, run in the British tradition. Because of my extreme precocity, I had been allowed to enter the school two years earlier than was normal and so at this stage of my schooling, I was still only 12 years old. After a somewhat bumpy start to my schooling in terms of my behaviour, I was beginning to get into my stride at this point as a somewhat mischievous, but not a really bad young boy. I was developing morally, I suppose - I was no angel but I was no longer the moral vacuum that some would have said I was even a year earlier. It was a cold and wet morning as this account begins and I was stocking up on toast in the dining hall of my school having already devoured the rest of my breakfast. As I turned around I suddenly found myself facing one of the Masters - Mr Marsden. A man I didn't like at all.
Most of my teachers were fine men who I greatly respected. Some were lenient, some were very strict, but nearly all were fine teachers who seemed to do their best to be fair to the boys they taught. Mr Marsden was - well, he was an exception.
To be blunt, I would have to day he was an abusive, sadistic bastard. I don't mean so much that he was sadistic in a physical sense, although I think he very possibly was - he sadism came out more in the way he interacted verbally with his pupils. He took great delight in humiliating boys, and he had done so to me in the past. As a Master in the school, he had every right to cane boys and he did so though reasonably often though I don't think it was as often as he could have, but while he may have got off to some extent on the act of caning, even then he generally couldn't resist a chance to needle a boy verbally.
Everybody knew what he was like and I've often wondered why the school tolerated these behaviours in him. After talking to people about him over the years I've come to the conclusion that there were a number of reasons he was allowed to get away with what he did.
The first, and perhaps the most important reason, was the fact that he was a genuine war hero. He was one of 'The Few' - he flew a Hurricane during the Battle of Britain but that was only part of a quite illustrious wartime career. I sought out the details a number of years ago and whatever else he was, the man served his country and Empire in a way I truly respect - and I think others respected him in the same way and made some allowances for his personality that they might not (I hope would not) have made for others.
The second reason was that he was, in a technical sense, an excellent teacher. He had a real knack for ensuring that the lowest stream boys in Mathematics (his subject) achieved at a higher level than might otherwise have been expected. Part of the way he did this was a reliance on strict and severe discipline for any boy he felt wasn't performing at the level they were capable of, and that might have created a higher tolerance in the school for his idiosyncrasies when it came to punishment and the way he talked to boys - especially as Mr Morris, the Head of Mathematics who taught the highest stream boys also made liberal use of the cane in his classes for the same basic reason - the difference was that Mr Morris was an eminently fair man, which Marsden wasn't. But criticizing Marsden and ignoring Morris would have probably seemed very odd to anyone who didn't know the whole story.
I must be fair to Mr Marsden - he wasn't all bad. He was a keen and very skilled photographer who taught me how to develop photographs when I needed that skill, when it came to his leadership position as an officer in charge of the schools cadet corps, he seemed to manage to be fair despite his inclinations at other times, and in my final year at the school, he expended considerable effort and his own time in tutoring me very effectively in mathematics, even though I refused to sign a waiver allowing him to cane me during our tutoring session (as I was a Prefect that year, I was exempt from the cane at the hands of Masters - I had signed such a waiver though for Mr Morris who taught my regular mathematics classes). But as I turned around that morning, all his positive aspects were still in my future (and frankly even with those positives, I still despise the man). I tried to step around the man, but he placed his arm on my shoulder.
"Master Rysher, come with me."
And so I did. I wondered why he wanted me to go with him, but I certainly had no choice but to comply. He didn't teach me in any of my classes - I was top stream in mathematics and he taught bottom - occasionally he did take classes I was in when my own teacher was away, but I don't think that had happened yet at this stage. Really my only contacts with him that I can recall up to this date are those described in two of my previous accounts - Nothing Nostalgic where he belittled me after another Master caned me and Soda Water Memories where he prevented an older boy from stopping me being caned and once again teased me about what had happened. That second event was still in the recent past as this account takes place and as I followed Mr Marsden out of the Dining Hall, I was filled with fear and loathing of the man. He lead me around the edges of a quadrangle and then down some stairs at the side of a building to where I knew he had his office - it was almost subterranean. He unlocked the door and ushered me inside.
The room was absolutely freezing - a cold fairly dark room with windows located near the ceiling, an old wooden desk with a nice big chair behind it and a couple of old wooden classroom chairs in front of it. He directed me to sit in one of these two chairs and I sank down into it - it was much lower than the chairs I was used to in the classroom - looking back I think it must have had it legs sawn shorter than normal (that's never really occurred to me before today - but I can't believe they ever used chairs that short in the school - I suppose perhaps he'd acquired some furniture from a primary school at some stage but I now wonder if it was deliberate). He moved behind his desk and came back with a manilla folder in one hand and a long crook handled cane in the other. He stood in front of me, in the space between the desk and my chair very close to me towering over me and I was very frightened and intimidated. And very, very cold. And aware of the fact that I needed to urinate in the relatively near future. He stood there for quite a time letting the fear sink in and then finally he spoke.
"You are in deep, deep trouble, little boy. And I am warning you now that anything less than total honesty will be extremely unpleasant for you and will accomplish nothing. I am going to thrash your little bottom, little boy, with my cane. The only thing that remains to be decided is whether this will be enough to deal with what you have done."
He turned around and lay the cane on his desk, then he opened the folder and took out a sheet of paper which he handed to me. I looked at it in trepidation. It was a mimeographed homework assignment for a fifth form mathematics class. It had been filled out by a boy and was marked with cross after cross in red ink - and at the bottom also in red ink, was the handwritten note 'See me.' I wasn't really sure why Mr Marsden was showing it to me. It wasn't my work. I looked at it more closely and realized the written content was nonsensical. Whoever had done it didn't even seem to have tried to answer the questions. They'd answered different questions (similar but with minor differences such as division symbols replacing multiplication ones and sometimes a different number) - and their answers to those different questions were all correct. I looked at the name at the top of the sheet and was even more baffled. I recognized the name as a boy who was generally regarded by all of us as the most unintelligent boy in the school - Jason Skidmore - he was on the First XV and had been since the third form, but in terms of intellect he just wasn't very bright. There was no way he could have got correct answers to these questions. Clearly he had cheated - but I didn't see what that had to do with me. Mr Marsden continued.
"I had Skidmore in my room on Monday and after a bit of physical persuasion, he revealed to me that he had copied the answers to this homework off a crib given to him by Andrew Blackwood."
At this point I began to have suspicions of where things might be headed. Blackwood was a Sixth Form boy in my own House. Not the best behaved fellow I had ever met, or the brightest, though considerably smarter than Skidmore.
"This reminded me of some suspicions I had last year with a similar piece of homework." He opened the folder and took out a large black and white photograph which he handed to me. It was a photograph of an almost identical sheet in Blackwood's name with a lot of ticks and just a few crosses on it - it had scored 92%. And I recognised it.
The previous year, when I'd been in the second form, I'd had quite a little scam going as a way of raising money. The fact that I had been allowed to enter the school earlier than normal meant that I had a reputation as being a bit of a brain - and without false modesty, there was some truth to that. And sometimes other boys approached me to ask for my help with their homework. Sometimes all they wanted was just a little bit of help understanding a point and if I was able to help them, I used to walk away with ten cents or so for my troubles. But sometimes they wanted me to do a little bit more - like all of a piece of homework for them.
I didn't do that that often. It was a high risk venture, and besides while I was smart, the boys most in need of help with the money to pay for it tended to be the older boys and often their work was quite difficult for me to do. But I did do it sometimes - and a year earlier I had done this piece of homework for Andrew Blackwood - I was able to manage the mathematics of the bottom stream Fifth Formers, and Blackwood was quite desperate as Mr Marsden had promised him six of the best unless he scored at least 90% - pretty much an impossible task for Blackwood. Because he was so desperate I was able to name a reasonably high price - two dollars (I'd suffered some financial losses at the time this happened and was keen to start rebuilding my savings). I'd taken Blackwood's work and worked it all out on a separate sheet of paper, which he'd copied onto his homework sheet - Blackwood was smart enough to be sensible about it and didn't copy everything I'd done perfectly - just enough to make himself safe from the cane. Like I say, he was smarter than Skidmore. So now I started to realise I was in genuine trouble, and decided on desperate measures - a preemptive confession.
"Sir, I..."
"Be quiet, little boy. I am talking now."
"But Sir..."
"I said be quiet." His voice was very quiet indeed, as he continued. "I obtained the crib sheet from Skidmore," he handed a sheet of foolscap to me - the sheet I had written for Blackwood a year earlier, "and realized that it was not Blackwood's handwriting. I had him up here last night where I questioned him extensively. Despite my best efforts Blackwood refused to reveal where this crib sheet had come from. It would have been better for you - and for him - if he had told me what I wanted to know. As it is, I spent most of last night comparing the handwriting on this crib to exercise books. It took me some hours to get around to checking junior boys books. I congratulate you on your grasp of mathematics."
"Thank you, Sir."
"So you admit to writing the crib?"
I nodded.
"Speak up, little boy."
"Yes, Sir. I wrote the crib sheet."
"Was this the only time you did it?"
I considered lying - but something told me it would be a very bad idea.
"No, Sir."
"How many times have you done this for other boys?"
"I don't know, Sir."
"Guess."
"A dozen."
"A dozen. You naughty, naughty, wicked little boy."
He opened the folder and handed me half a dozen photographs - of homework sheets and test sheets from the previous year. The man had apparently photographed any test or homework sheet that he had suspicions about. And at least three of the six were cases I had helped boys to some extent.
"Master Rysher, please tell me which of these boys you helped to cheat."
I looked up at him in fear, but I gave the only answer our schoolboy codes allowed. You didn't dob on other boys, you didn't turn them in.
"I can't answer that, Sir."
"Yes, you can, Master Rysher and you will unless you want my cane to carve lines into your little bottom."
"You'll cane me anyway." I don't know why I said it. I was sure he was going to cane me, yes, but saying that in that situation was bordering on insolence and insubordination, and was one of the few things I could do to make my situation worse in many ways.
Mr Marsden smiled - a thin smile that sent shivers down my back. And I realized I was shivering now. It was very cold and I was very scared.
"Yes, I do believe I will. So Master Rysher, you will tell me which of those boys you helped to cheat - or I will decide that they all cheated. And I will bring them in here one by one. And I will give them six of my best each across their bottoms. And then I will tell them that you dobbed them in so I would spare you from the cane."
At this point I needed to urinate very badly. Badly enough that along with my shaking I started to seriously fear that I would wet myself. He'd got me. Checkmated me. Snookered me. Maybe if I had had a better state of mind, I could have found a way.
Instead I shuffled through the photographs and handed him the three of boys I had helped.
"These ones, Sir."
"Thank you, Master Rysher. You may go."
I stood up unsteadily in surprise. Wasn't he going to cane me?
Of course he was.
"I will see you back here at 6.30 sharp this evening, Rysher, when I will thrash your little bottom six times very hard indeed with my cane. Do not be late. Now get out of my sight."
I turned and left the room - and bolted up the stairs, heading for the toilets. I ran past a sixth form boy who I realized was Andrew Blackwood. I just made it to the toilets in time to avoid complete and total humiliation, and when I went to wash my hands, Andrew Blackwood stood there.
"Damn it, Nathan - I'm sorry."
"What for?" I realized with horror that I was starting to cry. "You didn't turn me in." God, I was crying and I hadn't even been caned yet. I hoped that Blackwood would think I had been caned.
"No, I didn't - but when I saw him take you out of the dining hall - well, I knew he'd caught you somehow. And I wish I'd warned you - but I didn't think he'd catch you."
"It's all right."
He handed me a handkerchief. "Has he caned you yet?"
I wouldn't lie. "No."
"I didn't think so - he seems to like to string things out. 6.30 tonight then?"
"Yeah."
"Damn."
I leaned against the wall trying to dry my eyes - I had a day of classes ahead of me to get through.
"I'm screwed, Blackwood."
"Call me Andy - and yeah, you are. Marsden is bloody good with his cane. He made me cry last night."
"No, I don't mean that... I gave him names, Andy."
"Yeah? Whose?"
"Whitehood, Bill Taylor, and Sprat."
"Yeah, well, those three are all old hands like me - they won't like it, but six from Marsden isn't going to kill them."
"Yeah, but I dobbed on them!"
"Oh, is that what it worrying you? Listen Nathan... Marsden's a cunning bugger when it comes to finding a way of getting to cane someone and everybody knows it. You're going to get caned so it's obvious you didn't do a deal. So how'd he get you to cough up names?"
"He had their names - and he said he'd cane them anyway and tell them I dobbed and he'd cane other people too and tell them I'd dobbed and..." I was really crying now. Blackwood put an arm on my shoulder and steered me outside the toilets into the outside world.
"Yeah, that sounds his speed. Listen, Nathan - don't you worry about it. I'll talk to them and tell them what happened. You did the right thing, OK - you haven't broken any codes. It's OK to give over names of the guilty if it's the only way you can protect the innocent. I'll talk to them - and nobody is going to hold it against you. You can't always win with a Master. Especially one as slippery as that one."
I spent the day in a state of suppressed fear. I was scared of being caned by Mr Marsden. I really, really was. And I knew that something wasn't exactly right about what was happening to me - but at the same time I had to admit I was genuinely guilty, so what could I do?
I really didn't want to be caned. I really, really didn't. Of course, I never wanted to be caned - but this was an unusually strong feeling. I knew I deserved it - but at the same time, I didn't think I did. And I knew it was really going to hurt. As a caning always did. But I feared more than just the physical pain.
I didn't eat all day - I felt sick at the thought of eating. I didn't drink either because I had developed a terror I would wet myself when Mr Marsden caned me. Normally we couldn't get away with not eating at meals, but Blackwood was on my table and he had a quiet word with my House Captain when he queried me.
Just after six, I headed up to my dormitory. And I decided to do something I very rarely did. I decided to pad myself.
Padding was frowned upon, both by the boys and by the staff, in all normal situations. In general we boys believed that if you earned a punishment, the honourable thing to do was to take that punishment. And the staff certainly frowned on boys attempting to avoid their just deserts. If padding was detected, there was a very high probability that a boy would be sent to the Headmaster, who would be very likely to flog him. For both these reasons - a sense of honour and a fear of more severe punishment, I very rarely padded even when I had the chance. But this time, I was so afraid and I didn't think the punishment was entirely fair though I couldn't really say why. And so I padded. I did it in the most basic way possible - I took off my shorts and put on a second pair of underpants and then put my shorts back on. I went and found my best friend, William Connolly and he looked me over and pronounced my padding undetectable and so just before 6.30 I headed to Mr Marsden's office. It was freezing cold outside and dark, and I walked down the stairs and I knocked. I was there at 6.30 sharp, but Mr Marsden wasn't. He left me standing there in the cold outside his office for over 40 minutes before he finally arrived. He unlocked the door and let me in.
Inside his office, the furniture had been slightly rearranged. One of the wooden chairs had been placed against a wall. The other was in the middle of the largest open space in the office floor. A towel - a horrible light brown towel - had been draped over the back of the chair, and a volume of what looked like the encyclopedia Britannica had been placed on the ground directly behind the chair.
Mr Marsden was wearing his gown - something he didn't often do - Masters at our school wore them sometimes and some more than others, but I'd rarely seen him in his outside of formal occasions. He walked to his desk and picked up his cane where it was sitting waiting. The room was still freezing cold - maybe the man had a high metabolism because he showed no signs of noticing.
"You are a naughty little boy? What are you?"
"I am a naughty little boy, Sir."
"What happens to naughty little boys?"
I looked at my feet. "They get their bottoms caned."
"They get their little bottoms caned."
"They get their little bottoms caned."
"Naughty little boys get their naughty little bottoms caned. What happens?"
"Naughty little boys get their naughty little bottoms caned, Sir."
"Pull down your trousers."
I was shocked and stunned. Mr Marsden was not allowed to flog boys - I knew absolutely that that power was reserved to the Headmaster and his Deputy.
"Sir! You can't flog me!"
"No, I can't. But I can check to make sure that you have not attempted to reduce the efficacy of my cane."
He was going to check for padding. And, yes, I was fairly sure he did have the right to do that. And even if he didn't, he could certainly escort me to the Matron who would have checked if he chose to. And at that point, he would be able to send me to the Headmaster - and he could flog me. He had done it once before.
I slowly undid my belt, and then the buttons of my shorts. He stood there watching. I lowered my shorts to my knees and stood up hoping against hope that perhaps my outer pair of underpants perfectly covered my inner pair.
He tucked his cane under his arm and stepped forward, putting his hands in the waist band of my outer pair and pulled them down exposing the second pair. Then he tugged those down as well, and straightened up. I now stood there exposed. Nudity like this didn't normally embarrass me - I was naked in front of adults quite a lot - in the House and in the change rooms after sport - but this time I did feel embarrassed and ashamed.
"You silly, silly little boy."
I looked down at my feet in shame.
"Take off your shorts."
I had to take my shoes off to get my shorts off, and I did so in silence, though by now I was very close to crying.
"Take off your underpants."
I stripped off the outer pair.
"And the other pair."
I looked up at him. "But, Sir..."
"I can't cane you on the bare bottom, Rysher. But there's no rule that says I have to let you wear underpants under your shorts. Take them off - unless you want to walk across to the Headmaster dressed as you are right now.
I stripped off the second pair of underpants. Now I had nothing between my shirt and my socks.
"Stand up straight."
I slowly did so. He looked at me.
"You are a little boy, aren't you, Rysher?"
"Yes, Sir."
He walked behind me. "And you do have a little bottom, don't you, Rysher?"
"Yes, Sir." I started to cry.
"You will have something to cry about in a moment. You will have a sore little bottom. Put your shorts back on."
I did so, quite gladly. And when I was done, he spoke again.
"Now, Rysher. I want you to bend over the back of that chair - and I want your feet on either side of the big book."
I walked forward and did as he told me to do. My feet were forced to be apart by the book between them, and the back of the chair was quite low. It was quite an uncomfortable position to be in. And I knew that in a moment discomfort would pale into insignificance.
He walked behind me, and stood on my right side - and it occurred to me for the first time that he was left handed.
"Little boys have to be able to take their punishment. So here are my rules, Master Rysher. I am going to strike your bottom six times with my cane. I will hit you as hard as I am able to do. It will hurt. If you take it like a big boy and stay in position, I will not make an issue of the fact that you tried to avoid the punishment you so richly deserve. If, however, you stand up or try to avoid the cane, I will complete the caning and then I will report you to the Headmaster for wearing two pairs of underpants."
The cane touched my bottom briefly and then I felt my whole body pushed forward and an explosion of intense pain searing across my backside. IT HURT! It really, really hurt. And I was already crying and now I was bawling my eyes out. All my effort, all my concentration went into staying down.
AGAIN! Another explosion of pain, and I know I shrieked at it. I couldn't believe how much these strokes were hurting me, and I was absolutely terrified at the thought that I had four more to come. But I kept my position - I was determined to.
A third time and oh, my GOD, the PAIN! It was searing, it was absolute agony and I was close to hyperventilating and I could not BELIEVE I had been so stupid as to put that extra pair of underpants on. I had made matters that were bad enough already, so much worse.
ANOTHER STROKE! I want to die. I want to die right now. I don't care if I go to Hell, it can't be worse than this, surely. My body is shuddering as I grip the front of the chair to force myself to stay down. Only two more, surely I can hold out for only two more!
And the fifth stroke and I know I've almost made it. I've almost beaten this bastard and it's only that thought that gives me the strength to stay down. All right, I deserve the cane and maybe I even deserve it this bad - but taking it from him is agonizing in every sense of the word.
The sixth stroke makes me scream, absolutely scream but I hold on and I stay down and I know, I know it's over. And I am crying tears of pain and tears of relief. Because I've made it. The bastard might have beaten me but I have beaten the bastard!
"Stand up."
I obey him. I straighten up and I step backwards so I can stand up straight and my hands have moved behind me to clutch my bottom and I squeeze it in the forlorn hope of reducing the pain. He places his cane on his desk, and then walks in front of me, reaching down to pick up the book, which he places next to it.
"Take your shorts off and put your underpants back on, Nathan. One pair only."
I do as I'm told. He walks around so he can see my bottom and I don't try to hide it. My shame is gone, my embarrassment is gone.
When I'm dressed, I stand up straight and look at him.
"Did the naughty little boy get his bottom caned?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Say it."
I consider rebellion - but what is the point? He will win. For now at least.
But this man... this man helped to defeat one of the greatest evils this world has ever faced.
Why does he glory so in a victory over me?
"I'm a naughty little boy who got his little bottom caned."
"You may go."