Teacher’s Pest

Why do we drag certain memories up from the past? In my case there’s nearly always a nasty twist waiting at the end.

I was always involved in sport at school. I played on the football and rugby teams and ran athletics. But alongside my sporting achievements, I stood out as a disruptive boy. They didn’t call it defiance disorder back then. They just called you a nuisance.

I picked up some bad habits along the way. Smoking occasionally and my wheeling and dealing landed me in constant trouble.

I remember one time dragging on a fag behind the bicycle sheds with a mate. We passed the cigarette back and forth until I spotted the teacher coming up behind my pal. As he tried to hand it back to me, I shouted, “I don’t smoke!”

He stared at me. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Mr Sammy Hoyle leaned over and snatched the cigarette from his hand while I tried to look innocent. It didn’t work. He caught us.

Hoyle was the PE teacher. An ex-rugby player who took absolutely no nonsense. We knew we were in deep trouble. He stamped the cigarette out and gave us a vicious bollocking. Then he ordered us to report to the Headmaster’s office later that day. I knew exactly what was coming. We went back to class, but I couldn’t stop fidgeting because I knew what waited for us.

We arrived at the appointed time and stood in line to face the Headmaster and Mr Hoyle. I went in first. They read out the charges and announced the punishment.

“Six of the best.”

This was going to hurt.

Mr Hoyle pulled out the bamboo cane with a smirk. A long, thin, flexible rod I knew only too well. Depending on the teacher’s preference, you got it either across the tips of your fingers or across the cheeks of your arse. I often went commando at school and silently prayed for fingers. No chance. He ordered me to bend over and grip the chair.

This was the PE teacher. A big, strong man, over six foot, and he loved to lay into us. He took no messing about. He terrified everyone. Even the other teachers were wary of him. He knew me well from sport, and knew I was a handful.

My stomach lurched as I gripped the back of the chair. He stepped up behind me. He lifted the vents of my blazer with the tip of the cane to get a good shot at my buttocks. Back then teachers could do whatever they wanted. The room went silent.

He judged the distance. Moved the cane backwards and forwards, measuring the stroke. The bamboo hissed a warning as it sliced the air inches from my trousers. I squirmed at the sound. I knew he was doing it on purpose to heighten the torture.

Then the air whooshed.

He swung that long bamboo cane so far back I thought he actually jumped off the ground to drive the cane deep into my flesh.

Whack!

I clenched my arse and strangled the chair until my knuckles stood out like white arrows. The cane connected with a dull thud that turned instantly into a line of angry bees. It wasn’t just pain. It was a shock of electric stings searing through my thin cotton trousers. Tears filled my eyes as I bit my lip until I tasted salt. Trust me, it didn’t just sting.

On the final stroke, relief flooded through me. I staggered out of the office with my teeth gritted. My mate stared at me, pure terror on his face as he pushed the door open. I waddled past him, rubbing my swollen cheeks.

That night I got home with six bright red and purple welts across my backside. I went straight to my dad and told him the story, missing out the bit about getting caught smoking. I even dropped my trousers so he could see the evidence of my humiliation.

He only said, “Well son, you must have deserved it.”

Jesus, I was wasting my time looking for sympathy, in this house!  I thought afterwards 

       Reflection

Spare the rod spoil the child.

My upbringing wasn’t exactly quiet, so perhaps he had a point. Our house was a madhouse. Shouting, scraping by for rent, dodging debt collectors. Dinner was whatever we could find in the cupboard. Rules were broken. You learned to shout louder than the rest of the family or you didn’t get heard. That makes you a bit crazy. You bring that shit into the classroom and wonder why the teacher glares at you like you’re an alien.

Memory gets hazy sometimes, but this one sticks. They banned the cane in state schools back in the late 1980s. Though I bet a fair few teachers wish they could still reach for the stick when the classroom gets rowdy. Back then we expected it. You crossed the teacher, you took the stick.

I carry no anger about it now. Even Sammy Hoyle turned out to be a decent bloke when I ran into him years later. But when you’re a kid, you see them as the enemy. I was never going to win any prizes for good behaviour. Looking back, they had a job I wouldn’t be able to cope with today.

Our school lived for rugby. Proper tackles, the lot. Mates of mine went on to play rugby professionally and for their country. I’m sure in part it was because of the discipline Mr Hoyle instilled in them on and off the pitch. Sometimes I wonder if I should have stuck at it. But we take different paths.

That caning was painful. Teachers ruled by force because society let them. Today people talk about the damage, but I survived. I learned. The marks healed. Hoyle might have been a sadist in a tracksuit, or perhaps I was a masochist given the amount of thrashings I took at that school over the years, but time changed my mind. What looked like viciousness back then looks more like discipline now. We grow up, we realise we were just frightened boys gripping a chair. We understand.

To be fair, if Mr Hoyle was still around, he’d probably say I was a rum little bastard. When I look back, it’s probably true.

Aw well, we live and squirm.