A Pile Up of Boys

The secretaries behind the sliding-glass panels of their office space watched us with sidelong glances as they went about their business. I guessed every day was the same for them. A pile up of boys on the cushioned seats outside the headmaster’s office. Terry sat beside me. I was slightly taller and we both wore the uniform of T-shirt and flared denim.  But he was more conspicuous with his blond bob of hair, and milky complexion.  Baldy Burnett was in with the headmaster, giving him a lowdown of our crimes.

I clutched my wrists to keep my hands from shaking. Terry turned his head and his eyes were red rimmed as if he was about to cry. The waiting killed you.  He sniffled, but sucked it in. Burnett took him into the office first, because he was nearer the door. One of the secretaries looked over at me and smiled. I wanted to explain to her that it hadn’t been my fault.

That’s when I heard the first crack of the belt and a yelp.

‘Hands up, again,’ came as a command. Another crack and sobbing.

I thought, or rather hoped it would be only two of the belt, but after a delay, and raised adult voices, both Baldy Burnett and the headmaster, I heard four more slaps. My stomach lurched and I chewed my bottom lip, and needed to pee, but the toilets were at the bottom of the stairs. When I looked up, Terry came out of the office, his hands across his chest and clutching his arms. He breathed in snot from crying.

‘In,’ Burnett fiddled with the frame of his black specs.  He followed me into the office and stood with his back to the door.

Skinnider, the headmaster, was looking out the window his hands behind his back. He was older than Burnett, grey hair spilling dandruff onto his black university robe. He ignored me, before turning and remarking in a clipped voice, ‘Well?’

‘Terry Ross has told us everything,’ Burnett said from behind me. ‘How you shoved and kicked him and started fighting with him, for no reason.’

Turning to face him, I stood my ground. ‘That’s a lie.’

I’d a special tone of voice for teachers I’d used it all the way through Primary school, taut and high pitched. When I got mad, I forgot to be frightened and all the injustice bubbled up inside me. ‘He started it. Him and his pal came up and asked me and my cousin, Big Fudgie, for a square go, before we’d even started school, or even been anywhere.’

Burnett’s eyebrows shot up into his bald head. ‘So perhaps you can kindly explain to us, why you didn’t report the incident to a teacher?’

All the fizz went out of my face and voice and I shrugged.

Burnett prowled around the desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, showing remarkably hairy arms for a baldy bloke, before turning back to face me. ‘And if, as if you say, your cousin, “Big Fudgie” was also asked to fight. Then, how come, he’s not here now—with you?’

‘Cause he shat it,’ I said.

‘Perhaps he was just being sensible,’ the headmaster chipped in. ‘Knows how to behave like a human being.’

I thought he was going to say more and my head dropped and I stared at the grey squares of carpet tiles. My hands were shaking again.

But it was Burnett that picked up the slack. He looked like an emu grinning.   ‘And this cousin of yours, ‘Big Fudgie,’ what’s his full name?’ He glanced at the headmaster. ‘So we can corroborate your story.’   

They both stared at me. Sweat prickled my forehead. And my ears were going red as my cheeks, as if my head had been boiled. ‘Dunno.’

Burnett sighed. ‘It should be easy enough to find out who Fudgie is, the name’s derivative and a quick check of the registration roll…’ but he wasn’t really talking to me, he was talking to the headmaster.

‘Let’s get this farce over with,’ said the headmaster. He squinted at Burnett through bushy eyebrows. ‘You want to do the honours?’

‘If you like.’ Burnett picked up the tawse from the back of the chair where it was hanging. I clutched at my fingers as if praying until my knuckles whitened. Then the phone rang on the headmaster’s desk. Somehow it leaped into my head it was a reprieve. But the headmaster sat down in his chair and there was a chuckle in his voice as he answered the phone. He waved us away, as if the matter was already dealt with.

‘Come with me,’ Burnett was following orders. He pulled open the door and held it for me to walk through ahead of him, in his other hand, clutching the belt. Terry was scrunched up and sunk into the chair, but he’d wiped the snot from his face and he watched us pass.

Burnett’s office door was the other side of the glass panels. He swept into his room and I trudged in behind him. His office was smaller than the headmaster’s, but had the same desk with a phone on it and an office chair. He’d a coat rack behind the door on which hung his long tweed coat which smelled damp and a deerstalker hat. It was like having a witness to assault.

‘Hands up,’ he ordered me.

I knew the starting positon from Primary school. Nobody went through school without getting the belt unless they were a girl. Even then, some teachers belted girls, as well as boys, if the class had been whispering when they left the classroom. Arms out, hands extended, palms out, one hand on top of the other, fingers extended. I was never sure what to do with my thumb. Bring it in to the index finger to protect the wrists with the meat of the hand, or splay it out to protect the thumb.

The first blow sent a jolt through my body, he’d caught me half way up the wrist and I felt the fire in my arms and hands. But I kept my arms up and shuffled my hands. The left hand and wrist taking the next blow. Some teachers weren’t good at the belt. What we meant by that was they just slapped the belt down on your hands, without any great enthusiasm. Usually, it was a woman teacher that took that stance. ‘She’s shite at the belt,’ we’d say, in a fit of bravado and snigger, but even then, it still hurt.

Burnett was not a woman and he swung with the full force of man almost six-foot, and four to five stone heavier than me. The older boys had said that your hands go numb after two of the belt and you don’t feel anything. That was a worse lie than she was shite at the belt. Burnett was good at the belt. Practiced.

 ‘One.’ He stamped his foot when he brought the belt down. He counted out the strokes, in case I forgot.

‘Two.’ He took a step back to give himself a bowler’s momentum and his navy blue tie jumped forward.

‘Three.’ He licked his lips, and I could smell the sweat from the underarm patch showing on his white shirt.  

‘Four.’ He did his best to make sure the next stroke landed where the previous one had scalded me to cause maximum pain.

‘Five.’  I dropped my hands, but didn’t cry out and chalked that up as a win. He waited for me to raise them again, and glanced out the window. I followed his gaze. A squawking seagull perched on top of the PE block, below it the grass arena, where Terry and me had fought. He could see everything from his office. It was no surprise that he’d suddenly appeared among us, with other teachers as backup.

‘Six.’ He clutched the belt tight in his sweaty palms to make sure the last one counted.

He nodded and smiled. ‘You did well,’ he addressed me in a blokey tone as if we’d been playing the same game. He rolled his shirt sleeves down and buttoned the cuffs on his wrists.

I couldn’t zip up my bomber jacket. My hands started with my elbows. I folded it over my arm. I pushed my red Adidas bag up over my shoulder so I didn’t have to carry it. I’m not sure how I made it to the next class. I felt like skulking off to the toilets and crying, but I never would. I never would.