I was counting the strokes, and as the sixth one hit me, I knew I was going to survive in silence.
‘That will do,’ the voice behind me said.
I straightened up and clutched my backside as hard as I possibly could with both hands. This is always the instinctive and automatic reaction. The pain is so frightful you try to grab hold of it and tear it away, and the tighter you squeeze, the more it helps.
I did not look at the Headmaster as I hopped across the thick red carpet towards the door. The door was closed and nobody was about to open it for me, so for a couple of seconds I had to let go of my bottom with one hand to turn the doorknob. Then I was out and hopping around in the hallway of the private sanctum.
Directly across the hall from the Headmaster’s study was the assistant masters’ Common Room. They were all in there now waiting to spread out to their respective classrooms, but what I couldn’t help noticing, even in my agony, was that this door was open.
Why was it open?
Had it been left that way on purpose so that they could all hear more clearly the sound of the cane from across the hall?
Of course it had. And I felt quite sure that it was Captain Hardcastle who had opened it. I pictured him standing in there among his colleagues snorting with satisfaction at every stinging stroke.
* * *
Corporal punishment (beating or hitting a child) as a form of discipline continued in British state schools until 1986. It was banned in all other schools in 1998, although by that time most schools had stopped using it anyway.
* * *
Small boys can be very comradely when a member of their community has got into trouble, and even more so when they feel an injustice has been done. When I returned to the classroom, I was surrounded on all sides by sympathetic faces and voices, but one particular incident has always stayed with me. A boy of my own age called Highton was so violently incensed by the whole affair that he said to me before lunch that day, ‘You don’t have a father. I do. I am going to write to my father and tell him what has happened and he’ll do something about it.’
‘He couldn’t do anything,’ I said.
‘Oh yes he could,’ Highton said. ‘And what’s more he will. My father won’t let them get away with this.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s in Greece,’ Highton said. ‘In Athens. But that won’t make any difference.’
* * *
Douglas Highton was great friends with Roald Dahl at St Peter’s. He was slightly older than Roald Dahl, but was in the same section. They went out on trips together, along with Highton’s younger brother and mother. When Highton earned a scholarship to Oakham School, all the boys at St Peter’s were given half a day’s holiday to celebrate!
* * *
Then and there, little Highton sat down and wrote to the father he admired so much, but of course nothing came of it. It was nevertheless a touching and generous gesture from one small boy to another and I have never forgotten it.
* * *
This is Roald Dahl’s class.
* * *
* * *
How I Became a Writer
I have still got all my school reports from those days more than fifty years ago, and I’ve gone through them one by one, trying to discover a hint of promise for a future fiction writer. The subject to look at was obviously English Composition. But all my prep-school reports under this heading were flat and non-committal, excepting one. The one that took my eye was dated Christmas Term, 1928. I was then twelve, and my English teacher was Mr Victor Corrado, I remember him vividly, a tall, handsome athlete with black wavy hair and a Roman nose (who one night later on eloped with the matron, Miss Davis, and we never saw either of them again). Anyway, it so happened that Mr Corrado took us in boxing as well as in English Compositon, and in this particular report it said under English, ‘See his report on boxing. Precisely the same marks apply.’ So we look under Boxing, and there it says, ‘Too slow and ponderous. His punches are not well-timed and are easily seen coming.’
But just once a week at this school, every Saturday morning, every beautiful and blessed Saturday morning, all the shivering horrors would disappear and for two glorious hours I would experience something that came very close to ecstasy.
Unfortunately, this did not happen until one was ten years old. But no matter. Let me tell you what it was.
At exactly ten-thirty on Saturday mornings, Mr Pople’s infernal bell would go clangetty-clang-clang. This was a signal for the following to take place:
First, all boys of nine and under (about seventy all told) would proceed at once to the large outdoor asphalt playground behind the main building. Standing on the playground with legs apart and arms folded across her mountainous bosom was Miss Davis, the matron. If it was raining, the boys were expected to arrive in raincoats. If snowing or blowing a blizzard, then it was coats and scarves. And school caps, of course – grey with a red badge on the front – had always to be worn. But no Act of God, neither tornado nor hurricane nor volcanic eruption was ever allowed to stop those ghastly two-hour Saturday morning walks that the seven-, eight- and nine-year-old little boys had to take along the windy esplanades of Weston-super-Mare on Saturday mornings. They walked in crocodile formation, two by two, with Miss Davis striding alongside in tweed skirt and woollen stockings and a felt hat that must surely have been nibbled by rats.