My first serious conflict with the establishment took place
at Carr Lane Middle school, I was pulled out of a line for bad behavior. Of
course I was innocent of breaking any rules but it would be many years before
the idea of human rights emerged as a legal privilege, in those days the
teacher was the sole judge, jury and executioner.
Every morning no matter if it was raining, snowing or
blowing a gale we had to wait outside in the playground before the start of
school. A teacher blew a whistle that signaled the start of school and then each
class had to form a single line of its own. Then each class took turns in
walking through the school door into the cloakroom where we left our coats and
from there directly to our classrooms, regulations demanded that this procedure
had to take place in complete silence and with military precision.
To this day I don’t really understand what I’d done wrong
because it all happened so quickly, I think I laughed or smiled at the wrong
time. On this morning the teacher was a particularly strict battle axe who went
by the nickname of “Mrs. Spitfire” because of the spittle that would emerge
from her mouth when she was angry. I remember someone in the ranks said “watch
out it’s Mrs. Spitfire” and this caused her to wade into the lines and pick a
bunch of boys located in my vicinity, interestingly the girls around me had
behaved perfectly.
Mrs. Spitfire was a huge fan of corporal punishment, she had
a collection of canes that she’d use to strike the open palm of your hand.
Legend had it that this was not only painful but that parents would be able to
see the mark left behind and further punishment at home was to be expected
because you’d disgraced the family by being naughty. Once I’d been pulled to
the side I knew my fate was going to a good whack on the hand, just the thought
of it was bringing me close to tears but I had to try and look brave because my
friends would have enjoyed making fun of me acting like a big girl.
The school was designed with one long corridor consisting of
six class rooms on each of the two floors, at the ends of the corridor there
was a staircase that connected the two
floors. My class room was on the ground floor and Mrs. Spitfire had a classroom
in the middle of the top floor. There was about 15 fellow pupils in the line of
condemned boys and we were the last line to be allowed into the school, Mrs.
Spitfire counted us and told us to get out of our coats and form a line in the
corridor.
I found myself second in line behind a regular “victim” of
Mrs. Spitfire, once we were all ready Mrs. Spitfire instructed us to walk to
her classroom. She led the line to the stairs and then she paused halfway up the
staircase where she made certain that the end of the line continued to follow.
I’m not particularly religious but even at that early age I could appreciate
having a priest administer the last rights could be comforting for a boy about
to meet his maker.
Then we reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner,
for a brief moment we were out of sight of Mrs. Spitfire, below I could hear
her telling the stragglers in the line to get a move on. It was then that the
boy in front of me started to sprint to the end of the corridor, due to some
kind of survival instinct I followed. I remember being way faster than anything
Usain Bolt has achieved. Within seconds we reached the stairs at the other end
and didn’t look back as we rounded the corner. It was a brilliant move, Mrs.
Spitfire didn’t see anything because she was concerned about the back of the
line. It was strange but my partner in crime and I didn’t exchange any words
throughout the entire process, we walked down the stairs, peered around the
corner to make certain that the coast was clear and then darted to the safety
of our classrooms.
I tried to hide in plain sight and retrieved my books from
my desk, I didn’t feel safe from Mrs. Spitfire’s cane because she’d counted us
and felt certain that one of the other bad boys would give us away in the hope
that their punishment would be reduced for good behavior. I was scared, I knew
I’d raised the stakes by running and no doubt faced several more strokes from
the cane if I was caught but thankfully our lessons started without interruption
from Mrs. Spitfire.
About 10 minutes later boys started drifting into our
classroom with red eyes and rubbing their palms, obviously still in
considerable pain. I felt guilty that they been punished so violently but at
the same time I was relieved that I had escaped the wrath of Mrs. Spitfire in
full swing. I decided to forget the entire episode, to pretend that I’d never
been involved, it was difficult because I was very curious about what had
happened once the line had reached Mrs. Spitfires room and she’d realized that she’d
lost two very bad boys. Looking back she didn’t seem physically strong enough to go
down a line of 15 boys and give them each a full power whack perhaps under normal circumstances the back of the line was the place to be.
At lunchtime the “regular victim” asked me if I’d been
caught and I said no, he confirmed that he’d also escaped the cane. I asked him
if he’d done that before and he said that he’d done it twice and got away with
it. He also divulged that he’d climbed out of the toilet windows three times
and once hidden under a bunch of coats. My admiration for him grew immensely
but I certainly didn’t want to become his regular partner in crime, once was
enough for me.
That’s my reality,
Jobsonian
