LITMIR.BIZ

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how you’re progressing at school.’

      Maybe I should have kept quiet?

      Dad often threatened he’d visit my headmaster if I misbehaved. Mum came into the room as if on cue. It was as if she’d been listening from the kitchen. ‘That’s unnecessarily harsh, Bill. Masters and teachers are strict. The female teachers shout a lot, which unsettles him. Male masters cane, which frightens him. His sports master uses a cricket bat.’ Mum drew me close, and gave me a cuddle. I felt in that moment that I had an ally. But deep down I knew that even together, we were no match for Dad.

      ‘They don’t cane for fun, Alice. Spare the rod and spoil the child is an accepted maxim. If he behaves then he won’t get smacked. That’s partly why he’s at Eaton House School.’

      Dad locked eyes with me to make sure there would be no misunderstanding. ‘Punishment for minor offences, young man, is writing out lines in Latin while you’re in detention. For more serious mischief like rowdy behaviour they cane. Right?’

      ‘Yes, Dad,’ I mumbled.

      Being sent to the headmaster’s study usually involved a lecture across his aircraft carrier sized desk. It was often followed by up to six of the best with his bamboo cane. But our sports master provided the additional indignity of bending us over the back of his chair after we’d dropped our trousers and undies around our ankles.

      Other masters never caned like that. Those bare arse canings left more than the ghosts of summers past. They left long, sore red welts, which I tried to avoid.

      Dad prepared to light his pipe. I noticed his hands were shaking. He glared at me. ‘You have absolutely no idea, do you?’

      Unsure what he meant, I shook my head.

      ‘I left school at 14 to get a job and contribute to the home. I put food on the table. I became a combat pilot at 19. It’s a bloody miracle I survived the war and that I’m here at all. I’m telling you, Son. Men I knew died so you can sleep soundly at night. There’s times I can’t sleep, especially when I have bad dreams.’

      Mum interrupted. ‘Bill, please be gentle. He’s too young.’

      Dad took a deep breath. He continued slowly. ‘On top of everything the RAF threw at me, I had to put up with people making fun of my name, too! That’s another reason I changed my name. To save you going through all that.’

      Mum placed her hand gently on Dad’s arm. He calmed further, while I cried.

      

      My best friend, David, and I were queued up with the school to enter the swimming baths. He was a few inches shorter than me, stockier in build but the same age. We were dressed in layers to keep out the stiff northeast winds that bite across London from the North Sea even in springtime. We’d broken into huddles to shelter as best we could from the wind and rain.

      David looked miserable. His voice was muffled. ‘I don’t like Tuesdays, do you?’ Only his brown eyes and runny nose were visible between his school scarf and cap.

      ‘No, me neither.’ I tightened my cold fingers in my soft leather gloves.

      ‘Why do we have to learn to swim anyway?’ David whined. ‘I don’t like water. Do you?’ His words sounded thick only to be whipped away on the wind.

      ‘No. I don’t. But my dad says to hear me carry on it sounds more like a bad day in Northern Island than a school outing to the swimming baths.’

      ‘No talking, Hickman,’ snapped our sports master in the nasal twang of north London. ‘Silence in line or you’ll be reported when we get back to the headmaster.’

      He paused, ‘That is unless I deal with you, my way,’ he added with a smirk. He moved on.

      My guts churned. If I didn’t watch out I could be in the running for a bare arse caning. But at least he didn’t call me Honey.

      ‘I can’t feel my toes,’ David whispered as he shuffled and stamped his feet.

      ‘Me neither.’

      We cuddled our satchels as if they were our favourite teddies. I would have liked to manage a smile but hated these visits with the same intensity as appointments with the chiropodist, which often followed these memorable outings. On my last visit she hacked out a verruca from the underside of my right foot. Crippled, I hobbled about for days.

      As we filed in a strong smell of chlorine made me feel sick. I plunged into sulk mode again. These dreadful baths outings and the legacies of what followed them had got me down. Now name wise I had another worry. I wondered what Dad had meant when he said, ‘That’s another reason I changed my name.’ If there was another reason besides what he’d told me, I worried about what it might be?

      After we’d disrobed and put on our swimming trunks we jockeyed towards the shallow end to enter the water. My teeth chattered even before I ventured in with my big toe.

      Now, how best to get in and avoid a bare arse caning?

      A few courageous fellows jumped in. Others like David and I edged slowly down the steps. We complained loudly, which amused our sports master. Half way in and my testicles retreated up around my ears.

      ‘Once in, your skill levels range from chimpanzees to hapless water buffalo,’ he said.

      David forced a grin and looked around. ‘There seems to be few water enthusiasts among us.’

      Although the building was heated I noticed our sports master never removed his outer coat. Lucky bugger, I thought. His modern attire and colourful bowtie remained hidden beneath his scarf, coat and hat. He was tall, built like a greyhound, with long dark hair silvering at the temples. His neat goatee beard, barely visible behind his scarf, looked as if it had been pencilled onto his face. Inwardly, I smiled. I decided I’d nickname him goatee master.

      I ran my idea past David. ‘What do you think?’

      David was unsure. ‘As long as the rotten sod doesn’t get wind of it, I suppose.’

      Goatee master settled comfortably onto a bench seat near a heater. At school in class when he took us for English Literature, I half expected to see him squint through a monocle but he never did.

      He filled his elegant long silver cigarette holder. Then crossed one leg over the other and leaned back heavily against the tiled wall. From there he could view us, the unwilling entertainment. As he scanned his charges I noticed him shoot a glance at my goose-pimpled torso. My eyes for a moment met his. He inhaled deeply, ‘What if you nearly drown, boy?’ he sounded almost hopeful. Then after a pause, ‘nearly being not near enough,’ he sniggered.

      He tried to renew his smile, which somehow never quite reached his eyes.

      I’d developed a yeoman’s job of an inferior version of the breaststroke. My head above water allowed me to breathe air and avoid those ghastly inner ear infections, which whenever I dunked my head under seemed to follow in tandem with the verrucas.

      I had not a bump of direction but neither had David. And then with the masterful strokes of salmon in their death throes, we managed to return and hug the entry rail.

      On our walk back to school the dampness had blown away. Leaves on the trees looked two shades lighter green.

      ‘I’m pleased that’s behind us for another week, David.’

      ‘I might not go next week if I can get a note from my mum.’

      I brightened up. ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll get one too.’

      I relaxed a little. So intense was my dislike of the swimming baths I pledged to use my sickly reputation to get an excuse note from Mum.

      Deep in thought about that another problem surfaced. The days I enjoyed most were our Thursday excursions to the nearby Duke of York’s

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