noisily.
The other two boys followed and I was saved until last. None of the others had made any noise, or reacted much at all. I did. I cried out in pain and was told to shut up. When we got back to the classroom and gingerly sat down, Mercieca said, ‘Blimey! He hit you much harder than us!’
It wasn’t just the stinging pain or the humiliation of having my backside flogged for a mere matter of forgetfulness, it was the terrifying transformation of Father G from paternal, holy priest who fed me the Body of Christ at mass to furious strap-wielding monster. It was a lesson in life that I would never forget.
The next day in geography he tried to resume the jolly banter that had always been a hallmark of our relationship. I was having none of it. If he asked me a question I gave a monosyllabic answer and gazed wistfully out of the window: also, presumably, a beatable offence, but he got the message.
I never willingly spoke to him again.
Beatings were an everyday occurrence, though, and I’m sure that part of me felt I had somehow graduated. I was ‘one of the boys’, or so I liked to think. Usually boys were beaten in the carpeted office over the armchair, but if your crime was a particularly heinous one then a ‘public execution’ was in order.
Later Robert Heinz had one of these, although I can’t remember what for. He was called onto the stage during morning assembly (after prayers), his misdemeanour announced and then he was told to bend over. We all held our breath as he was given six very hefty stripes with all the energy Father G could muster. It was terribly shocking to witness, a bit like seeing news footage of someone being beheaded in Rwanda.
Afterwards in the cloakroom he dropped his trousers and showed us the thick, blood-red welts that criss-crossed his buttocks, one or two on the back of his thighs where the headmaster had missed, or maybe Heinz had been involuntarily propelled forward with the velocity of the previous hit. Heinz wasn’t tearful about it like I had been – he was furious, calling Father G all the names under the sun.
A week later he got his revenge.
We were all in on it. Heinz had sneaked into the office during lunchbreak and stolen the strap. Everyone had a close look at it, this evil weapon that had caused so much pain to so many of us. I held it upright and it flopped from side to side like one of those extra-extra large penises you occasionally encounter (or I do), which take forever to become fully tumescent.
The next morning at assembly there was a tangible atmosphere of excitement. Father G stormed in, face like a bag of spanners. No prayers, no announcements, he got straight to the point.
‘Some boy in this school has stolen the strap. Unless it is returned to me by three o’clock this afternoon, or unless someone tells me the boy responsible, I shall beat the entire school.’ Then he left.
We were all aghast. A mass public execution had never been known!
A few cowardly boys (notably all from the ‘a’ stream) pleaded with Heinz to do the decent thing and save us all, but not many. We were brave and resolute.
So at five minutes past three that afternoon, the entire middle school of St Benedict’s was told to line up in the playground. Almost two hundred boys waited in silence until Father G marched out brandishing a cricket bat.
‘Who’s first?’ he barked.
And then he beat us all. One whack each. Just a token really, a symbolic mini sting which only succeeded in uniting us all in adversity. I made sure I was towards the back of the queue so he’d rather run out of puff by the time he had his second bash at me.
MY RELIGIOUS FERVOUR waned a bit after that, although when Hildebrand died following a nasty bout of cystitis she was given a full Catholic requiem mass. I placed her in a shoebox full of cotton wool, buried her tearfully among the rose bushes and marked the spot with a home-made crucifix. Afterwards I stood there having a good cry and my
The other two boys followed and I was saved until last. None of the others had made any noise, or reacted much at all. I did. I cried out in pain and was told to shut up. When we got back to the classroom and gingerly sat down, Mercieca said, ‘Blimey! He hit you much harder than us!’
It wasn’t just the stinging pain or the humiliation of having my backside flogged for a mere matter of forgetfulness, it was the terrifying transformation of Father G from paternal, holy priest who fed me the Body of Christ at mass to furious strap-wielding monster. It was a lesson in life that I would never forget.
The next day in geography he tried to resume the jolly banter that had always been a hallmark of our relationship. I was having none of it. If he asked me a question I gave a monosyllabic answer and gazed wistfully out of the window: also, presumably, a beatable offence, but he got the message.
I never willingly spoke to him again.
Beatings were an everyday occurrence, though, and I’m sure that part of me felt I had somehow graduated. I was ‘one of the boys’, or so I liked to think. Usually boys were beaten in the carpeted office over the armchair, but if your crime was a particularly heinous one then a ‘public execution’ was in order.
Later Robert Heinz had one of these, although I can’t remember what for. He was called onto the stage during morning assembly (after prayers), his misdemeanour announced and then he was told to bend over. We all held our breath as he was given six very hefty stripes with all the energy Father G could muster. It was terribly shocking to witness, a bit like seeing news footage of someone being beheaded in Rwanda.
Afterwards in the cloakroom he dropped his trousers and showed us the thick, blood-red welts that criss-crossed his buttocks, one or two on the back of his thighs where the headmaster had missed, or maybe Heinz had been involuntarily propelled forward with the velocity of the previous hit. Heinz wasn’t tearful about it like I had been – he was furious, calling Father G all the names under the sun.
A week later he got his revenge.
We were all in on it. Heinz had sneaked into the office during lunchbreak and stolen the strap. Everyone had a close look at it, this evil weapon that had caused so much pain to so many of us. I held it upright and it flopped from side to side like one of those extra-extra large penises you occasionally encounter (or I do), which take forever to become fully tumescent.
The next morning at assembly there was a tangible atmosphere of excitement. Father G stormed in, face like a bag of spanners. No prayers, no announcements, he got straight to the point.
‘Some boy in this school has stolen the strap. Unless it is returned to me by three o’clock this afternoon, or unless someone tells me the boy responsible, I shall beat the entire school.’ Then he left.
We were all aghast. A mass public execution had never been known!
A few cowardly boys (notably all from the ‘a’ stream) pleaded with Heinz to do the decent thing and save us all, but not many. We were brave and resolute.
So at five minutes past three that afternoon, the entire middle school of St Benedict’s was told to line up in the playground. Almost two hundred boys waited in silence until Father G marched out brandishing a cricket bat.
‘Who’s first?’ he barked.
And then he beat us all. One whack each. Just a token really, a symbolic mini sting which only succeeded in uniting us all in adversity. I made sure I was towards the back of the queue so he’d rather run out of puff by the time he had his second bash at me.
MY RELIGIOUS FERVOUR waned a bit after that, although when Hildebrand died following a nasty bout of cystitis she was given a full Catholic requiem mass. I placed her in a shoebox full of cotton wool, buried her tearfully among the rose bushes and marked the spot with a home-made crucifix. Afterwards I stood there having a good cry and my
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