by Gary Kane
I blame Mr Jenkins, our economics teacher. He was always banging on about how all private property was theft; and how the proletariat had a duty to expropriate the means of production; and, occasionally (on the rare occasions he accidentally overlapped the curriculum) how important it was to bring commodities to market to realise their value. So when I saw a large garden full of apples just lying on the ground from an upstairs seat on a bus, I realised that I had a solemn duty to expropriate them and bring them to market. If I charged my schoolmates half the price that the local supermarket did for their vacuum-packed ones, which were probably injected with all sorts of artificial colourings and preservatives, I would make a small fortune. And, what is more, I would also be providing my schoolmates with a healthier option. It seemed like a win-win situation.
So, the next morning, equipped with a large holdall that I normally used for my sports gear, I left the house at the usual time but got off the bus one stop early at the house with the apples. Checking that no-one was around, I threw my bag over the high wall that divided the garden from a side entry and then climbed in after it. I had almost filled the bag when I heard a woman's voice yell at me:
"Hey you, stop thief!"
I wondered if, in the entire history of crime, any thief had ever stopped when called upon. Not wishing to be the first, I did what any self-respecting criminal would have done under the circumstances and made a dash towards the wall that would provide my means of escape. Looking behind me, I realised that the woman had made no attempt to chase me, but even if she did I could easily get over the wall before she caught up. So, to strike another blow for the downtrodden proletariat in their ceaseless struggle against class exploitation, I dropped my pants and mooned her before escaping over the wall. I thought by the look of shock on her face she might succumb to apoplexy.
I did not stop laughing until I reached school. My school has a very strict policy about absenteeism and coming in late, but the roll call is never taken until the second class, so as long as I made it to my second class in time no-one would be any the wiser. I also knew that the caretaker left a door at the back of the school unlocked because he could not be bothered to unlock it each time he had to carry out a bin or just went out for a smoke. So, using my secret entrance, I could avoid going in by the main door of the school - the only other unlocked door at that time of day - which would have required me to declare myself late.
So, after waiting until the end of the first period, when people would be making their way to their second class, I climbed over the wall at the back of the school, carefully avoiding the broken glass that had been cemented into the top of the wall decades before in an attempt to deter intruders, and made my way to my secret entrance. After effecting entry without any problems, I hid my holdall in a safe place and made my way to Mr English's class.
Mr English is not his real name. His grandfather had been a Polish fighter pilot in the Battle of Britain and had bequeathed him an unpronounceable name about 20 letters long, totally devoid of any useful vowels, so we just called him Mr English because that is what he teaches. He was droning on that day about some play written by Shakespeare. I have never understood what people see in that guy. After all, he could not even spell his own name consistently and it is not as if he wrote in proper English that ordinary folk could understand. However, I enjoyed Mr English's classes - they always provided a chance to catch up on my sleep.
I was gazing out the window when the beautiful Gloria entered the room and disrupted my reverie. Gloria is one of the headmaster's two secretaries. She was only a year or two older than us and drop-dead gorgeous. However, she is a terrible tease. Her short skirts barely covered her crotch, revealing the sexiest legs you have ever seen, whilst her tops generally provided much more than just a hint of cleavage. She had half the male population in the school, including the teachers, in a state of permanent priapism. I, and some of the other senior boys, had often told her what we would like to do with her behind the bicycle sheds, but she would invariably reply, "In your dreams, sunshine," but then give us a come-on smile that suggested she might be up for it. However, to the best of my knowledge she never did, and I cannot imagine anyone doing the dirty with her and managing to keep quiet about it afterwards.
Gloria handed Mr English a note which he read and then looking up at me he said, "It would seem that your presence is required in the head's study, Johnson."
"Me?" I asked in surprise. A visit to the headmaster's study rarely bode well, but I thought I had managed to keep well below his radar.
"Yes, you," Mr English affirmed.
Having delivered her missive, Gloria and I left together. Outside, in the corridor, I asked if she fancied a quick detour via the bicycle sheds.
"I would love to," she gushed, "but unfortunately I have to go to the post office for Mrs Crankshaw," she added, before giving me one of her special come-on smiles. Bitch.
Mrs Crankshaw was the headmaster's senior secretary, or 'personal assistant' as she preferred to style herself. She was a real battleaxe of a woman who hated me with a vengeance. The feeling was mutual. She never missed an opportunity to wallow in my misfortune. I don't think she had ever forgiven me for leaving a drawing pin on her chair (much to Gloria's amusement, I might add).
I knocked on the door to the outer office.
"Come," Mrs Crankshaw barked. "Ah, Mr Johnson. In trouble again, I see. Such a shame," she smirked in faux sympathy as I entered the office. "You are expected, so just go straight through," she said, indicating the door to the inner office.
I knocked on the door and entered, expecting to see Mr Blanchard the headmaster. Instead I was met by a tall middle-aged woman.
"Mr Johnson, I presume," she said.
"Er, yes. Who are you?"
"Ms Jacobs, but you will address me as 'ma'am'," she said officiously.
"Where is Mr Blanchard?"
"Mr Blanchard is taking a short vacation due to scurrilous allegations that he caned one of the senior girls without a witness being present - not that it is any of your business. I have been appointed as his replacement until these vile accusations have been investigated. Now tell me, Johnson, are you aware that Mr Blanchard had CCTV installed about a month ago at the janitor's door?"
"Er, no," I replied with a sinking feeling. I could see where this was headed.
"No, I thought not. Apparently he was concerned about the number of smoking breaks the janitor was taking. But guess who else the camera managed to catch?"
It seemed like a rhetorical question, but she paused waiting for an answer.
"I don't know, Miss," I replied, hoping against hope that maybe it might be someone else.
She swivelled her computer screen so that I could see the frozen frame from the tape. It was a very clear image of me, time-stamped at 9.38.
"Look familiar?"
"Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss." It was time to appeal to her better nature, although I was soon to discover she did not have one.
"Now if I was to check the tapes for the past month do you think I might find further evidence of you arriving late?" she pressed.
A 'no' answer could be easily refuted, so I said nothing. She took my silence as a 'yes'.
"I thought so. Do you have a valid explanation for why you have got into the habit of entering late by the janitor's door?"
"I did not want to create extra work for the staff by coming through the front door," I tentatively suggested.
"Very considerate of you, I'm sure," she sneered. "But it does not explain why you are persistently late. I am afraid there is only one way to deal with recidivists like you. Bend over the chair and drop your pants."
"You're not going to cane me just for being late, are you?" I asked, horrified at the prospect of being caned by a woman.
"I don't know what sort of ship Mr Blanchard ran, but I have always found that a zero tolerance policy is generally the most effective. Now get yourself over that chair."
"Please, is there no other way?" I pleaded, wondering if she might suggest sex. It was not an enticing prospect, but anything would be better than the cane.
"As this is my first encounter with you, I am prepared to let you off with six of the best, but do not test my patience any further. Now get over that chair and pull down your trousers when I tell you to or you will really regret it."
I could tell she was not a woman to be trifled with, so I reluctantly did as I was ordered while she selected a cane from the cupboard. She swished it venomously through the air a few times, then tapped it against my bottom.
"Oh dear, silly me," she said. "What was I thinking? I almost forgot to get a witness. Poor Mr Blanchard - it is so easy to forget sometimes in the heat of the moment." She went over to the intercom on her desk. "Mrs Crankshaw, would you mind stepping in for a few minutes?"
"Certainly, Ms Jacobs," a disembodied voice replied.
My heart sank. Being caned by a woman was bad enough; but now Mrs Crankshaw was being called to fetch a witness. She would know I was going to get the cane.
"I am afraid this boy has just earned himself six of the best, so I require a witness," Ms Jacobs announced as Mrs Crankshaw entered the room.
"Would you like me to fetch a male teacher, Headmistress?"
"No, that will not be necessary. I am sure they are all too busy teaching. You will do fine."
"But..." I began to protest.
"But what?" Ms Jacobs snapped.
"But, she's a woman," I explained (although I must admit I did sometimes have my doubts).
"Are you implying a woman cannot do a job as well as a man?"
"No... No, that is not what I meant."
"Then I suggest you shut up before I decide to give you extras. Now let's have these undies up nice and tight," she said, tugging my underpants up skin tight.
Mrs Crankshaw gave a cough.
"Excuse me for interrupting, Headmistress," she said. "But I believe Mr Blanchard was in the habit of caning the upper sixth boys on the bare."
"On the bare? Hmm, that sounds like an excellent idea. Thank you."
"And I think he used the heavier cane with the senior boys. The one you have may be a bit light."
"Thank you, Mrs Crankshaw. I have only caned girls up to now, but it probably takes more to make a good impression on the boys. I shall certainly take your advice. Perhaps you could adjust Mr Johnson's attire while I find a more suitable implement."
My heart sank. I was about to get six with the senior cane on the bare arse, and my nemesis was going to have the privilege of doing the unveiling.
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