by Paul Jackson
Mr Tom Hastings, headmaster of Green Lanes Comprehensive School, stepped out of his maroon Rover 2000 on an overcast morning. He opened the hatchback to retrieve his brown leather case, then resignedly looked up towards his office at the top of the 1950's square block building with its felt-chip flat roof. He gave a prolonged sigh and a shake of his head.
A 'thank you' card he'd received from a relieved parent yesterday was in the boot still. He took time to read part of it again...
'You are considered to be a kind man, with a kind face, who cares passionately for his school. And you have shown this in the support and empathy given to our troubled son.'
He smiled before giving another uncertain look towards his office. He was not looking forward to what was most probably going to take place there after assembly. But he was deceiving himself. He knew well there was no probably about it. Although he believed schools could not function without the deterrent effect of the ultimate sanction, rather like his views on maintaining the Polaris fleet, resorting to it saddened him. It caused him to question his eleven year headship of the school that he considered to be a bright, happy place in a catchment area that possessed many social issues. He had failed his school was his analysis. For on this Thursday, the 3rd of July 1980, he knew that, like a naval commander, he would have to push the button. There was to be a caning. What distressed him further was that the caning was to be given to two girls from the fifth form. He'd caned few girls in comparison to boys. Seven in all, he recalled, although two were caned more than once.
Resembling a wounded animal, he walked towards the entrance across the cracked, aging tarmac. He asked himself about early retirement. He tutted, disappointedly. He'd never been a man to walk away, and early retirement? He still had a mortgage and was just fifty-three years old.
Green Lanes Comprehensive had opened in 1965, replacing the old secondary modern, but had inherited the utilitarian main building with its many windows that were separated by pale blue and grey fascia. New blocks were added in 1966, but much of it was beginning to look outdated and rundown. It straddled Finsbury Park and Islington on the A503. Many pupils would hop on the underground to Manor House or Holloway Road before walking up the A503 to buy confectionary on the way to school, with some older pupils buying cigarettes. A second offence of smoking brought forth the cane. Mr Hastings was a believer in clear sets of rules, and all pupils knew what would bring about a caning.
But it wasn't all despair. He turned to look back at his Rover 2000. A new V8 3500 SD1 in green had been pre-ordered for August. And it was Wimbledon fortnight. He loved tennis and wished he could be on centre court today. McEnroe, who had shattered the rafters of both show courts with his blood curdling rants all fortnight, was due to face the once fiery, now mellower Connors, in the gentlemen's semi-final. The other semi-final would be Borg, the ice cool Swede, playing the unseeded American, Brian Gottfried.
"What a day's play!" he considered.
That was if the weather held. Wimbledon had seen a lot of rain. Being unusually selfish, with not a hoot for those who'd paid good money to be on centre court, he hoped it would rain. Spots were falling now, landing across the shoulders of his immaculate grey suit. If there was a 2pm downpour, it would delay the start and at least he would be home in time to see it live on the BBC, with the superb commentaries of Dan Maskell and John Barrett.
He entered the insipid corridor with its dark tanned wooden floor that'd lead him towards the stairs to his office. It smelt of 'school'. A musty aroma mingled with the polish from the cleaning staff's floor buffers, powder paint and yesterday's school dinners. His footsteps echoed over the wide, silent expanse of the staircase. It was 7.30am, too early for the quiet to be broken by pupils. In his beige-carpeted office, sparsely furnished but with many cheap-looking wall cupboards, he glanced briefly at his copy of The Guardian. He was looking forward to perusing the education supplement that was included today, a supplement he'd tried to read the front page of at the newsagents earlier. But he had been disturbed by what he considered to be an awful racket coming from the shop's loud radio.
"'Come On and Jump to the Beat.' What nonsense is that?" he mumbled. He read a few of the headlines on the front page: a miners' strike was looming, and MG's Abingdon car factory looked set to close during the autumn.
But the 8.50am caning of two sixteen-year-old girls continued to cause unease. In need of a little fresh air, he flung open the large window, for even his office had a stale smell. The daily staff meeting was due and he quickly scanned his notes as well as those for assembly. He would have to inform his staff about the canings. It prompted him to walk to a white wall unit. Inside were two canes hanging by crook handles. The shorter of the two, thirty inches long, was considered because the due recipients were girls. But he concluded the two girls were fifth formers, one of whom had experienced the sting of both canes before. Fifth form meant the senior cane, especially in the light of him setting a framework for equality between the sexes. Therefore, the senior rattan, a three foot length of suppleness, would be used on both, despite the other girl being an engaging, quiet pupil who exemplified the essence of politeness. Never had she received a verbal reprimand let alone felt the biting sting of a senior rattan. The thought disturbed him. But despite his misgivings he never shied away from caning girls if he considered the offence truly warranted it.
It was during his first assembly in 1969 that Mr Hastings had announced his sole responsibility for the infliction of corporal punishment, including that of girls. It had caused some discontent, but it paled into insignificance when compared to 1972 when he had announced to the assembled school that hand caning was no longer permitted. His extraordinary words shocked every girl present:
"In our time of equality, notwithstanding the dangers of hand caning, girls shall now be caned upon the rear."
Squeals, gasps and verbal dissent followed, quelled by members of staff. Remonstrations from parents of girls took up his time, but the respect and popularity for Mr Hastings remained.
He thought of this morning's visit to Mortimers Newsagents in Green Lanes where he had bought his newspaper. Nicola Thomas, a rather fetching ex-pupil, who'd left Green Lanes Comprehensive two summers before, would serve him most mornings, neatly folding his copy of The Guardian and placing it under the counter. He'd hoped Nicola would find a better job, but so long as she was happy he, too, was happy. He looked forward to speaking with her each morning. Chirpy, audacious and impetuous, it was her foolhardiness that had led her backside to taste both of Mr Hastings' canes, the last being just over two years ago.
"Morning, sir," she had said. With a toothy wide grin, she had placed his newspaper on the counter. She was unquestionably cute with an abundance of appeal. "Your education supplement is enclosed, too, sir."
"For the umpteenth time, you may address me as 'Tom', Nicola," he had said. "You are most kind."
He knew Nicola to be a lively, engaging girl, who somehow always ended up in trouble. She had taken her canings well, without complaint, unlike most. Presently, however, he was irritated by the music in the shop, not the memory of Nicola's shapely bottom bent before him.
"What is that terrible, grating noise, Nicola?" he had asked. "Some idiot! Some idiot! Screaming out, 'Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps!'"
"It's Two Pints of Lager, Please by Splodgenessabounds, sir, I mean Tom, featuring a parody of 'Simon Templar'. It's ended now!" she had grinned, prettily.
"Thank the heavens for that!" he had said, and hurriedly departed.
Mr Hastings began the staff meeting with a discussion regarding the last full week of 'O' level examinations next week. Next up was the outline for the end of the school year in ten days time, including the trip to the Natural History Museum in South Kensington for the 3rd year, and of course the fun of sports day.
But then he announced, "I regret to tell you that in light of the changing room fracas I shall be giving out a caning to two girls after assembly."
Above the gasps, the rustle of newspapers and the clunk of china, the, "Oh, no!" from Mrs Marshall, head of modern languages, caused teachers to look in her direction.
"Oh, surely, Mr Hastings, that lovely girl, Anna Simpkin, is not going to be caned?" pleaded Miss Fuller.
"I'm presented with little choice, Miss Fuller. The consequences for fighting are clearly defined. I dislike caning girls, especially senior girls, and in particular so close to the end of the school year when these two girls will be leaving us."
The male teachers said nothing, merely eyeing each other with raised eyebrows, but even a few female teachers welcomed Freya Pearce being caned.
He walked along the corridor with its cream and lime wall colour, seeing the two girls standing outside his office. He lengthened his stride towards them.
He looked at both while unlocking his door. Pretty blonde, Anna Simpkin, looked uncomfortable. Her blue eyes were wide open with fretfulness. He saw her habitually sweep back her mop of golden hair.
Freya Pearce looked ahead, holding herself rigid, focussing her fiery eyes on a picture of Green Lanes from 1918 that hung from the wall opposite. Both girls wore maroon blazers, and short, pleated, grey skirts at mid-thigh, with the required black tights. It was noted that Freya's maroon and yellow stripped tie was loose and messy. But that was the least of Mr Hastings' concerns.
"I shall deal with you both after assembly," he said, glancing at the school crest on their breast pockets. Its design showed a red griffin, green trees and blue water, symbolising the local boroughs. He hurriedly disappeared through the door, leaving it ajar, to pick up some notes. Stepping out from his office he noticed that Anna was slouching, not disrespectfully but more likely because she was fearful of the inevitable. But it was Freya that irritated him. She had folded her arms and put her weight on one leg.
"Right, ladies, I'm not having you presenting yourselves so slovenly. Turn and face the wall putting your noses against it!"
Both turned. Mr Hastings heard Freya snorting.
"You shall be 'huffing, puffing and uttering' later, Miss Pearce," he calmly said. "Hands on heads the both of you, and keep them there until my return."
He watched as they did so. It caused their pleated skirts, already short, to rise up their legs: Anna's long, slender and fine; Freya's shorter, fuller and more shapely.
He briskly walked away, taking a left turn towards the assembly hall on the lower floor. As he approached the two wooden doors he heard the noise from within. Quickly, he entered the hall and the school fell silent, albeit for a few whispers and sniggers. The pupils looked at the thin-faced headmaster with his greying hair closely cut, donning his gold framed specs as he stood at the lectern. He shuffled his paperwork.
"Good, morning, school!" came his customary introduction.
He'd often crack a funny at this point, but not today.
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