When I was in my second year at senior school, the winter winds grew sharp and cold, and I found myself in need of a new coat. One afternoon, as I returned home from lessons, my mother greeted me with a bright smile and announced that she had bought me a new one.
To my dismay, she produced a black donkey jacket, the sort usually worn by workmen. It had black plastic across the shoulders and looked most unappealing. She had found it at a charity shop for a bargain. I could scarcely believe it—surely my own mother would not wish to embarrass me so! I knew the coat would make me the subject of ridicule at school, where I already struggled to fit in. I pleaded for a duffel coat like the other boys, but my protests were in vain. The donkey jacket was to be mine, and that was the end of the matter.
For several weeks, I wore the coat, though I disliked it greatly. As I had feared, my classmates teased me mercilessly. I looked, they said, as though I had just come from a building site!
I was a keen pianist, and the school allowed me to practise on the grand piano in the hall before lessons began. On those mornings, though I was not supposed to, I would leave my coat hidden on a chair behind the stage curtain, collecting it again in the evening.
One day, at the end of lessons, I went to the hall to fetch my coat—but it was gone! In my innocence, I was delighted. At last, I thought, I could tell my parents the coat had been stolen, and be rid of it forever.
But things did not turn out as I had hoped. That evening, when my mother asked after my coat, she was most upset and immediately telephoned the school.
The next morning, I was called to see Mrs Evans, the deputy headmistress. She was kind and understanding about my lost coat. “Where did you leave it, Simon?” she asked. Knowing I should not have left it in the hall, I said it had been in the cloakroom. She nodded and sent me back to lessons, asking me to let her know if I heard anything.
Later that day, a messenger came to my geography class and told the teacher that Mrs Evans wished to see me again. I walked to her office, thinking she simply wanted an update.
But there, in her office, stood Mr Francis, the caretaker—and on a chair was my missing coat. “Where did you say you left it?” Mrs Evans asked sternly. “The cloakroom,” I replied, though my voice trembled. “Are you quite sure?” she pressed. “Yes,” I answered.
Mrs Evans’s expression grew even more serious. She turned to Mr Francis. “Please tell me where you found this, Mr Francis?” “Behind the stage, on a pile of chairs,” he replied. “I thought it was lost property, so I took it to my cupboard.” “Thank you, Mr Francis,” said Mrs Evans, and he left the room.
As soon as he had gone, Mrs Evans turned to me. “Well? Have you anything to say for yourself?” I could not speak, my mouth was so dry. “Do you realise you could have got Mr Francis into a great deal of trouble? If I had not known better, I might have accused him of stealing your coat.”
“You have wasted my time, your parents’ time, and put the reputation of a good man at risk. There is only one suitable punishment for this, Simon, and that is the cane.” Mrs Evans opened a cupboard and took out the cane. She turned the chair with my coat on it and tapped it. “Bend over that. This will hurt very much indeed. I see no reason why you should not have six of the best.”
I gripped the chair tightly, and then came a sudden swish and a sharp pain across my bottom, even through my grey school trousers. I could not help but cry out. Five more strokes followed, each as hard as the last. My eyes filled with tears, and when I stood up, I wept openly, feeling much younger than my years.
Mrs Evans was unmoved. She handed me a handkerchief. “Come now, dry your eyes. You are a big boy and should be used to such things by now.”
The question in my mind was answered at once. “I have telephoned your mother to tell her what has happened. I informed her I was going to cane you, so she knows all about this sorry incident.” I gulped. “Will you get another punishment at home?” “I…I don’t know, Mrs Evans,” I stammered, although of course I bloody well did.
I got home to find my father back from work early. He eyed me up speculatively as I walked in the lounge. “We’ve heard all about your nonsense,” he told me shortly. “Your mother is waiting for you in your room – go there immediately.”
Our 12 stairs never felt so steep. When I got to my bedroom, mother was sitting on my bed – and next to her was the belt she used on my backside when she felt it necessary.
“Have you got anything to say for yourself?” “I’m sorry, mother.” “Not half as sorry as you’re going to be, you’re not going to be able to sit for a month of Sundays, my lad. Bend over your bed!” I knew it was useless to argue and that if I didn’t comply, she would fetch my father. I raised my helpless behind for the second time that day.
There was a moment or two while mother adjusted my clothing, lifting my shirt and sweater clear of the small of my back . Then the belting began, and I was whipped mercilessly. All the way through my beating, mother lectured me. I had brought shame on the family, wasted people’s time, I was an ungrateful brat. I cried unashamedly throughout as she leathered me until my bottom felt twice its normal size. I was summarily sent to bed with no supper.
Strangely, though, a few weeks later mother relented – she took me to a nearby shop and bought me a conventional duffel. But getting rid of the hated coat cost my bottom dearly!
