(short pause) Turning to the subject of Janet Dines and John Lindsay Guise, I find myself in agreement with the decisions reached by the courts in both cases. Justice, in its slow and deliberate way, found its mark. If there’s anything Dines might have done differently, perhaps it would have been to ensure a staff member was present as a witness—an extra pair of eyes in a world where stories so easily become tangled. As for John Lindsay Guise, the only excuse I can muster, and it’s a feeble one, is that perhaps he was not a well man. I’ve recently come across school photographs of him from 1963, and even in those grainy images, he looks unwell—much like Marjorie Smith, whose own story is tinged with a similar pallor. But illness, of course, does not excuse their actions. What’s curious is that both were accomplished cricketers, their names etched into the annals of local sport. I once posted a snippet about Janet Dines’ career, though I only managed to list a few of her former teams. I’d love to see their scorecards—were they primarily batsmen, I wonder? The details of their sporting lives seem to hover just out of reach, like the faded ink on an old fixture list.
(pause) Speaking of Janet Dines’ earlier career, I’ve mentioned before a gentleman named Chris, who, when recalling being caned by her, offered a memory that’s both sharp and wry:
(short pause) ‘14 year old boy caned across the derrière by a middle-aged woman – tell that to your grandchildren!’
(pause) This recollection is echoed by another, a man named Dave, who described the ritual of discipline in her maths class:
(short pause) ‘I remember lining up with a number of boys in my class, all of us getting the stick across the arse!’
(pause) The links to these stories are tucked away in the group, but to access them you’d need to join Facebook and slip quietly into the fold—perhaps by claiming the year you left school, naming the road it stood on, and agreeing to the rules. It’s a secret society of sorts, bound by shared memories and the unspoken codes of childhood.
(pause) As someone who’s made a hobby of collecting accounts of schoolboys receiving corporal punishment from female teachers, you’ll know whether you were lucky—or perhaps unlucky—not to have grown up in Liverpool and failed your 11+. Had you done so, you might have found yourself at Highfield Secondary Modern, later a comprehensive, where, according to over thirty men and a couple of women, a formidable lady named Dilys Martin wielded the cane with a certain flair from 1956 well into the mid-1970s. The stories about her are legion, and here are just a few, each one a vivid brushstroke in the mural of memory:
(short pause) Elliot recalls: ‘Dylis Martin. Cow used to take a run up.’
(short pause) John (A) adds: ‘Dillis Martin I was guaranteed 6 of the best 2/3 times a week the witch. She loved it—I think she got sexually aroused caning the lads.’
(short pause) Stephen (A) remembers: ‘I remember getting the cane off her—think she enjoyed it.’
(short pause) John (B) says: ‘She was a bitch, a cut across your arse and bruised either side—evil bitch.’
(short pause) John (C) muses: ‘Think she had a fetish for caning boys’ backsides.’
(short pause) David shares: ‘Boy, she could use that cane—never missed the backside, like somehow hit the top off your legs.’
(short pause) Deb, one of the few women to witness the spectacle, paints a scene: ‘I watched her cane Paul and a lad called Jazz at the time…never knew his proper name…I was on a report card for misbehaving…and was reporting to her with a negative comment from a teacher…she threw it at me and said wait there I’ll deal with you in a minute…out stretched the doors to the woodwork corridor…Paul was bent over waiting and he laughed and said to Jazz…f**kin hell Jazz she’s taking a runner…she went to the top of the stairs and practically ran back to cane him…my knees were knocking…dreading knowing that it was me after them.’
(short pause) Paul, with a touch of humour, says: ‘She had a swing like Seve Ballesteros when she was caning you, ha ha.’
(short pause) Stephen (B) confesses: ‘She scared me to death—had the cane off her, god it hurt more than getting the cane off Mr Brown.’
(short pause) Mark recalls: ‘I can remember being outside Miss Pickels’ office getting the cane when Mrs Martin was called to take over—our faces soon changed.’
(pause) John (D) offers a particularly vivid memory: ‘I was on several occasions sent to Mrs Martin (to be beaten with a stick, haha). One occasion in particular sticks in my memory. She first grabbed my hair and attempted to put a hatch in her office door using my head. And when that failed, she took me into the corridor, made me bend over, and then walked the full length of the corridor so she could take a run up with the cane. I swear I can still remember the sound of her heels on the floor and the swoosh of her gown as she descended on my arse with a length of bamboo. The funny thing was that your arse would look like it had been hit by a truck, but you would never tell your parents because they would beat you up as well, haha.’
(pause) Unlike some, John (D) holds no resentment. He reflects:
(short pause) ‘If I saw her today, I would just say hello. She caned me on many occasions, but it’s all a bit Jeremy Kyle and a bit vitriolic the way some go on. It was the time we lived in, and are the children today any more respectful now that they are treated with respect? I think not. I hope Old Dylis lives to be a hundred and is as happy as a lark. She’s not exactly a war criminal. Although my arse thought she was at the time, haha.’
(pause) Most of these recollections are drawn from the school’s Facebook group—a digital archive of bruised backsides and battered pride. Sadly, you’ll need to join to read them in full, slipping once more into the secret world of shared memory.
(pause) What makes Mrs Dilys Martin stand out, beyond her reputation with the cane, is that she was, by all accounts, a strikingly attractive woman. Hazel, a former pupil, remembers:
(short pause) ‘Miss Martin’s nickname was Christine Keeler as she was the image and wore the same clothes.’
(pause) From the grainy, low-quality images I’ve managed to find, I must admit, the resemblance is there—a flash of glamour in a world of grey uniforms and stern discipline.
(pause) As for the ultimate prize—the elusive story of a girl receiving corporal punishment from a male teacher—I haven’t found it yet. The closest I’ve come is a single case at Calversyke Middle School in Keighley, where a male teacher allowed a female pupil to hit a male pupil with a trainer. I’ll dig deeper into this when I turn my attention to Yorkshire. There are still so many regions left to explore, so many stories waiting to be unearthed. If such a prize exists, I believe there’s a decent chance it will be found. It’s curious, isn’t it, what sparks our interest in these tales? For me, I think it stems from the one and only time I might have witnessed a girl being punished by a male teacher—I was too scared, too shy, too uncomfortable to watch.
