I had never before been summoned to the Headmaster’s study, so I first had to discover where it was. Asking for directions proved an uncomfortable experience in itself. The boys I approached exchanged knowing glances before one of them gave me a sympathetic smile.
“So the Beak’s got you, has he? Hard luck, old chap. Have you been up to see him before?”
“No,” I admitted.
The boy winced theatrically.
“Oh dear. Then you don’t know what to expect. Well, you’ll soon find out. Best advice I can give you is to keep your pecker up and try not to cry. He can’t stand blubbering. And when the time comes, try thinking about something completely different—something you enjoy. Concentrate on that and not on what’s happening. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, perhaps, but it helps take your mind off it. Good luck.”
His words did little to reassure me. If anything, they only deepened the knot of anxiety already twisting in my stomach. By the time I set off, that knot felt more like a tightly coiled rope.
I had learned that the Headmaster’s study was situated on the first floor of the school’s oldest building. The structure had once been a grand Victorian country mansion, built of stone and timber, and later converted into a school before the outbreak of the First World War. Even after decades of educational use, it retained much of its former splendour. Dark oak panelling lined the walls, polished by generations of pupils and masters passing through its corridors. Portraits of former Headmasters, governors, and distinguished old boys stared down from gilded frames, their stern expressions seeming to follow me as I climbed the broad wooden staircase.
Every step upward increased my sense of dread.
Eventually I reached the administrative offices. Access to the Headmaster’s private study was through the office of his secretary, Miss Evans, a formidable woman whose reputation for efficiency was almost as fearsome as the Headmaster’s own.
I knocked tentatively on the door.
“Come in,” she called.
Miss Evans sat behind a large desk, typing briskly. She looked up over her spectacles, examined me for a moment, and immediately identified me.
“You must be Spockings,” she said. “Take a seat over there next to the other two boys. The Headmaster will see you last.”
There was no point arguing. I quietly obeyed and sat where directed.
The two boys beside me were several years older—probably fourth or fifth formers—and neither looked remotely pleased to be there. Both sat rigidly, hands clasped tightly together, avoiding eye contact. Their anxious expressions did nothing to improve my own confidence.
As I waited, I noticed for the first time a red and green signal light mounted above the door leading into the Headmaster’s study. The red light was illuminated, clearly indicating that nobody was to enter.
After several minutes the red light suddenly went out and the green one flickered on.
Almost immediately an intercom on Miss Evans’s desk buzzed.
The Headmaster’s deep voice emerged from the speaker.
“Send in Rigsby and Jenkins Junior, Miss Evans.”
The two older boys rose without enthusiasm. Their faces had become noticeably paler. They approached the study door, knocked respectfully, and disappeared inside.
The moment the door closed behind them, the green light extinguished and the red one returned.
Silence settled over the office.
The minutes dragged by. From time to time I could hear the faint murmur of the Headmaster’s voice through the thick door, though I could distinguish only an occasional word. Later I learned the reason for their summons. They had been discovered smoking behind the bicycle sheds—a serious offence at the school, and one invariably dealt with personally by the Headmaster.
What made matters worse for them was that this was not their first offence.
Both boys had already been warned once before.
The consequences of a second offence were considerably more severe.
Without warning the silence was shattered.
A sharp crack rang through the office, startling me so badly that I almost jumped from my chair. The sound was unmistakable—the report of a cane striking its target.
A few moments later came another.
Then another.
The strokes continued at measured intervals, each one distinct and deliberate. After eight strokes there was a lengthy pause before the sequence began again.
Even without witnessing the scene, there could be little doubt what was taking place beyond the closed door.
When at last the boys emerged, their appearance told the story clearly enough. Both had reddened eyes and expressions of grim misery. They walked stiffly, each instinctively rubbing the seat of his trousers. Neither spoke a word as they hurried from the office.
Watching them depart did nothing to calm my nerves.
Any curiosity I might once have felt had long since vanished. In its place remained only apprehension.
The red light above the study door continued to glow.
Minute after minute crawled by.
The waiting became almost unbearable. My imagination supplied endless possibilities, each more alarming than the last. The uncertainty seemed nearly as unpleasant as whatever punishment awaited me. Looking back, I suspect the delay was entirely deliberate. Anticipation has a way of magnifying fear, and the Headmaster understood that perfectly.
By now my mouth was dry, my palms were damp, and my stomach felt hollow.
I wished only for the ordeal to begin so that it could finally be over.
At last the red light blinked out.
The green light illuminated.
The intercom buzzed once more.
Miss Evans looked up.
“The Headmaster will see you now.”
I rose from my chair. My legs felt strangely weak beneath me.
Slowly I crossed the room toward the heavy oak door. Every step seemed unnaturally loud. Reaching it, I paused for a moment before giving a timid knock.
For an instant I felt rather like a condemned prisoner approaching judgement.
From within came the familiar deep voice.
“Come in.”
