Rebel Rebel: Miss Rice and the Whole-Class Belting

Even though the attempt at banning the belting of girls had backfired severely in 1974 — with lawyers arguing it would compromise sex equality laws — there were still some areas where differentials persisted.
The senior school leaders were faced with a dilemma. They could either proceed with the liberalisation of corporal punishment towards girls, but as an unintended consequence they would then have to stop belting boys as well or face fines. Losing money was the only thing that rivalled losing control in the now incomprehensible logic of the 1970s. In short, they would have to choose between two things that discomforted teachers of both sexes: either actually increase the belting of girls or stop the belting of boys. To those leaders, those minds and morals, there was no choice. The senior female teachers were called in and told: start using your belts far more often.
However, there still remained a sexual difference I never once witnessed being equally applied to females, though I accept I am but one witness — the whole class belting.
Miss Rice was not your typical 1970s female teacher. Thirty, stylish, specialising in Art. Not for her the cardigans, A-line skirts, American tan tights (pantyhose) and high-heeled court shoes. No, she took a more independent tack. Bowie-style haircut with edgy make-up. She would wear a sharp top and buttoned denim skirt, unbuttoned enough to give a leg pop every time she took a step, revealing red sheer tights and fashion espadrilles. She was gorgeous, glam, and rocked a “teacher’s alternative” vibe.
She was also a pleasure to be around — creative and light-hearted. With time this led to a slow erosion of authority and she was struggling to steer the ship 100% correctly. At the end of art we were all expected to clear materials, wash brushes, wipe down surfaces so the environment was pristine for the next class. We really weren’t working to that standard.
Exasperated, she finally announced that if our class failed to clear up properly she would belt the whole class. That seemed so improbable that we took it with a pinch of salt and left as usual. Sixteen-year-old boys, oblivious to risk.
Our next art class was on the Wednesday. When we arrived she looked more stern than usual. She didn’t open the room but told us all to line up, backs to the wall, single file.
She stood in front of us and said, “You were all well warned. I had to stay late and clean the room again. I don’t make idle threats. I’m going to belt every one of you. Hopefully this will suffice to change your behaviour.”
A murmur went up. Not of fear, but of excitement.
She reached into her handbag and drew out her standard-issue Glasgow Corporation three-tailed strap. Although she was thirty, it was clear it was not excessively used.
We were all instructed to hold out our left hands. “Left hands up and out, boys.” She did not instruct us to cross our hands — unusual. I always recall that. She put her strap over her shoulder and stopped in front of each of us, strapping our hands. She tried to insert some venom, and sting it did, but not nearly so much as the whole thing thrilled. I watched her leg pop each time she swung, revealing her left lower thigh. I was captivated. At my turn I felt a sharp bite but nothing disabling, and then she was past. Her traitorous skirt now shielding her leg from view. At the end of the line she reversed the SOP. “Now boys, right hands right out. And keep your palms flat.” We had the whole wonderful show on the way back again. I did feel a little sorry for the boy at the end who got both strokes within seconds of each other.
The second belting was not provoking distress or tears. Instead some “wags” were passing comment. “Thank you, Miss,” “May I have another, Miss?” My own contribution was “A fine stroke, Miss.” All of it quite funny, quite respectful. It was obvious we all loved her, but I’ll bet it wasn’t the result she was aiming for.
As if on cue, Mr Welch — all 6ft 2, burly technical teacher — emerged from his classroom.
“I see you are doing a line-up, Miss Rice. Where are our manners, boys? Miss Rice shouldn’t be tired out like this. Miss Rice, will you allow me? You must reserve yourself for your creative duties. May I?”
She nodded and held out the folded strap for him.
“No need, I always keep mine nicely warmed here.”
He reached up under his jacket and drew out a thick brown two-tail Lochgelly. It literally uncoiled itself like a snake.
Up it went over his shoulder.
His SOP was different.
“Crossed hands, boys. Left then right immediately. No fuss. Let’s show Miss Rice how boys can take an XH, shall we?”
The answer was not well.
He went down our well-formed line.
Crack. Kerrrrack.
Full swings. Pistol shots echoing down the corridor.
Behind him was not a cocky boy, but a boy dancing on the spot, gasping, shaking his hands, shouting “Oyah!!”
MissRices strokes had been bearable but not soft. They had stung our palms sufficiently that this 3rd and 4th was bloody hard to take. .
The well-assembled line was disintegrating into chaos as he walked along. The urge to just run for it like an infantryman at Waterloo was strong.
Then he was in front of me.
Crack. Change. Crack. I was bent over, hands between knees, saying “Oh my god. FFS,” and shaking my hands like a lunatic.
Throughout it all Miss Rice was watching and beaming with a smile. She was enjoying this show far more!
At the end he said, “Well boys, you are a disappointment to me. Lightweights. Shall we try again next week?”
“No, Sir,” we chanted.
In class Miss Rice was like the cat that got the milk. At the end she asked if anyone was willing to help clean. We were all up and industrious. She was actually laughing.
“So boys. A few of you seemed to be keen on the corridor belting ? Have we got that out of our systems. ?” She was literally laughing at this point. Yes?Excellent!
We didn’t hate her for rubbing salt in our welts - we admired her!
Her only complaint about that lesson was that our drawing was particularly imprecise that day!
I’ve always been pretty tidy since.
Life skills learned the Scottish way!

On reflection I wonder if we had been had. Was Mr Welch always meant to come out and finish the job? Did they have a good laugh in the classroom or was it just plain dumb luck??