A failure of moral fibre.
It’s hard to write of behaviours that shame you particularly when those failures are close to adulthood. As a consequence it becomes much more difficult to dismiss failures of morality as mere mistakes of childhood. Instead we are compelled to accept that those very flaws probably sit dormant into adulthood waiting for the test again.
My worst fall from grace was in the sixth form. Specifically an English lesson.
It was late summer and the heat and gaiety of the summer had not yet been ground out of us by workload and the atmosphere of the sixth form we had just joined.
One of the assistant heads — older, firm but fair — was taking our A-level classes.
Even at seventeen she was still seating us in alphabetical order in three rows of two desks abreast. As a Galloway I got to sit next to Janice Gillespie. She was mature, pretty, and one of the school “it” girls. She was way above my station and we only had transactional conversations, but she was never cruel or rude.
She did drive me crazy that year, though. The style was long above-knee socks and, with a leg-pop, longer skirts. I would — forgive the adolescent me — wait for those glimpses of thigh.
But fate was to strike. Our school had “purges.” The head would say, one presumes at staff briefing, something like “Everyone who isn’t in a tie is to be belted.” For a few days enforcement was one hundred per cent, then it drifted off.
This week it was textbook checks for vandalism. We were doing Fahrenheit 451 by Bradbury. Bradbury was also the name of our headmaster. On the inside cover, under Ray Bradbury, I had added “is a c@&t.” It had seemed hilarious at the time.
I wasn’t even worried when the textbook “purge” started to become yard knowledge. Newly into sixth form, I rather assumed we would be above such things.
But here we were after lunch, with Miss Belmont announcing she would be asking each of us up to her desk to check our textbooks. The seriousness of the situation dawned on me. This could mean a belting, even in sixth year. Plus I was aiming for an elite course and needed that unblemished sixth-year record after a somewhat shaky lower-school disciplinary performance.
Janice, not in the slightest concerned or vigilant, didn’t even notice as I swapped her copy for mine from our bags while she answered the request to dish out handouts. I had rationalised that she would only get lines — being a senior girl with an impeccable history.
During the lesson she systematically called each of us to the front and checked our novels and our grammar texts.
At Andy Benson she stopped. She stood and opened her drawer. She told him to step back and cross his hands. She took out her brown two-tail senior strap. We were to realise in the next ten seconds that sixth-formers still got the belt, and in fact only received the more senior thicknesses. The effort she had to make to straighten this one out bespoke a very rigid, thick version indeed. She administered four absolute crackers and Andy was shaking furiously and hopping from knee to knee.
“Back to your seat and treat these books with respect.”
A strained silence descended. A bitter lesson learned. Elevation to the sixth form did not mean exemption from the strap. We slowly worked up the alphabet.
Next victim was Elizabeth Fraser.
“We do not tolerate doodling in the margins, Fraser. Others have to use them after you. Write out ‘We don’t tolerate textbook doodling’ for me one hundred times. Bring it to me tomorrow at morning break.”
Elizabeth grimaced, catching Belmont’s eye.
“Perhaps you’d prefer my senior strap?” she smiled, taking off her reading glasses and pointing at the strap with the legs.
“Oh no, Miss.”
“Well, make sure to hand them in on time or you will encounter it.”
I was called out, sweaty with guilt, but passed the literature and grammar book inspection.
Then came Janice. She walked up politely but unconcernedly. Belmont’s reading glasses soon came off.
“Stand back, Janice, and put your hands out. I am shocked to read such filth.”
“Pardon, Miss… I haven’t done anything.”
“These textbooks were pristine at term start and you have defaced this one with a foul insult to the headmaster. You are lucky I am dealing with this in class!”
She showed her the swear word scrolled in graphic form inside.
“But it wasn’t me, Miss. It wasn’t.”
“Do you want referred up to the head then to explain this?”
She crumbled. She realised she was on an unwinnable wicket and that further escalation could be extremely costly. She accepted her fate with really quite inspiring grace.
Unused to being belted, Belmont positioned Janice’s hands to the correct crossed-over height and told her to swap after each stroke.
Before Belmont started I nearly did the right thing. I nearly did. I had never believed she would be belted — only lines. Confronted with this, I willed myself to stand up. But some self-preservation force froze me to the spot. It wasn’t just cowardice; it was calculation. I could easily take the strapping. But now there was bound to be significant further escalation — suspension, perhaps even expulsion, for such an egregious act. Whatever the finer points of morality, I watched as Belmont commenced.
She strapped Janice hard with that senior tawse. After each stroke she bent over double at the waist, clutching her hands to her sides. But each time, with dignity, she forced herself straight and put her hands back out. She was openly crying after the third stroke and took longer to recover from the pistol-crack of the fourth.
The assistant head tore the cover page out and binned it. I saw how Janice’s hands shook and how she struggled to bring her books back to her desk.
Do you know she never even suspected me of the swap, instead presuming there had been just some innocent mix-up? That made my guilt worse.
Eighteen months later I was pretty sure I had attained the grades I needed, and references for vocational courses were in for university. Only summer’s final marks announcement was awaited.
I knocked on Miss Belmont’s door and asked if I could speak with her. As a late-blooming high performer I had a certain degree of leeway with our teachers. She agreed to see me and we sat down. I confessed what I had done.
I fully expected six of the very best on the spot. In many ways I would have preferred that. But for some reason she took a different tack. She told me I deserved a severe belting but that I was now grown beyond that stage. That she was hugely disappointed in me and she had clearly misjudged my character, which in her opinion was abysmal. What kind of man watches a girl strapped to tears for something he had done?
She told me to get out of her office and that she had no wish to see my face again.
Can you believe that I would far rather have been thrashed? I had been belted several times by this teacher over the years and knew her to be rigid in her application of the tawse. I had every expectation of a severe belting but she deprived me of the very ritual they had instilled in us as the gateway to forgiveness. Her forbearance was utterly unexpected and unwelcome.
I guess they also didn’t want the hassle of having to apologise to Janice either. Perhaps there was even some guilt that she hadn’t listened to her.
I did own up to Janice that summer. She slapped my face but otherwise said no more about it.
If I had my time again I would have taken my licks in the first place. I have ever since always tried to own my own behaviours. But the way I learned that lesson was shameful.
My worst fall from grace was in the sixth form. Specifically an English lesson.
It was late summer and the heat and gaiety of the summer had not yet been ground out of us by workload and the atmosphere of the sixth form we had just joined.
One of the assistant heads — older, firm but fair — was taking our A-level classes.
Even at seventeen she was still seating us in alphabetical order in three rows of two desks abreast. As a Galloway I got to sit next to Janice Gillespie. She was mature, pretty, and one of the school “it” girls. She was way above my station and we only had transactional conversations, but she was never cruel or rude.
She did drive me crazy that year, though. The style was long above-knee socks and, with a leg-pop, longer skirts. I would — forgive the adolescent me — wait for those glimpses of thigh.
But fate was to strike. Our school had “purges.” The head would say, one presumes at staff briefing, something like “Everyone who isn’t in a tie is to be belted.” For a few days enforcement was one hundred per cent, then it drifted off.
This week it was textbook checks for vandalism. We were doing Fahrenheit 451 by Bradbury. Bradbury was also the name of our headmaster. On the inside cover, under Ray Bradbury, I had added “is a c@&t.” It had seemed hilarious at the time.
I wasn’t even worried when the textbook “purge” started to become yard knowledge. Newly into sixth form, I rather assumed we would be above such things.
But here we were after lunch, with Miss Belmont announcing she would be asking each of us up to her desk to check our textbooks. The seriousness of the situation dawned on me. This could mean a belting, even in sixth year. Plus I was aiming for an elite course and needed that unblemished sixth-year record after a somewhat shaky lower-school disciplinary performance.
Janice, not in the slightest concerned or vigilant, didn’t even notice as I swapped her copy for mine from our bags while she answered the request to dish out handouts. I had rationalised that she would only get lines — being a senior girl with an impeccable history.
During the lesson she systematically called each of us to the front and checked our novels and our grammar texts.
At Andy Benson she stopped. She stood and opened her drawer. She told him to step back and cross his hands. She took out her brown two-tail senior strap. We were to realise in the next ten seconds that sixth-formers still got the belt, and in fact only received the more senior thicknesses. The effort she had to make to straighten this one out bespoke a very rigid, thick version indeed. She administered four absolute crackers and Andy was shaking furiously and hopping from knee to knee.
“Back to your seat and treat these books with respect.”
A strained silence descended. A bitter lesson learned. Elevation to the sixth form did not mean exemption from the strap. We slowly worked up the alphabet.
Next victim was Elizabeth Fraser.
“We do not tolerate doodling in the margins, Fraser. Others have to use them after you. Write out ‘We don’t tolerate textbook doodling’ for me one hundred times. Bring it to me tomorrow at morning break.”
Elizabeth grimaced, catching Belmont’s eye.
“Perhaps you’d prefer my senior strap?” she smiled, taking off her reading glasses and pointing at the strap with the legs.
“Oh no, Miss.”
“Well, make sure to hand them in on time or you will encounter it.”
I was called out, sweaty with guilt, but passed the literature and grammar book inspection.
Then came Janice. She walked up politely but unconcernedly. Belmont’s reading glasses soon came off.
“Stand back, Janice, and put your hands out. I am shocked to read such filth.”
“Pardon, Miss… I haven’t done anything.”
“These textbooks were pristine at term start and you have defaced this one with a foul insult to the headmaster. You are lucky I am dealing with this in class!”
She showed her the swear word scrolled in graphic form inside.
“But it wasn’t me, Miss. It wasn’t.”
“Do you want referred up to the head then to explain this?”
She crumbled. She realised she was on an unwinnable wicket and that further escalation could be extremely costly. She accepted her fate with really quite inspiring grace.
Unused to being belted, Belmont positioned Janice’s hands to the correct crossed-over height and told her to swap after each stroke.
Before Belmont started I nearly did the right thing. I nearly did. I had never believed she would be belted — only lines. Confronted with this, I willed myself to stand up. But some self-preservation force froze me to the spot. It wasn’t just cowardice; it was calculation. I could easily take the strapping. But now there was bound to be significant further escalation — suspension, perhaps even expulsion, for such an egregious act. Whatever the finer points of morality, I watched as Belmont commenced.
She strapped Janice hard with that senior tawse. After each stroke she bent over double at the waist, clutching her hands to her sides. But each time, with dignity, she forced herself straight and put her hands back out. She was openly crying after the third stroke and took longer to recover from the pistol-crack of the fourth.
The assistant head tore the cover page out and binned it. I saw how Janice’s hands shook and how she struggled to bring her books back to her desk.
Do you know she never even suspected me of the swap, instead presuming there had been just some innocent mix-up? That made my guilt worse.
Eighteen months later I was pretty sure I had attained the grades I needed, and references for vocational courses were in for university. Only summer’s final marks announcement was awaited.
I knocked on Miss Belmont’s door and asked if I could speak with her. As a late-blooming high performer I had a certain degree of leeway with our teachers. She agreed to see me and we sat down. I confessed what I had done.
I fully expected six of the very best on the spot. In many ways I would have preferred that. But for some reason she took a different tack. She told me I deserved a severe belting but that I was now grown beyond that stage. That she was hugely disappointed in me and she had clearly misjudged my character, which in her opinion was abysmal. What kind of man watches a girl strapped to tears for something he had done?
She told me to get out of her office and that she had no wish to see my face again.
Can you believe that I would far rather have been thrashed? I had been belted several times by this teacher over the years and knew her to be rigid in her application of the tawse. I had every expectation of a severe belting but she deprived me of the very ritual they had instilled in us as the gateway to forgiveness. Her forbearance was utterly unexpected and unwelcome.
I guess they also didn’t want the hassle of having to apologise to Janice either. Perhaps there was even some guilt that she hadn’t listened to her.
I did own up to Janice that summer. She slapped my face but otherwise said no more about it.
If I had my time again I would have taken my licks in the first place. I have ever since always tried to own my own behaviours. But the way I learned that lesson was shameful.
