The Great Mouse Plot by Roald Dahl. Part 8.
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My own turn came at last. My mind was swimming and my eyes had gone all blurry as I went forward to bend over. I can remember wishing my mother would suddenly come bursting into the room shouting, ‘Stop! How dare you do that to my son!’ But she didn’t. All I heard was Mrs Pratchett’s dreadful high-pitched voice behind me screeching, ‘This one’s the cheekiest of the bloomin’ lot, ’Eadmaster! Make sure you let ’im ’ave it good and strong!’
Mr Coombes did just that. As the first stroke landed and the pistol-crack sounded, I was thrown forward so violently that if my fingers hadn’t been touching the carpet, I think I would have fallen flat on my face. As it was, I was able to catch myself on the palms of my hands and keep my balance. At first I heard only the crack and felt absolutely nothing at all, but a fraction of a second later the burning sting that flooded across my buttocks was so terrific that all I could do was gasp. I gave a great gushing gasp that emptied my lungs of every breath of air that was in them.
It felt, I promise you, as though someone had laid a red-hot poker against my flesh and was pressing down on it hard.
The second stroke was worse than the first and this was probably because Mr Coombes was well practised and had a splendid aim. He was able, so it seemed, to land the second one almost exactly across the narrow line where the first one had struck. It is bad enough when the cane lands on fresh skin, but when it comes down on bruised and wounded flesh, the agony is unbelievable.
The third one seemed even worse than the second. Whether or not the wily Mr Coombes had chalked the cane beforehand and had thus made an aiming mark on my grey flannel shorts after the first stroke, I do not know. I am inclined to doubt it because he must have known that this was a practice much frowned upon by Headmasters in general in those days. It was not only regarded as unsporting, it was also an admission that you were not an expert at the job.
By the time the fourth stroke was delivered, my entire backside seemed to be going up in flames.
Far away in the distance, I heard Mr Coombes’s voice saying, ‘Now get out.’
As I limped across the study clutching my buttocks hard with both hands, a cackling sound came from the armchair over in the corner, and then I heard the vinegary voice of Mrs Pratchett saying, ‘I am much obliged to you, ’Eadmaster, very much obliged. I don’t think we is goin’ to see any more stinkin’ mice in my Gobstoppers from now on.’
When I returned to the classroom my eyes were wet with tears and everybody stared at me. My bottom hurt when I sat down at my desk.
That evening after supper my three sisters had their baths before me. Then it was my turn, but as I was about to step into the bathtub, I heard a horrified gasp from my mother behind me.
‘What’s this?’ she gasped. ‘What’s happened to you?’ She was staring at my bottom. I myself had not inspected it up to then, but when I twisted my head around and took a look at one of my buttocks, I saw the scarlet stripes and the deep blue bruising in between.
‘Who did this?’ my mother cried. ‘Tell me at once!’
In the end I had to tell her the whole story, while my three sisters (aged nine, six and four) stood around in their nighties listening goggle-eyed. My mother heard me out in silence. She asked no questions. She just let me talk, and when I had finished, she said to our nurse, ‘You get them into bed, Nanny. I’m going out.’
If I had had the slightest idea of what she was going to do next, I would have tried to stop her, but I hadn’t. She went straight downstairs and put on her hat. Then she marched out of the house, down the drive and on to the road. I saw her through my bedroom window as she went out of the gates and turned left, and I remember calling out to her to come back, come back, come back. But she took no notice of me. She was walking very quickly, with her head held high and her body erect, and by the look of things I figured that Mr Coombes was in for a hard time.
About an hour later, my mother returned and came upstairs to kiss us all goodnight. ‘I wish you hadn’t done that,’ I said to her. ‘It makes me look silly.’
‘They don’t beat small children like that where I come from,’ she said. ‘I won’t allow it.’
‘What did Mr Coombes say to you, Mama?’
‘He told me I was a foreigner and I didn’t understand how British schools were run,’ she said.
‘Did he get ratty with you?’
‘Very ratty,’ she said. ‘He told me that if I didn’t like his methods I could take you away.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I would, as soon as the school year is finished. I shall find you an English school this time,’ she said. ‘Your father was right. English schools are the best in the world.’
‘Does that mean it’ll be a boarding school?’ I asked.
‘It’ll have to be,’ she said. ‘I’m not quite ready to move the whole family to England yet.’
So I stayed on at Llandaff Cathedral School until the end of the summer term.
Go back to Part 7