The Vandals

As the first dinner sitting ended, John Greenland and I rose from our table and headed for the lower school playground. All was well in our cosy first year world, until we stepped from the warmth of the building into the full harshness of winter. On a dull, miserable day, the wind was biting.

A kick about would have warmed me in no time, but to my surprise and great disappointment, there was no sign of the usual gang. Not a single one of them could be seen. Stranger still, at a time when the playground should have been bustling, it was almost deserted. There were barely a dozen kids dotted around. Where had everyone sloped off to? They couldn’t all be on second dinner and they couldn’t be dancing in the gym because there’d been no announcement. It all seemed very odd.

John and I were no wiser by the time we drifted up the slope to the top corner by the field, where we turned our backs to the icy blast coming in from The Lines, and reflected on the mystery.

Exposed to the unrelenting wind, we were already chilled to the bone when a shower swept across the playground. Hands in pockets and backs hunched, we huddled against the wire mesh fence, desperate for shelter.

We’d not been there long when a prefect emerged from the building. Hello, what’s he doing here I wondered, surprised to see a senior pupil in the lower school playground. Striding briskly up the slope, he came straight at us.  

‘You two... Mister Potts’s room,' he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

He didn’t need to tell us twice. As he swung to his left, John and I raced for the building.

‘Good old Sir!’ I thought as I ran, believing Mister Potts had taken pity on us and had a nice little job for us to do in a nice warm classroom.

After charging up the staircase we burst through the classroom door… and caught the full blast of Mister Hyde personified. In a blind rage, Mister Potts shouted at us to get out and manhandled us back through the door. Thus four boys rushing in behind us were met by two boys getting bundled out, resulting in a crunch in the doorway.

The door slammed shut, leaving six shocked and bewildered boys waiting in the corridor. As the gravity of the situation dawned and confusion turned to fear, we spoke in whispers. The ferocity of Mister Potts’ outburst left us in no doubt that we were in trouble, but for what? The only thing we had in common is that we’d been strung out along the fence but what we’d done wrong, nobody knew. The question gave us something to ponder while we stewed. It seemed an eternity before 1A1 trooped in for afternoon registration. As surprised classmates passed by, I cursed the gleeful sods who thought it amusing to tap a finger across a palm. Whilst the fleeting sympathy of others was more acceptable, I could only respond to hushed enquiries of ‘what have you done?’ with a frightened shrug.

The wait hadn’t cooled Mister Potts’s temper. Even with the door closed, I could hear the snarl in his voice as he called the register...

‘Adams, Austin, Bassadona, Burtenshaw…’

...he was still in a stinking mood.  

‘Lack, Lodge… Martin.’

My heart ached a little more when he missed out my name. Then everything went ominously quiet as Mister Potts came to the door and ushered us into the room.

I’d seen what happened to boys sent to Mister Potts. I knew the routine; the posturing; the sneering; the intimidation; all parts of a mental crushing before the inevitable caning. As uncomfortable as it was to witness I trusted my teacher and believed those boys probably got what they deserved, but now I was standing in the shoes of the condemned and it all looked so different.

‘Vandalism,’ I heard Mister Potts say.

‘Vandalism?’

‘Vandalism!’

‘What vandalism?’

‘Wilful damage to school property!’

‘What? He’s gone bonkers.’

In a tirade of twisted nonsense, played out in front of my solemn classmates, Mister Potts damned six innocent boys as vandals.

‘Surely he’s not going to cane us?’

Then Mister Potts entered the little storeroom behind his desk, and I knew we were doomed. A mixture of disbelief, sadness and terror set in when he emerged with the cane. Nobody walked a straighter line than John and though I wasn't averse to the occasional mischief, I wasn't a bad kid; I’d worked hard, tried my best and done as I was told. I’d even written ‘Mister Potts is tops’ inside the cover of one of my wallpaper backed exercise books. Even as I held out my hand, tears welled in my eyes at the injustice of it.

The first lesson that afternoon was Music with Miss Rotherham. In teaching us a rhythm, she repeatedly slapped two fingers into the palm of her hand as she chanted. ‘Ta tatay ta tatay ta ta ta. Got that? Right, you try it.’

‘Ta ta-tay ta ta-tay ta ta ta.  Ta ta-tay ta ta-tay ta ta ta.Ta ta-tay ta ta-tay ta ta ta.'

  

A wretched irony.

Note: Nigel Preece might have been one of the boys caned.