these matters could transform you in a moment into a target for derision.
Except for Wadlow and a few others, too shy or unusual—and thus already excluded from the pack to be prey for the likes of Critchley and Judd—they were huddled on and around Dickie's bed, listening to a recital of rude limericks.
"Here's another," he said.
"A lesbian once in Khartoum
Took a nancy boy back to her room.
As they climbed into bed
The nancy boy said
Who does what and with what and to whom?"
Tommy didn't understand this one at all but he roared with the rest of them. Nobody seemed to have noticed that it was drawing close to eight o'clock. He was sitting alongside Dickie, basking in reflected glory. They were now generally considered to be best friends. Both had their backs to the door.
"Okay," Dickie said, holding up his hands for quiet. "Here's one I made up. How about this...
"There once was a Whippet called Brent
Whose cock was exceedingly bent..."
It was at this moment that Tommy noticed the grins beginning to vanish from the faces of the boys sitting opposite, the ones who had sight of the door. He turned to see what they were looking at. Standing just inside the doorway, leaning against the wall, was Mr Brent. He had his arms folded and a strange half-smile on his face. Everyone had seen him now. Except Dickie. He was too carried away by his own brilliance to have noticed the sudden chilling of the air.
"... To save Matron trouble,
He stuffed it in double
So rather than coming, he went!"
He laughed proudly and rocked back on the bed and it was only when he became aware that this one didn't seem to have gone down so well that he looked at the faces around him and then turned to see what they were all staring at.
Mr Brent unfolded his arms and gave three slow claps.
"Very good, Jessop. Quite the poet, I see."
There was a ripple of nervous laughter and Tommy thought for a moment that it was all going to be treated as a joke. Mr Brent still had that odd little smile on his lips. Then suddenly it was gone.
"All right," he snapped. "Into bed, everyone."
He watched them scatter like mice to their holes and when all was still, all eyes upon him, his finger poised on the light switch, he added quietly:
"I'll be seeing you later, Jessop. Lights out now! No talking."
He flicked the switch and they all lay frozen with fear in the darkness until his footsteps had faded along the corridor.
"You were supposed to be keeping cave, Bedford," Pettifer whispered from the other side of the room.
"I know," Tommy said. "Sorry, Jessop."
Dickie didn't answer. It was about half an hour before Mr Brent appeared in the doorway again and told him quietly to put on his dressing gown and slippers and to report downstairs to the changing room.
"Good luck, Dickie," Tommy whispered as Jessop shuffled past his bed. But again he didn't answer. For a long while nobody dared speak. Like Tommy, they were probably all imagining the scene. They knew the routine from the older boys, who always enjoyed scaring the newbugs. Dickie would be told to remove his dressing gown and bend over the wooden bench so that his nose was touching the wire mesh of one of the cages. And Mr Brent, in his shirtsleeves, would first slap the heel of the red leather slipper in the palm of his hand to give your imagination a little taste of what was to come. You never knew until the last moment how many strokes to expect. It was usually three, four or six, depending on the severity of the offence.
The silence that now hung over the upstairs of the school seemed to hum with fear and fascination. Every boy in every dormitory was listening. They all heard the distant dull clunk of the changing-room door being shut. Tommy held his breath. There was a long pause. Then the first muted thwack. And in the grateful safety of their beds, the whole school winced and silently began to count.
One, two...
Sometimes, if the victim was young or insufficiently brave, you would hear him
Except for Wadlow and a few others, too shy or unusual—and thus already excluded from the pack to be prey for the likes of Critchley and Judd—they were huddled on and around Dickie's bed, listening to a recital of rude limericks.
"Here's another," he said.
"A lesbian once in Khartoum
Took a nancy boy back to her room.
As they climbed into bed
The nancy boy said
Who does what and with what and to whom?"
Tommy didn't understand this one at all but he roared with the rest of them. Nobody seemed to have noticed that it was drawing close to eight o'clock. He was sitting alongside Dickie, basking in reflected glory. They were now generally considered to be best friends. Both had their backs to the door.
"Okay," Dickie said, holding up his hands for quiet. "Here's one I made up. How about this...
"There once was a Whippet called Brent
Whose cock was exceedingly bent..."
It was at this moment that Tommy noticed the grins beginning to vanish from the faces of the boys sitting opposite, the ones who had sight of the door. He turned to see what they were looking at. Standing just inside the doorway, leaning against the wall, was Mr Brent. He had his arms folded and a strange half-smile on his face. Everyone had seen him now. Except Dickie. He was too carried away by his own brilliance to have noticed the sudden chilling of the air.
"... To save Matron trouble,
He stuffed it in double
So rather than coming, he went!"
He laughed proudly and rocked back on the bed and it was only when he became aware that this one didn't seem to have gone down so well that he looked at the faces around him and then turned to see what they were all staring at.
Mr Brent unfolded his arms and gave three slow claps.
"Very good, Jessop. Quite the poet, I see."
There was a ripple of nervous laughter and Tommy thought for a moment that it was all going to be treated as a joke. Mr Brent still had that odd little smile on his lips. Then suddenly it was gone.
"All right," he snapped. "Into bed, everyone."
He watched them scatter like mice to their holes and when all was still, all eyes upon him, his finger poised on the light switch, he added quietly:
"I'll be seeing you later, Jessop. Lights out now! No talking."
He flicked the switch and they all lay frozen with fear in the darkness until his footsteps had faded along the corridor.
"You were supposed to be keeping cave, Bedford," Pettifer whispered from the other side of the room.
"I know," Tommy said. "Sorry, Jessop."
Dickie didn't answer. It was about half an hour before Mr Brent appeared in the doorway again and told him quietly to put on his dressing gown and slippers and to report downstairs to the changing room.
"Good luck, Dickie," Tommy whispered as Jessop shuffled past his bed. But again he didn't answer. For a long while nobody dared speak. Like Tommy, they were probably all imagining the scene. They knew the routine from the older boys, who always enjoyed scaring the newbugs. Dickie would be told to remove his dressing gown and bend over the wooden bench so that his nose was touching the wire mesh of one of the cages. And Mr Brent, in his shirtsleeves, would first slap the heel of the red leather slipper in the palm of his hand to give your imagination a little taste of what was to come. You never knew until the last moment how many strokes to expect. It was usually three, four or six, depending on the severity of the offence.
The silence that now hung over the upstairs of the school seemed to hum with fear and fascination. Every boy in every dormitory was listening. They all heard the distant dull clunk of the changing-room door being shut. Tommy held his breath. There was a long pause. Then the first muted thwack. And in the grateful safety of their beds, the whole school winced and silently began to count.
One, two...
Sometimes, if the victim was young or insufficiently brave, you would hear him
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