Open Writing

I remember when I was a young lad. Every morning, my Mam would get us up for school at around 7-30 and when we came down stairs, we would be welcomed with a piping hot bowl of porridge. I used to like mine with the milk floating on top and a big dollop of syrup.

In those days, school didn't start until 9 o'clock, so we didn't have to rush and my Mam knew this. So after breakfast we had to do our chores. First we'd had to fill up the coal bucket, then clean out the fireplace and empty the ashes in the bin. Sometimes the ashes would still be hot from the night before, so we had to be careful.. It wouldn't be for the first time if I picked up a cinder and burnt my fingers.

It took ua about half an hour to do the chores. Our school wasn't too far away, so we still had time time to play on the Blackie. This was, and still is, a grass-covered coal slag hill. Oh the fun we had there! Sometimes we would sit on a piece of board and slide down from the top to the bottom the hill. We weren't alone in our antics. A good percentage of our classmates were there too. If the Blackie hadn't been there, I think we would have been bored. As you might guess from its name, the Blackie, sometimes left us covered in coal dust, especially if we came off the boards half way down our slide run.

Sometimes I arrived at school looking like I'd just done a days work in the pits.

There would be a prefect on the gates. He waited until I was right up to the gates before slamming them shut in my face. It was no use me telling the prefect that there was still two minutes to go before 9 o'clock. The gatekeepers had been given power, and they were enjoyed it. I had to wait until a teacher came to let me in. After my name had been taken, I was told to get myself cleaned up, then report to the gymnasium.

I knew what was coming. As I approached the gymnasium my legs began to shake a little. I joined a queue of lads, all waiting for the same thing. A few minutes later, the headmaster came out of his office wielding one of the worst instruments of torture I have ever seen. The cane!

One by one, the lads were made to bend over a chair. The head applied the caneto a lad's buttocks, making the lad leap into the air with an agonised scream.

Eventually it was my turn. The prefect stood at the side of the sweating master to read out the charges. Being dirty on arrival at school, Being late for school, Giving cheek to the prefect. Plus some trumped up charges because the prefect delighted in seeing me get punished.

The head said I was to get six strokes of the cane, an announcement which which didn't stop my legs wobbling. I had watched other lads get a maximum of three strokes. I was privileged. I was to get six.

Bending over the chair, I listened to the master's footsteps echoing around the gymnasium. He was taking a slow walk down, then I heard him coming back and the footsteps got louder as they approached me. Suddenly, I got up and moved out of the way, putting my hands up in protest. "Whoa,'' I shouted and watched as the master stopped in mid stride, a puzzled look on his features.

'Look sir, can't we talk about this?' I asked him as he stood there his face getting redder for being robbed of his bit of sport. 'I mean, six strokes is a bit excessive, don't you think?'

A sudden pain in my right when he clouted me made me wish I hadn't spoken up.

He screamed at me to bend over again.

Doing as I was bid, I suffered the humiliation of the cane and the prefect's laughter after it was finished. I couldn't walk straight for nearly two hours.

When it came to dinnertime I was fed up. It wasn't the thought or the cost of the meal. School dinners were cheap enough. Only sixpence and you got a pudding as well. It was the one-mile walk to the canteen. We had to line up and march down the street, as if we were in the army. If we were out of line, a prefect would report us. And this day it was the prefect who thought it was funny to pick on me. He pushed me to one side for no reason at all, save he wanted a good laugh.

'Right lad ,you're on report for stepping out of line,' he screamed, loud enough for everyone to know I was going to get the cane again when I got back from dinner.

If I'm going to get the cane again, I thought, I may as well get it for something worthwhile. So I gave the prefect a good kick in a place which he wouldn't mention to his mother, making his eyes water and humiliating him as he had me. I then walked off and didn't bother going to dinner.

I went to the local grocery shop and bought myself a penny bag of broken biscuits and a bottle of pop. Then I went over to a demolition site where I sat inside a house that was due to be pulled down. I can still remember its musty smell.

After exploring the site and ripping my grey school shorts it was time for me to go home. On the doorstep waiting for me was my mother. Apparently, one of the schoolteachers had been to my house, looking for me. Before any words were uttered she rained blows on me.

'I told you before that we won't have teachers calling here,' she shouted, landing blow after blow. She grabbed a hold of me and pushed me into the house. Then she noticed my torn shorts, and I was collared by the neck. 'Do you think money grows on trees?' she yelled.

I was about to explain to her, but the blows kept coming, so I thought it best to curl into a ball and get it over with.

Did you ever have one of those days when nothing seemed to go right?

Time for a Cuppa!

* *

If you think my stories are true, then they probably are.

If you think my stories are fiction, then just relax and enjoy the tales.

mikeco158@btinternet.com

His novel "One tear is not enough" ISBN: 1413716865
An epic family saga spanning eight decades from England to India
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/onetear1.htm

Another novel "Time for a Cuppa!" ISBN: 0595224954 will bring a tear to your eye, a smile to your lips, and a warm glow to your heart
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/cuppa1.htm

Mike's first hand disability access reviews
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/disabacc.htm

Mike's newspaper editorial
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/TA1.htm