The Whippingham College Saga, Part 2: Redemption Through Suffering

1: THE TERRIBLE REVELATION

Smythe-Bellingham major knocked timidly on the door of his House Master’s apartments and entered, his official Punishment Request Form (PRF) in his hand. Miss Felcher, the House Master’s secretary looked up from her paper work and noticed the boy had a black eye and what looked like dried blood on his chin.

‘Yes, boy, what do you want?’ she snarled; then her eyes alighted on the clutched PRF. ‘Ah, come for a thrashing have you?’ she asked in a more friendly voice. She took the PRF from the boy’s outstretched hand and glanced at its content. ‘You vermin,’ she spat at Smythe-Bellingham. ‘Wait.’ And she rose to her full majestic six foot three inches height and, knocking first, entered the inner sanctum where she found the Master of Flogwell House sorting out his canes, checking none had been damaged during the previous days’ heavy use.

Colonel Doom, BA (Oxon), MC (with bar), the much feared Master of Flogwell House, possibly the strictest of all the houses at Whippingham College, the poshest and most brutal public school in England, glanced at the PRF and his eyes bulged with hatred at what he read. ‘Send the little rat in, Miss Felcher. I shall enjoy this.’ He glared as the unfortunate boy was thrown to the ground in front of him.

‘Please sir,’ began Smythe-Bellingham, ‘but I…’
‘Shut your face, Smyth-Bellingham ma. Don’t speak until you are spoken to, you miserable excuse for a human being. How dare you come to see your House Master with blood on your chin! As for this,’ he waved the PRF at the bedraggled boy, ‘this is outrageous. The Matron states you have insulted her and her excellent colleague, Sister Sims. My God, boy, I shall thrash you to within an inch of your worthless life for this. Here at Floggers we do not permit a woman to be insulted. Get up from the floor, get your trousers off and bend over the table. I’m going to give you the caning of your life and, believe me, it will hurt you more than it will hurt me!”
‘But I didn’t insult her, sir, I…’
‘What?’ shrieked Colonel Doom. ‘Are you compounding your insult to Matron and Sister Sims by cowardice, excuses and falsehoods? I was intending to give you only 12 strokes. Now bend over and receive 18 of the very best!’
‘But I didn’t sir, I just said she was wrong…’

In all his life as a master at Whippingham College, Edward O’Donaghue Doom, formerly of the Guards and hero of several slaughters of captured German prisoners of war, had never encountered a boy who had answered him back. He was stunned by the sheer gallantry of the child and sat back in his chair, a more than averagely sadistic smile spreading over his craggy features. He spoke softly now. Few pupils had heard Doom’s voice other than at its maximum terror-inducing volume. Those who had heard him speak gently knew that the rare softness covered a black-hearted rage which only a terrifying outburst of physical violence could assuage.

‘I see. Very well. You may give me your own twisted version of what took place. And then I shall give you 24 strokes on your bare arse with my thinnest cane. You won’t sit down for a week!’ A terrible grimace came over his face. ‘Spit it out, Smythe-Bellingham major.’

‘I went to the sanatorium, sir, to report sick… It was because…’ the boy hesitated.
‘Continue, you little scumbag,’ ordered the House Master.
‘…it was because I had a boil on my prick, sir,’ mumbled the boy.
‘What!’
‘And Sister Sims looked at it and said I had syphilis, sir…’
‘What!’
‘And I said I couldn’t have syphilis, sir, and it was only a boil or a sort of giant infected blackhead.’
‘Holy Christ!’ roared Colonel Doom. ‘You dared to question Sister Sims’ expert diagnosis?’
‘And she punched me in the mouth, sir.’
‘I think she was bloody restrained, if you ask me.’
‘And then Matron came into the surgery and she looked at my prick and she said it was the worst case of primary syphilis she had seen and how dare I argue with Sister Sims.’
‘I can barely contemplate what you will tell me next, Smythe-Bellingham, but pray continue this wretched tale of insolence and insubordination.’
‘And I told Matron that it couldn’t be syphilis because I’ve never been with a whore, not even any of the village ones. Then she punched me in the eye, sir, which I don’t think is very fair.’

Colonel Doom stared in horror at the discovery that a pupil in his house had the temerity to question the fairness of the Matron’s justified response to having her professional expertise questioned. His lips quivered with righteous anger. He spoke in his most dangerous voice.

‘You ignorant little shit. You do not need to screw a whore to catch syphilis. Plenty of perfectly ordinary girls probably have syphilis as a result of their immorality. And there is more than one way to contract syphilis. Toilet seats. The handles of public lavatories. Even shaking hands with another man who has been fondling his own infected genitals! Most homos have syphilis.’
‘You mean I might have caught it from one of my chums in the dormitory, sir?’

The Colonel’s eyes opened wide in horror. ‘Are you saying, you have been engaging in sodomy with other pupils, Smythe-Bellingham?’
‘What’s sodomy sir?’
‘Fucking their arseholes, man, buggery, arse-banditry, bum-poking, call it what you will! Answer me, you filthy wretch, you excrescence on the face of this House. Which dorm are you in?’
‘B dorm, sir.’
‘Oh no,’ groaned the House Master, ‘not B dorm, that cesspit of immorality and depravity.’ He spoke the next sentence through gritted teeth. ‘Tell me what obscenities you have participated in.’
‘I can’t sneak on my chums, sir, it’s again House rules.’
‘Fuck House rules! Tell me everything or I’ll throttle you with my bare hands, so help me God.’
‘Well, sir, every Saturday we have a sort of party, after Lights Out…er, we call it Orgy-Porgy night, sir…’
‘Continue.’
‘…we all take our jimjams off in the dark…’
‘Tell me. Tell me. Tell me everything or I’ll kill you.’
‘…and we, well, we do it to each other…it’s part of the game that no one knows who’s doing it to who in the dark…we use some Vaseline to lube each other up, sir…’
‘Who’s doing it to whom, Smythe-Bellingham, you ungrammatical, ignorant little wretch,’ murmured Colonel Doom pedantically. But his heart wasn’t in it.

And so the terrible truth dawned upon the House Master. An entire dormitory, twenty boys or more, were infected with syphilis. He sat at his desk, his head in his hands, tears pricking his eyes at the shame which would be heaped upon Flogwell House if this scandal ever leaked out. After a few moments, Dr Doom stood up, his simian figure quivering with emotion. His mighty intellect had thrown up an even more terrifying possibility.
‘Tell me, Smythe-Bellingham major, did you and your chums in B Dorm think up this foul Bacchanalian event all by yourselves?’
‘Oh no sir, the chaps in F Dorm told us about it. They do Orgy-Porgy night on Fridays. It’s their pot of Vaseline you see sir.’ After a moment’s thought, Smythe-Bellingham added, ‘K dorm borrow the pot on Mondays.’

‘Get out of my sight, Smythe-Bellingham major.’
‘Aren’t you going to beat me sir?’
‘No. I won’t contaminate my cane with your filthy arse. Get out.’
‘But the chaps in the dorm will think you’ve gone soft if you let me off without a beating. And they’ll think I’m a coward or maybe that I’ve let you give me one up the bot.”

Colonel Doom considered this point for a moment. The little bastard was right. So he picked up his cane and swiped the boy one across the left cheek, skilfully getting the right ear lobe and cheek on the backhand stroke,. As the lad screamed and put his hand up to his lacerated face, the vengeful pedagogue kicked him in the testicles and Smythe-Bellingham went down for the count. ‘Take that, you mentally retarded little cunt,’ exclaimed Colonel Doom imperiously as he swept out of the study.

‘Miss Felcher, arrange an appointment for Matron and me to see Dr Seiss-Urquart as soon as possible. Tell the High Master it’s a matter of life and death.’


2: REMEDIAL ACTION

The High Master of Whippingham listened in growing horror to the tale the shell-shocked Colonel Doom expounded to him. He turned to the seated Matron who confirmed that there was no possible error in her diagnosis: ‘I’ve seen too many syphilitic cocks in my time to make a mistake, High Master,’ she intoned. ‘I served in the Royal Army Nursing Corps in the war and a primary syphilis sore is unmistakeable. I don’t need a blood test to spot a nasty little pervert when I see one.’

‘Well, Colonel Doom, we have a slight problem on our hands,’ observed Dr Seiss-Urquart drily. ‘It seems that most of the boys in Flogwell House may have contracted a particularly nasty venereal disease. Let us hope than none of the other houses is involved. If I may make an observation at this juncture, Colonel, I have to say that I hold you responsible for the level of homosexuality in your house. We all know that many of the lads form pashes on each other, it’s a fine old Whippingham tradition, but I really expect it to stop at the occasional wank and snog.’ Hearing the matron’s intake of breath, he added, ‘O pardon my French, Matron – please tell us, my dear lady, just how infectious is this syphilis thing and how easily is it cured?’

‘High Master, syphilis is mercifully not as infectious as gonorrhoea or other sexually transmitted diseases. It would normally only be passed on via…’ (here she blushed and lowered her eyes in a rather becoming girlish embarrassment) ‘…er, via penetration as opposed to mutual masturbation. However, it is a much more serious disease and, if left untreated, will lead to insanity and an agonising death. Treatment is straightforward: a lengthy, painful series of penicillin injections in the buttocks. When I administer the jabs I usually employ a blunted needle in order to add an extra twist.’

‘From what I have heard, High Master,’ interjected Colonel Doom, ‘the secondary and tertiary stages take a long time to develop and thus the infected pupils’ deaths would occur many years after they had left the School. If we shut Smythe-Bellingham up permanently, then surely no one would be any the wiser…’
‘Colonel Doom, not only have you permitted the boys under your care to sodomise themselves silly in vile anonymous orgies, but you now appear to be seriously suggesting we kill one of your pupils and allow upwards of a hundred Old Whippinghamians to die in agony. Or have I misconstrued your words?’
‘Perhaps I was being over-protective of the good name of Flogwell House and of the School, High Master,’ murmured Doom. ‘It was just an impromptu thought.’
‘Perhaps you are a fucking idiot, Colonel Doom.’
‘Ladies present, High Master,’ Doom snapped back defensively.
The Matron smiled grimly. ‘Don’t worry about me High Master, I have heard an effing sight worse language in my time, I can assure you.’ And turning to Colonel Doom, she observed, ‘I’ve seen more intelligent creatures than you crawl out from under a fucking stone, you unmitigated arsehole.’
‘Come, come, we must not bicker amongst ourselves! It’s against all the finest of our Whippinghamian traditions!’ bellowed the High Master in his stentorian tones. ‘We have a fucking emergency on our hands thanks to the good Colonel’s lack of judgement. Let’s sort it out, chop chop.’

After a short discussion it was agreed that all members of Flogwell House would receive a series of penicillin injections, and that all boys would be informed that inter-house pashing was henceforth forbidden. Naturally, Matron insisted on a significant increase in salary for herself and Sister Sims as compensation for the unpleasant task of jabbing the boys’ buttocks and to ensure that poor Smythe-Bellingham’s injuries were kept under wraps. The cost of the penicillin would come from the House War Graves Restoration Fund, a cause dear to Colonel Doom’s heart.

‘Well, that seems to cover everything. Matron, I should like to thank you for your professionalism in this unpleasant matter. I know I can trust you and Sister Sims to maintain confidentiality and thus protect the good name of Whippingham College.’ Dr Seiss-Urquart shook hands with the matron and then turned to Colonel Doom to add, ‘I would like a few words in private with you, Colonel, if you please.’

‘Sit down, you cunt,’ requested the High Master once Matron had departed. ‘Colonel, it will come as no surprise to you when I say you are a total fucking disgrace to the School. You are a vicious sadist, a simian bully and you are more or less totally incompetent. You richly deserve to lose your position as House Master of Flogwell. I am greatly tempted to relieve you of your duties instantly. However, since I am a just man and, what is more to the point, a man with a fine sense of irony and humour, I shall give you a choice of punishment.’
‘A choice, High Master?’
‘You may tender your resignation and sign an affidavit agreeing to relinquish your pension rights and also to keep your face shut about this whole disgraceful matter, or you may submit to a sound thrashing from me. Forty strokes with the Black Mambo, the most terrible weapon in my whole collection of canes. On the bare arse, naturally, bent over my desk. Choose now. Before I regret my leniency and kind-heartedness.’
‘The Black Mambo, High Master?’ gasped Colonel Doom in awe.
‘Yes, the Black Mambo. I have only had the occasion to use it once before and the poor chap needed a hundred stitches and a month in the Sanatorium to recover. ’
‘By God, sir, let no one call Doom a coward! I can take anything you can hand out! Thank you for your giving me a chance to redeem myself and to keep my good name as Master of Flogwell House!’ exclaimed the valiant Colonel. ‘You’ll not hear a sound pass my lips, High Master! Lay it on with all your might! Give me no quarter.’

The High Master of Whippingham opened his cane cupboard and reverently withdrew the Black Mambo, a veritable work of art, forty-two inches of vicious, infinitely flexible and oiled Jamaican cane. He demonstrated its action by slicing through the candles on his mantelpiece with an elegant flick of his wrist, relishing Colonel Doom’s gulps of fear. Before he commenced the task of lashing the errant teacher’s waiting derriere, he wisely made arrangements for a stretcher party to carry his hapless victim to the Sanatorium. ‘Give it to him good and hard, High Master, we’ll sew his arse back together neatly enough!’ cried the deliriously happy Matron as she heard the glad tidings of Doom’s terrible impending punishment.

The next ten minutes were the most exciting of Dr Seiss-Urquart’s academic life and they were equally memorable for Colonel Doom. After the punishment was over, the Colonel collapsed and had to be revived by the stretcher bearers who shoved his head into a bucket of water. ‘Thank you, High Master,’ Doom moaned respectfully as he was carted off to the tender care of Matron and Sister Sims.

‘The English school system will probably not see his like again,’ reflected Dr Seiss-Urquart philosophically as he wiped the shit and blood off the Black Mambo with diluted Dettol, prior to waxing it with Johnson’s No. 1 Finest Academic Cane Wax.