An Unlikely Friendship

This is the second of four short stories, which should be read in the following order:- 

Willy Wagstaff’s Double Whammy

An Unlikely Friendship

First Intimations of Sex

Stranger than Fiction

By the time I entered Ulverton School for Boys in the early 1950s, fagging at English public schools was already on the wane. But when I say on the wane, at Ulverton, the tradition, with all its brutal overtones, was still sufficiently alive and well to make somewhat uncomfortable the lives of those select few first formers who had the misfortune to be forced to act as unpaid servants for the prefects.  The system was completely unfair, but then what in life is ever totally fair?  But the way the fagging system had been allowed to develop at Ulverton was really grossly unfair, as only the prefects still had fags at their beck and call.

As there were only three prefects per house (three too many in the minds of many of the boys, mine included, on whose arses they regularly found an excuse to vent their spleen with the cane) in each of the six houses in which we, the boys, lived in tightly knit communities at Ulverton, only three of the new boys had the dubious honour – better put, misfortune – of being one of the three dedicated prefects’ fags of that year. So as there were sixteen of us new boys in my house the year I joined the school, you can see how totally unfair the system was. Three of our number shouldered the rather onerous and oft painful task of tending to the despotic needs of the three prefects whilst the rest of us just looked on, thankful that we had not been among the chosen three. And let us be quite clear about it; the three prefects, in my house, Ogden’s,, lorded it over their fags and rendered their lives miserable.

Not that any boy at Ulverton ever escaped the possibility of having his arse beaten, for the cane was alive and well and in regular use throughout the school. It was just that a fag, obliged to bend, in all senses of the word, to his fag-master’s every whim, was exposed to the ever present danger of the cane landing on his bare arse more often than most of us were. And this brings me to the subject of my story today: the house-captain’s fag.  I am happy to say that I was not among that chosen group of three – God alone knows how and by whom they were selected – who were unlucky enough to have the duties of a fag imposed upon them.

As a new boy from a prep school in Manchester, which I had attended as a day-boy, who had never experienced the sting of the rattan cane embellishing my arse until now, I had felt like a square peg in a round hole during that first month at boarding school.  I have to say that the corners were effectively knocked off that square peg, when after my disastrous first month’s progress report, I had been treated to my two first painful tastes of the cane; first by the Headmaster, Mr.  Birch – such an apposite name, given his proclivities – followed an hour later by another six cuts, by way of a top-up, from my housemaster, Mr. Rogers, who was also no slouch with the cane. However, that awful baptism fire served me in good stead; my standing among my peer group in the dormitory rose considerably, as I was the first boy to have been thrashed by both the Headmaster and his housemaster on the same day. But I see I have already strayed from the subject of this story by regurgitating a potted account of my first encounters with the cane in my early days at Ulverton, all of which you know about already.

So as you will have already gathered, I was not, thank God, a fag myself.  During my first year at Ulverton, the house-captain of my house, Ogden House, usually referred to in the possessive case simply as Ogden’s, was an upper-sixth former named James Fergus Hamish Mackenzie. You will perhaps immediately have divined from that string of first names that his antecedents were an upper class Scottish family. In his outward appearance, he was what I always think of as that of a typically dour Scot; he had those beetling eyebrows so characteristic of our brethren north of the border, a hard unapproachable manner and was physically as hard as nails. My guess was that as he matured, he would turn from a taciturn, dour, young Scot into a taciturn, dour, old Scot. On first sight, no one could take Mackenzie for other than what he was. He had Scot painted all over himself; that was until he opened his mouth; like many boys from upper-class Scottish families, he had been sent to prep school in England, where all traces of his native accent had clearly been beaten out of him, as he spoke typical upper-class English. Just why he was now at a northern school that was almost, but not quite, in Scotland, when he had been at prep school in southern England, was unclear. Nor was the fact that he had been not only named a prefect but also house-captain to boot, as he was heartily disliked by everyone.

Anyway, by the end of my first month at Ulverton, Jamie Mackenzie as house-captain, had established himself as the undoubted, no-nonsense, dominant, controlling force in Ogden’s prefect triumvirate. A number of his housemates had already been given the doubtful pleasure of being able to assess his expertise with the cane, which, by all accounts, he was not found to be wanting.  During my first month as a new boy at Ulverton, I had successfully managed to steer clear of any of the numerous flagellators around the place until that awful day when I had made my command appearance before Headmaster and my own housemaster in double-quick succession. But I already knew that I was living, as we all were, on borrowed time and that one day soon I would be invited by one or other of Ogden’s triumvirate of prefects to offer my naked arse to a dose of the tender loving care for which they were all three becoming quite notorious.  And as the luck of the draw had it, it was Jamie Mackenzie, the house-captain, who first had the pleasure – all for him, I assure you – of addressing my backside with his cane.

What happened was that I fell afoul of the house-captain, who caught me breaking one of the most broken rules in the school and which, at a guess, provided the most regular flow of beat-worthy arses to the entire prefect complement of the school.  And you probably already have divined what I was caught doing. Yes you are right; the house-captain had caught me running down the corridor in front of his study.  How I could had been as stupid as to break that golden rule, which automatically carried a minimum penalty of six on the bare.  But I did break that rule and was caught hoofing my way down the corridor by the house-captain. So, straight after supper that same evening, I found myself knocking on the door of his study, wearing only my pyjamas, that de rigueur, dressing requirement for any evening, in-house beating at Ogden’s.

Across the closed door I heard the house-captain bellow: “Come in boy.” So I gingerly opened the door and entered the lion’s den, where, to my utter astonishment, I found myself looking at the bare arse of some other poor sod, who was clearly in the middle of sampling a goodly dose of the house-captain’s percussive expertise with the cane.  At a glance, I took in the fact that I had arrived in the middle of a drama that was not yet over, as I could see only three livid stripes across the buttocks of the as yet to me unknown owner of the same.  And so, making profuse excuses to Mackenzie for the intrusion, I started to withdraw back into the corridor to wait until he had finished thrashing whoever was the owner of the bare arse I had seen bent across that chair.

“Oh it’s you Wagstaff.  I had quite forgotten that we had an appointment at this hour.  But no matter; now that you are here, you may as well stay and have the pleasure of watching me finish correcting my fag, after which I assure you I shall be delighted to give your backside my full attention.”

So that was who was having his arse shredded: the house-captain’s fag: a new boy like me.  But I have to say, I was not familiar with the morphology of the backside I was looking at to be able to identify its owner. But I had noticed the use of the word, pleasure, in what the house-captain had just said to me. I had, until that moment never seen another boy being beaten. I had twice been beaten myself, but the word, pleasure, was not one which I would have even vaguely associated with that painful experience. But now, as I was forced to stand there and watch my house-captain finishing off his handiwork, I felt a slight twitching between my legs; that first intimation, aged only thirteen, of the feeling of  Schadenfreude, which watching someone else suffer punishment so often invokes. It was the vague beginning of my awakening to the relationship  between corporal punishment and erotic, sexual pleasure, to which, like so many before me, I was increasingly to become prey as I approached manhood. It was, of course, only a few years later, when the hormones of which I at that moment knew nothing, were coursing through my veins that I thought back to this occasion, which  I now realise, was the earliest intimation of my sexual awakening.

“All right, Trent-Norton, it’s over and done with. So you may now get up, shake my hand and thank me for having had the forethought to correct you. Then, after you have made yourself decent again, you may leave as I shall not require your services again this evening.  However, Trent-Norton, just be sure that you do not make the same mistakes again in the future.  If you want to keep your arse off a regular, painful, collision course with my cane, then as an absolute minimum, I expect my shoes cleaned every morning so that I can see my face in them and my alternative trousers pressed every day to such a sharp crease that I might cut myself on it. And when I say morning tea at six-thirty, I mean six- thirty and not a quarter-to-seven; and the same in the afternoon; I want my tea served promptly at four-thirty.”

And that is how I first met Gus Trent-Norton, as he arose, sobbing gently, from the chair over which he had been bent for punishment. As he struggled to dress himself – no mean feat, considering the painful state, not to mention the welted and blistered appearance of his backside, we exchanged the rueful smiles of travellers on the same road.  But then he was gone and the house-captain turned his attention to me.

“Well, Wagstaff, what are you waiting for? You know that running in gin the corridors is strictly forbidden and as such carries a mandatory beating of six on the bare. So, unless you want me to lose my temper and up the number of strokes I am about to give you, I suggest you drop your pyjama trousers and present your bare bum to me by bending over the back of that chair. As you can see, the back is padded so you will be quite comfortable whilst I give both myself and you the pleasure of acquainting that most appealing part of your anatomy to the cane. And you will have the added comfort this evening Wagstaff in that my fag, Trent-Norton, has had the courtesy to warm the leather for you, so there is no danger at all of you catching a cold. So, Wagstaff, you will be able to relax in great comfort, whilst I endeavour to meet the urgent need of correction for which your bottom is clearly crying out.”

For a few moments, I stood there immobile, my mind elsewhere, after listening to this over-the-top, sarcastic piece of persiflage. But I was quickly jolted back into reality by the harsh voice of Mackenzie: “Well, Wagstaff, why are you still standing there? I gave you an order, boy, so what are you waiting for? Get your bare arse across the back of that chair immediately. If ever a boy’s arse needed serious attention, Wagstaff, it’s yours right now. Let me tell you, boy, that after I have done with you this evening, you will not be able to sit down comfortably again for several days. Believe me, Wagstaff, I will cure you this evening of any desire you might have, ever again to run in the corridors. Now, for the last time, drop your pyjamas and let me see your naked arse across that chair right now.”

Let me tell you that having made me that promise, the house-captain did just that. My backside had only just recovered from its maiden, double-encounter with the cane on that awful occasion only two weeks ago, when I had suffered from two sequential beatings, first from the Headmaster and then, an hour later, from my housemaster, both of them in painful recompense for my poor work during my first month at Ulverton. So although I was not exactly looking forward to allowing Mackenzie loose on my arse, as I was no longer in my naïve, uninitiated phase of what life at Ulverton had in store for its boys. I was well aware that I was again about to experience a very unpleasant few minutes, whilst Mackenzie worked his magic with his cane on my arse. This was to be my third encounter with the cane since my arrival at the school only six weeks ago. So although it would be wrong to say that I had become blasé about having my arse thrashed, I had already come to understand that the cane was a regular part of life at the school and that, along with my schoolmates, I would have to learn to live with it.

But living with it does not imply that you reach the stage where you actually enjoy having your bum shredded and go out of your way to seek the experience. At least, that was my case. And as I was quickly to learn, a boy elevated to the rank prefect, now that he had the power to punish his schoolmates, often used that power excessively. Many boys who became prefects, exercised their new-found power totally indiscriminately, in what they saw as pay-back for what they themselves had suffered as younger boys.  Jamie Mackenzie, my house-captain of the moment, fitted into this mould exactly, as my first experience of his undoubted, vicious prowess with the cane clearly demonstrated. And so I still have a lasting memory of that day, when that dour, unbending, unsympathetic, sadistic Scot, blistered my bare backside with his cane. With six, swingeing strokes, he showed me that he had little if anything left to learn when it came to delivering pain with his cane.  When I finally got up from my third ordeal within six weeks, with my arse raging with pain, I knew that the house-captain was a man to be avoided like the plague. My heart went out to poor Trent-Norton, whom I barely knew, but who, as Mackenzie’s fag, would have him on his back, not to mention his arse,  for the rest of the year.

I hobbled with my flaming backside to the lavatories in search of some cold water to ease the raging fire in my arse.  And it was there that I found a still tearful Trent-Norton, sitting on a lavatory pan, attempting to do the same as I intended to do for myself. So as two young lads, each of us sporting a well-beaten arse and both feeling badly done by, that was the beginning of the friendship between Gus – as he later told me was his name – and me. Why I should have felt badly done by I do not know as I knew that I had deserved my beating. But as Gus sobbingly told me of his trials and and tribulations in his attempts to satisfy Jamie Mackenzie, his fag-master’s every whim, I realized what an utter shit our house-captain truly was. It was only six weeks into the new term and Gus had already been beaten no less than six times by the house-captain for his unsatisfactory performance coupled with that prefect’s classic excuse when a prefect amuses himself by whacking some lad’s backside: the wrong attitude.

Augustus Trent-Norton, or just plain Gus Trent as he told me wanted to be called, and I were the same age and were both new boys at the school. However, although I had seen Gus around, until we met that day, under those highly unpleasant circumstances, in the house-captain’s study, we had not been other then nodding acquaintances. Although Gus and I were both members of Ogden’s, chance had determined that we did not share the same dorm. Nor did we even share the same first year class, as the year’s new intake was divided between two first forms, 1A and 1B, of which I was in 1A and Gus was in 1B. Now life in a public school is very tribal. Boys tend to associate with those who are around them and so the two classes were sort of rivals. But rivalry existed both between the houses and within a given house, between the dormitories in which one slept. So I suppose my loyalties were threefold:  to my dorm; to my house and to my class. So even at the lowest level, boys in my dorm, although we were all in the same house, did not really associate socially very closely with boys in the other first year dorm. But is spite of this, for some reason, Gus and I clicked and we became inseparable best friends almost immediately.

It was only a few weeks later, when I happened to see an envelope of a letter addressed to the Hon. A. StJ. E. Trent-Norton, that the penny dropped and I learned that my closest pal at school, Gus Trent as I knew him, was, in fact, The Honourable Augustus St. John Emmanuel Trent-Norton, the second son of a lord: the fifth Baron Trent of Trent-Norton in the County of Somerset, to give him his full title. It was only my chance glimpse of that letter, that obliged Gus, very reluctantly I might add, to spill the beans about himself.  I asked myself if I had known that the guy, whose painful misery I had shared in the lavatory that day, was a scion of what I thought of as a true blue-blooded aristocratic family, would we have ever become the close friends that we already were. My God, I thought as I took in the facts; here am I, the son of a working-class, football-pool-winning ironmonger from Manchester and my closest school-friend is the son of a Lord.

But as Gus explained to me, he was definitely not a lord, nor would he ever be. He had no title other than the traditional courtesy accorded to sons of a hereditary peers, of being addressed as The Honourable etc. “So you see, Willy, it’s really all a load of nonsensical convention, which is why I much prefer just to be known as Gus Trent, which is who I am. In fact, I am just the same as you; a normal British citizen; I shall never be a lord or have a title, as when my father dies, it is my elder brother, Titus, who will become the sixth Baron Trent. But all that rigmarole associated with my full name puts normal people off. Here I am at this school, the only boy whose father is a peer of the realm.  As the Honourable whatever, I would be completely isolated, which is not at all what I want to be. I want to be treated, like you, as a normal person.”

But, of course, Gus was not like me or the other boys as, whether he liked it or not. He was to the manner born and one cannot walk away from one’s shadow. However loudly he proclaimed his ordinariness, he was as much a product of his family upbringing and environment as I was of of mine.  In my own way, I was also not like my other classmates. I was the only working-class boy in what was an upper-class environment.  So we were both obliged to try to make ourselves fit in the place we were living. Gus desperately wanted to become ordinary and shed the baggage associated with his noble roots. I, on the other hand, had to attempt to live up to standards which were totally alien to my younger years. But here we were, flung together by fate, the one the son of a lord, the other the son of an ironmonger, and in spite of the enormous social gap separating us, we became the closest of friends.  So we enjoyed our friendship which, as you might already have guessed, over time developed into something much more than our being just best pals.

THE END