I wear a duster coat over my suit. My glasses are bottle thick and horn-rimmed. I have been teaching primary school for over twenty years and in that time, much has changed in society at large but children are basically children. My students see me as strict but fair.
Mornings are always dedicated to maths. It’s best to deal with complex subjects when young minds are fresh. This morning, we are tackling rudimentary algebra. I have set several trial sums on the blackboard. Heads are bowed, pencils scratch paper. Pursed lips, furrowed brows, and tongues sticking out in concentration. I wander the room, up and down the aisles between desks, observing. Two rows from the front, I notice one of three Kerrys in the class has her head down. She’s a dreamer who pays attention only when I read aloud works by Keats, Durrell or an Ancient Greek play. This morning it isn’t maths that has her attention, she’s cutting out paper dolls.
I slip the cane from it’s holder and sneak over to where she’s sitting. “Thwack!” The cane hits the flat wooden desk top. Kerry’s eyes pop as she looks at me with surprise. A guilty blush covers her cheeks. We regard each other. This is the second time she’s been warned about cutting up paper in class.
I order, “Kerry, stand up.” This she does and all eyes in the class are on us. In this era of corporal punishment, a cut of the cane is the expected response, “Come with me.” I say. She follows. I open the classroom door and we walk through it together. I point to a place next to the door, “Stay there.” Kerry stands, pressing her back against the wall, unsure of where to look or what to do, then I re-enter the room.
There is a transom window above the door through which she can hear the class and I can hear Kerry and see some of her reflection, though distorted by the old glass and from an upside down perspective. Five minutes later, I see she is no longer standing on the spot. I come closer to the door to keep an eye and ear on her and hear a soft thud, thud, thud followed by the light, rapid, tap, tap, tap of rubber soled shoes on the concrete steps. I use the hinge to move the transom to get a better view. Kerry is slipping down the first flight of slick steps, using her cardigan as a slide.
I am about to open the door and drag her back into the classroom, but she stops, runs and stands by the door. The reason becomes obvious when the principal makes an appearance at the top of the stairs. Mrs Carlson pauses outside the door, speaks to Kerry for a minute then heads towards the next class. Kerry stands restively for several minutes before she decides to sit on the allotted spot but when the bell for recess sounds, she stands.
Kerry’s classmates pour out of the door, rushing to open their satchels, grab their snacks and take their break outside in the sunshine. I hear some of their comments as they pass her, “You’ve done it now.”
“You’re gonna get a sixer.” ( Six cuts of the cane, on the palm of the hand.)
Lastly, her best friend says, “Um-aaah.”
Following the ‘cheer’ squad, I am the last person to leave the room. By the time I see her, Kerry’s eyes are huge and round and she has paled considerably. With a tilt of my head I say, ”Come here.” Kerry follows me back into the room.
She stands before me, a very sorry person indeed.
I say, “You won’t do it again, will you?”
“No, Mr Lang.”
“Good. Go to your break.”
Her face lights up, she grabs an apple from her satchel and bounds down the stairs, this time on foot.
