Chapter 12. Swats for Sale

Don Forfar didn’t have to work very hard at being noticed when he arrived at the school for Grade 9. He was a big boy for 14 – over six feet tall, pushing 180 pounds, with a large head topped with wiry reddish-brown hair. Don got spanked pretty well every day during his first two weeks and we hadn’t even started beat tests.

Forfar never could be classified as just one of the dozen new boys that joined my class that year. Forty new boys had been brought in that fall to fill the new dorm building that had been built. The place was bursting at the seams.

My class of 26 had nearly doubled in size to become the largest in the school. I was one of eight who had to sleep in the infirmary until enough boys had run away to free up room in the 100-bed dormitory.

The school deliberately over-enrolled in anticipation of 10 percent leaving in the first term. As my run-away report in a letter home on Oct. 4 detailed – 10 runaways in one week, four of whom didn’t return – the 10 percent projection was realistic. In fact, I was out of the infirmary in less than one month.

There was also a population explosion in the school’s staff. Three new full-time and two part-time teachers joined. Two of the teachers, Frank Doolan and Ted Davies, brought large families with them. The rest were single and included Father Phillip Sargeant, who replaced Arthur Millward as chaplain, John McCormac, and Roger Caves.

Forfar would get spanked for things few of us would dare do, especially if you were a new boy. It was never for anything major, just things that could be regarded as a general disregard for authority. Sometimes he was deliberately baiting teachers. Sometimes he was just being his unin­hibited, independent-minded self.

On more than one occasion, it seemed, he would be walking to his seat during Father Sargeant’s English class when out would come a stream of unprintable ex­pletives because something had happened – a toe stubbed or a poke from a classmate. Five swats later class would resume. On other occasions, such as the time he got caught trying to break a stretcher in the radiator, it was just plain mischief. He never seemed to mind being spanked.

By the end of the first month, Forfar, needless to say, had the toughest rear-end in the class, if not the school. Sometimes you’d swear it was made of leather, he would show so little sign of feel­ing anything. The ultimate proof of how hardened his posterior had become came just before the Christmas holiday when he found himself without spending money for the bus ride to his home in Dauphin.

By this time Forfar’s reputation as a prankster was well-estab­lished. His brand of humor had even won a few fans in the senior class, particularly Hugh Ross and Rob Wallace. He had a standing invitation to visit both their dorm and the Grade II classroom on the third floor of the stone building. The mischief he would get into in a 15-minute recess would keep them chuckling for a week. Forfar was a willing dupe, most­ly because he didn’t see himself as one.

Forfar was still cursing his parents for not sending him cash to buy a bus tick­et home (an amount he hoped would be too much) when he walked into the Grade 11 classroom. He was pretty well resigned to the fact he wasn’t going to have any spending money when Ross came up with an idea.

“How badly do you want some money?” asked Ross with a smirk.

“I’m not about to run through the school naked if that’s what you’re thinking,” replied Forfar.

“No, I have something more appealing in mind. And it would probably bring you a lot more business,” added Ross. “In fact, I’ll be the first one in line.”

“Okay, what is it?” Forfar inquired.

“Collect money by taking swats. Charge maybe 10 cents for one, three for a quarter.”

“Piss off,” he replied. But even as he was dismissing the idea his mind was doing some quick arithmetic.

“Holy shit, I could pull in five bucks in no time,” he said. “Anyone else here interested?”

There were enthusiastic nods all around. Forfar had taken the bait hook, line, and sinker and Ross was already killing himself laughing.

“One condition,” Forfar added, “I get to choose the stick.”

The Grade 11s could hardly believe what they were hearing. Either he was pretty desperate, or he really did have a leather ass. Ross immediately produced a stretcher hidden behind a loose board in the wall. It was one of the upright pieces from an old dining room chair, beautifully tapered to fit the hand and hard as a rock.

“No bloody way,” he said. “Find one of those plywood ones kicking around.”

Very quickly one was located and the desks at the front of the room cleared away to provide room for Forfar to do business.

“Bend over,” boomed Ross with a big smile as he raised the stick high into the air.

“Let’s see your money first,” Forfar demanded chortling all the while. Out came two-bits and Forfar cheerfully pocketed it. But as he took the money he made a half-hearted attempt to bolt out the door.

It was no use, of course, because the doorway was by now jammed with curious junior boys. Forfar was not about to get the last laugh.

“Nice try,” said Ross as he yanked on the hood of Forfar’s sweatshirt.

“Take it like a man,” he mocked.

And so he did. Three from Ross. Three from Wallace. Six from somebody else. Word of this once-in-a-life-time opportunity was spread around the school in a flash. The crowd at the doorway had be­come so large the Grade 11s had relaxed their edict and were al­lowing spectators inside.

A gallery two rows deep lined the front of the classroom. The con­tinuous opening and closing of the heavy steel fire door leading down the stairs allowed everyone in the build­ing to hear the crack of the stick and the howls of laughter that followed. But as long as there were customers Forfar seemed keen to continue. Few of the blows were being delivered with even half the expertise of a teacher. Then suddenly from the doorway came a voice.

“All right, what’s going on. Let me in.”

Roger Caves had sniffed out some unauthorized fun and had come to put an end to it. He was not a popular teacher. Tall with hunched shoulders, Mr. Caves wore a scowl as long as his face. At 22, he seemed to have an unhealthy love for using his authority. What irked most was his pompous, seldom-amused manner.

“Everyone who doesn’t belong in this room leave im­mediately,” he ordered.

“You can stay right where you are Forfar,” he added hastily, as Forfar attempted to disappear down the stairs with the departing crowd.

“You seemed to be in the middle of all this. Are you going to tell me what was going on, or do I have to conduct my own in­vestigation?” he asked.

“We were just having a little fun,” Forfar volunteered reluc­tantly, more than just a little annoyed Mr. Caves of all people had been the one to walk in. Already he had gotten too much pleasure out of catching someone doing something poten­tially punishable.

“Yes, I can see that,” Mr. Caves replied. “And in the process, you managed to disrupt half the school. Perhaps you have a lit­tle too much spare time on your hands.”

“What were you doing with the stretcher?” he quizzed direct­ly, his eyes now glaring accusingly.

“We were just trying out a new one to see how much it hurt,” he replied rather unconvincingly.

“I can see we’re not getting anywhere this way,” Mr. Caves concluded. “I think maybe you and I should pay a visit to Mr. Wiens’s office.”

By this time Forfar was seething. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain himself to Mr. Wiens over such a trivial thing. As he tore down two flights of stairs and along the hall to Mr. Wiens’ office he said a silent prayer that the headmaster would not be there.

He also resolved to come clean and get it over with even if he wasn’t there. Forfar was greatly relieved when he saw the door open and the office empty.

“You don’t have to go and find him,” Forfar said when Mr. Caves caught up to him outside the office. “I’ll tell you what hap­pened.”

Mr. Caves all too eagerly invited Forfar into the office and closed the door with its tinted window. A minute later the sound of four sharp cracks rang out. Forfar emerged burning with anger and $5 poorer. Mr. Caves had also confiscated his earnings.

“What an asshole,” he muttered as he passed the throng of on­lookers gathered outside.

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Richard de Candole has been working in British Columbia and Alberta as a reporter and editor for over 40 years. Toughest School in North America is about his five years as a student at St. John’s Cathedral Boys’ School in Selkirk, Manitoba from 1962 to 1968. Richard lives with his wife Wendy in Qualicum Beach, British Columbia.

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