Some teachers didn't enjoy belting, some even had to get others to do it for them, but not Stewart. He was an expert. He knew exactly how high to raise his arm to get the maximum force into the thongs as they smashed against the upheld hands, and his belting always had the distinctive, sickening smack of a square hit. He rarely got his timing wrong and if he did he would try again.
The presence of Dougie Erskine in that class made it a particular favourite. Big Dougie sat at the back with a stubbly, square jaw and a distant look in his eyes. If the lesson was coming to an end without Stewart's daily practice, he could belt Dougie and nobody would complain.
Stewart was in a bad mood that morning and Gurde wondered who would be first out on to the floor. He had never been called out for punishment but he knew what it must be like. Sitting at the front he could watch the glazed expression shoot across the victim's face, and could almost feel the fine spray of sweat that exploded from the nervous palms, before the fingers turned scarlet as they were nursed away. Even Big Dougie still winced, though his palms were as thick as belt leather. The respect for Stewart's skill hushed the class as he threw his book on to his desk and turned to the rolling blackboard.
"Right. Books out. Chapter 11. Page 67. Quadratic equations."
He began scribbling examples on the blackboard. It was obvious that he didn't like teaching. He talked to his scribbles for fifteen minutes and then turned back to face us.
"Right. Examples on page 71. Number 4 to the end. On you go."
Then he strode back to his seat, flipped open his copy of the Daily Telegraph, and waited for the first hand to go up. The examples were attempted in silence, but every now and then a hand would raise, and Stewart would tut and march across to whisper the culprit through their problem.
After a while Stewart walked back to his desk, picked up a damp rag, and began to wipe the blackboard clean. Gurde watched the white scribbles disappear. He had watched them grow and had heard the voice explaining. He had hurried through the pages of examples with ease while the words were still fresh but as the scribbles were erased so was any memory of what they stood for.
"Right!" Stewart bellowed. "Yesterday afternoon I started setting you problems to do at home. For next Tuesday I want you to solve this quadratic equation."
He turned and began to write onto the damp patch that he had just cleared. Gurde copied it down carefully.
"Right. Anybody not done the problem I set yesterday?"
Stewart scanned the room with his good, determined eye. Gurde felt his heart sink and then begin to quicken. The Wizard's revenge.
"Right. Douglas Erskine? Let me see yours, sonny!"
"I haven't finished it, Sir."
"Out!"
Big Dougie rose slowly to his feet and began to edge through the desks to the front of the class.
"Who else? Johnstone?"
"Here's mine, Sir!"
"Anybody else?"
Gurde looked over his shoulder. Two other hands were raised. Gurde pushed a hand upwards to join them.
"Dixon and Dewar. And Baird."
"I wasn't here yesterday, Sir," Gurde announced.
"So? Out, the lot of you!"
There was a strange feeling of inevitability about the movements as Gurde rose and walked out into the huge space in front of the blackboard. The three others arrived at the same time. Nobody wanted to be first.
At least Gurde wasn't the only novice. Dewar looked as though he was going to be sick.
"Right. Erskine. You first, son. Up!"
Dougie stepped forward and raised his arms into the correct position without thinking. Right palm open, fingers together, left palm underneath for support, both arms straight. He stood facing the class so that Stewart could belt across his hands and the whole class could see the pain in his face. Stewart drew the leather strap from under his jacket where it had lain draped over his shoulder.
It was all so familiar, but Gurde was seeing it all from a new angle. The twitch in Stewart's eye quickened as he raised the strap in his right hand. The leather was thick enough to keep the belt as straight as a stick as it rose. Only the strips at the end bent over under as his arm passed the vertical. Then down it came, whipping in a smooth arc, to smack on to the open palm. The arms buckled beneath the blow, allowing the belt to curve on, but Dougie hardly flinched. He placed his arms by his sides, looked straight ahead and waited to see if he was going to get another. A simple nod from Stewart and Dougie was free. He shook his hand in the air as he left the stage, sat down and started blowing on to his cupped right palm.
"Dixon. Up!"
Stewart was leaving the two virgins till last. Dixon stepped forward. He had been through it all before but lacked Dougie's experience. He raised his arms, but Stewart had to move them into the correct position: up a little and across to the left.
Stewart knew, as we all knew, that if he struck a wrist the thongs would wrap themselves around and, as they were pulled away in the continuing arc, they would cut deep gashes into the skin. The true way to martyrdom was to cover the classroom floor in blood after a badly placed blow. Some teachers laid cloths over the wrists in case they missed their target, but such a display of uncertainty would have earned Stewart's scorn. He used no safety nets.
He placed Dixon's arms into the correct position and stepped back exactly the right distance to maximise the impact. Dixon clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and the smack of another clean strike echoed around the hushed room. Dixon doubled over clutching his hand and scuttled away without waiting for permission. Luckily for him Stewart still had two others to relish.
He stared us each in the eye, looking for something. Gurde wanted to be next but a mixture of nervousness and the twitch in Stewart's eye caused a momentary smirk to flit across Dewar's lips. It was enough.
"Dewar. Up!"
Dewar hesitated. Gurde felt for him and wished him on.
"Come on, sonny. I haven't got all day!"
Dewar moved forward and raised his arms into position with several jerking movements. His hands were shaking as he watched the belt rise above Stewart's head and then, just as the belt began to fall, he instinctively whipped his fingers away. Stewart's swing was unstoppable. The strap shot downwards and slapped heavily against his own legs. He had to take a step forward to regain his balance. Gurde could hear the whole class draw breath.
"You little shit! Get those bloody hands up!"
Stewart rubbed his leg. Dewar wasn't moving fast enough so he grabbed the boy's wrists and jabbed them back into position.
"Do that again and I'll show you a few things! Up!"
Dewar raised his left hand to support his right and looked away.
The belt smacked hard against his palms and he buckled over. He let out a piercing wail and then he started to cry. There was no pity in the room. The one thing that mattered was keeping control; no satisfaction was to be given to the belter. Gurde could see heads shaking as they watched Dewar's jolts.
Dewar looked up through his swollen eyes, begging to be allowed to return to his seat. Stewart's eye twitched once.
"Right, Baird. Up!"
He raised his hands as he had seen the others do. With his hands outstretched it was as if Gurde was begging to be hurt. The palms were slippery and Gurde felt the urge to pull them away tug - and then Stewart's arm dropped and Gurde could hear the whistling sound before the hands jerked downwards and the smack rang out.
The feeling of the blow rattled into the top of his skull, followed by a thump in his stomach. Gurde kept the stinging eyes fixed on Stewart as he fought the need to buckle over.
Then Gurde lowered both hands and stood still. A snigger crossed the room. The heat in the fingers tips began to burn and Gurde was surprised at how pain grew and changed. Only a few seconds after the strike and already the hot stab had become a throb that made the hand heavy. Gurde glared up at the twitching face. It was busily scanning the class with a look of smug satisfaction, checking to see if there were any mor
e excuses to be found in the sea of quiet faces.
"I didn't deserve that." It slid quietly out of his mouth but it took a second to realise he had spoken. The sniggering stopped and there was a short silence before Stewart's head span. He took a step back. The left eye flickered and he smiled.
"You'll deserve this one then! Up!"
The refusal rose in his throat but Gurde kept it at bay. He no longer had any fear but to refuse might suggest otherwise. He waited as long as he dared before he raised the arms once more, placed the reddened right hand on top and waited.
"No-one talks back to me, sonny!"
Gurde nodded. The leather strap rose in a blur. It paused for only a second at its maximum height before it came down. The awful smack rang out once more. It was a strange pain. The fingers, still numb from the first blow, hardly felt the impact. Instead it was as if the palm had split and warm liquid was flowing down. His eyes began to water. Then the throb burst through the warmth, stronger than ever, pulsing inside the lump at the end of the arm.
Gurde waited. He could sense Stewart's frustration, and was proud of what Gurde could do. Stewart's eyes flicked across to Dewar who was regaining some composure. Gurde rolled the burning fingers over into a fist to drive the feeling deep into his body. Stewart was staring at him again, waiting for a reaction. The eyes were seeking, trying to read the thoughts, but Gurde squeezed the throbbing fist and gave him nothing, and for a moment he thought Stewart was going to punch him. Then it was over.
"Sit!"
Stewart's shoes squeaked on the linoleum as he turned and marched back to his desk. He slipped the belt back under his jacket and picked up his newspaper.
Gurde paused for a few more seconds, remembering, and then walked back to the desk. As he approached the seat he looked around, moving from face to face, reading their expressions. He hoped there was a hint of admiration. Stewart turned to the blackboard and went on with the next chapter.
Gurde tried to pick up a pen but the swollen stumps would not do as they were told. He closed the books, arranged them neatly on the desk and imagined the new words that would soon be drifting from the back seat of the bus.
Gradually the feeling in the clenched fist settled to a sweaty warmth. Gurde stared in turn at the clock on the wall and at the grey clouds massing outside the window, slipping in and out of the possibilities that ebbed from the throb, letting them drift like a break in the clouds.
It was fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds before the hand recovered enough to hold a pen. The books remained closed. Gurde had begun to relish the heat in his fingers and hoped it would last. He squeezed them to prolong the pain.
The Wizard had kept Matt Duff on the Woodhill until it was too late to get to school. The Wizard had set him up and he would pay. It was a good day just as Gurde had promised.
Gurde noticed Mr Stewart glance in his direction but soon realised that the teacher was staring elsewhere. He was peering deeper into the class with a renewed malice in his twitch. Gurde looked over at Dewar who was a picture of attention, nodding at the end of Stewart's statements, sensing through unblinking eyes that he was a target for the future.
The bell rang out. Gurde dropped the books into the briefcase and joined the crush moving towards the door. The other three boys that he had shared the stage with all carried their books in sports bags draped over their shoulders.
As he passed through the classroom door a hand slapped on to his shoulder and he turned to look up into the face of Dougie Erskine. Dougie winked and gave the shoulder a firm squeeze.
Gurde sat through the first half of the Chemistry trying to imagine things that were too small to imagine. The second half of the lesson was the practical session, where everyone was supposed to make those unimaginable things react with each other, and watch as these changes removed any remaining doubt they might have about what the invisible things looked like.
The class moved off to work at the benches at the back of the room. His partner was John Baird. Bairdy: that's what everybody called him. He was quiet and they got on all right. Like Matt Duff, he was average height for his age but thin and pale, with the short red hair that marked out the Scottish blood in him.
At one stage Bairdy had almost been a friend. They had been working together for about two weeks when Matt Duff cycled past him in town and stopped to talk. Bairdy lived only half a mile away so they met a few times after school.
Bairdy came to the white house once, but he kicked the ball into the roses and the mother sent him home. She made it clear that she didn't like him, probably because he reminded her of somebody she taught. "I don't like the look of that boy. I don't trust his eyes." So Gurde went to Bairdy's bit. It was one of a line with a small patch of garden at the back. There were roses there as well but his mother didn't seem worried about them. There were two dogs chained up in the garden that barked at the one chained up next door. Gurde sifted through the comic collection and they talked about their favourite characters. But any friendship had faded. Bairdy now tended to go over to talk to other people and leave Gurde to do the experiments on his own. Gurde had been glad to be left alone.
Bairdy began setting up the Bunsen burner on the bench top while Gurde watched the others setting up on the other benches. Across the room, with her back to him, stood one of Janice Gilchrist's followers. It would take a while for word of the belting to spread.
Bairdy looked at the experiment description sheet and fetched a test tube from the rack further down the bench. He clicked the sparker over the Bunsen burner and the blue flame hissed. Gurde slid the tripod over the flame and they stared as the gauze on top of the tripod began to redden in the heat.
"I heard Stewart belted you," he said, still staring into the flame.
"Aye," Gurde replied.
"What for?" He put a Pyrex beaker half full of water on top of the tripod.
"I wasn't in yesterday, so I didn't know he'd set homework."
"Sick?" he asked.
"No. I was up the hill," Gurde said.
"Doing...?"
"Nothing much.”
The water in the beaker began to bubble.
"Is it right you got double from Stewart?" Bairdy asked.
"Aye."
"Is it right Dewar started greetin'?"
"Aye."
"Poor bugger," Bairdy shook his head.
"He shifted his hands," Gurde added.
"Is that right? No wonder Stewart split him. The bastard."
"Aye," Gurde said, "Dewar just couldn't handle it."
"What's it like, by the way?"
"What?"
"Is it bad... from Stewart?"
"No. Not really. No problem," Gurde replied.
"He cut some kid's wrist last year," Bairdy said.
"Yeah?" Gurde said. "You take your chances, eh?"
The beaker of water was now bubbling. Gurde picked up the empty test tube and put some white powder in the bottom then picked up the jar of dilute acid and put in the required four drips from the dropper. He slipped the test tube into the boiling water. It began to jiggle against the sides of the beaker. They watched for today's dramatic colour change.
"You ever go fishing up the dam?" Bairdy asked.
"Not up the dam. I've fished in the sea a few times."
"The dam's good. You want to go up on Saturday? There's big trout there just now."
"Yeah sure," Gurde replied, "What time are you goin'?"
THREE
Matt Duff's name was not mentioned during the bus journey back through the fields that afternoon but despite the ebbing of pain in his palm Gurde could not keep the smile from his lips.
Back in the kitchen the hissing kettle clicked off. Gurde pulled out the cord and poured steaming water on to the coffee grains in the mug. Then he grabbed the pile of cheese, salad cream and beetroot sandwiches with his free hand and carried them through to the living room. Ben was already lying sprawled across the floor watching the television. Gurde slumped down into the chair b
ehind him and slipped off the school tie.
"Is Dad in?" Gurde asked.
"Yup. Working."
"Is he still angry?"
Ben shrugged.
It was sometimes days before the father forgave them for not helping him win his arguments at the dinner table.
Gurde took a mouthful of sandwich, followed by a long slurp of coffee, and sloshed the mixture from cheek to cheek before swallowing the soggy lump. The man on the television looked embarrassed as he peered over his red jumper to read from the book in his lap. Gurde decided not to tell Ben about being belted despite the urge to impress him. If the mother found out she would telephone the school and he couldn't risk anything spoiling the chance of freedom. If Ben was meant to find out, then somebody at school would tell him, and it would be more dramatic if he heard it from somebody else.
Gurde wished there were some marks on his hand to remind him of the day but there was no bruise for him to look at. Gurde took another mouthful of sandwich and washed it down.
"What's on the other side?" Gurde asked.
"I'm watching this."
"But what's on the other side?"
"I'm watching this one, all right!"
"It's rubbish!"
"I like it. It's good."
"Come on."
"Mum said I could!"
Gurde stood up to leave. Ben glared, thinking his brother might be getting up to change the channel.
"You watch it, then," Gurde said, "but it's my turn next time."
Ben huffed and returned his gaze to the figure on the screen. Gurde swallowed the last of the sandwich, picked up the mug and left the brother to watch television alone.
Gurde went through into the hall and tapped on the study door. He was determined to tell somebody about the afternoon and, although the father wouldn't be interested, at least he wouldn't telephone the school. The father would pretend to listen long enough to give some satisfaction. There was no reply to the knock, so Gurde pushed the door open.
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