Vincent’s First Day - a Miscarriage of Justice
by Marley's Ghost© 2010 Part 1 Mr. Cartwright, the Headmaster at St. Cuthbert’s, was a large man. No, he was not corpulent or in any way obese; he was large. Now, granted, I am on the small side, weighing ten stone five (145 lbs.) and being five feet four and a half inches tall, so I am accustomed to being “overshadowed” when in company. Even average-sized people sometimes seem large by comparison, but I assure you that Mr. Cartwright was large; I am guessing, six feet four inches and close to twenty four stone (334 lbs.); an imposing, if not down- right intimidating figure. To an eleven-year-old, he had to be border-line terrifying.
When I was transferred to St. Thomas’ Hospital to take over as Head of the Department of Orthopedics, in seeking a new school for my son, I chose St. Cuthbert’s for several reasons: firstly, it is an all boys’ school; secondly, its reputation for academic achievement is impressive; and thirdly, it maintains a strict code of discipline. I am strongly opposed to the modern day approach to discipline. I believe that young persons need to be taught responsibility and particularly need to learn that wrong-doing has serious consequences. Discipline administered responsibly, firmly, fairly, consistently and lovingly builds character.
Unfortunately the date of my transfer to St. Thomas’ did not coincide with the dates for the academic year, so the term was already several weeks in session when we moved.
I did not meet Mr. Cartwright until Vincent’s first day at school. He was out of town when I took my son to have him enrolled. There were numerous formalities to complete and forms to sign including one which gave my parental consent to the administration of corporal punishment when school authorities deemed it necessary. On that occasion, we had talked with the “second-in-command”, a Mr. Curuthers, who put me in mind of a nervous, but nonetheless, erudite hamster; so on Vincent’s first day I rather wanted to meet the Headmaster and planned to do so only to be told by Vincent that he would rather go in without me. I know that arriving at school on the first day, accompanied by a concerned, fussy parent can be embarrassing for an eleven-year-old, so, respecting my boy’s feelings, I waited in the car for ten minutes or so after I heard the commencement bell ring and then made my way to the school’s general office.
When I got there, I was surprised to see Vincent coming from the office with tears running down his cheeks, the redness of which increased when he saw me. He looked up at me. Deeply humiliated, he mumbled, “I got punished for being late, Dad.” This made no sense to me because I knew he had not been late; at least not for school. I was sitting in my car watching and Vincent had entered the building a good five minutes before the bell rang. A significant number of pupils arrived after he did, so, if they were all late, there should have been more than one coming out of the office at the same time as my son. He hurried past me on his way to class so the riddle remained unsolved. There was only one other child in view. He was seated on a bench outside the office door. He looked to be about the age of my boy and apparently was waiting for someone or something. He did not appear at all apprehensive so I assumed he was not in trouble. He looked up, gave me a bright smile and politely said, “Good morning, sir.”
Knowing that he had overheard my son’s remark, I asked, “Were you also late?”
“Oh, no, sir,” he replied promptly. “I’m just waiting for a form for my parents.” He seemed to be a friendly little chap.
I entered the general office and spoke with the efficient-looking, lady secretary, requesting a brief word with the Headmaster. “I do not have an appointment but would appreciate just a moment with Mr. Cartwright if convenient,” I said.
At that instant, the door of the inner office opened and two men came out. The one in the rear was saying, “I am much obliged to you, Mr. Krabill, for signing the book. I shall complete the entry as soon as I return from my meeting.” I assumed that the speaker was the Headmaster as indeed, it turned out, he was. The secretary quickly passed on my request. The Headmaster smiled and reached out to shake hands, explaining that he was on his way to a meeting but would be free later in the day. I explained that it was of no consequence, that I was Vincent Scott’s father and that I simply wanted to introduce myself.
The moment I mentioned my son’s name I sensed immediate disapproval in Mr. Cartwright’s subsequent remarks and body language. He flushed momentarily.
“Ah,” he said and then added, “Indeed, yes, I regret having to punish your son on his first day.” By the Headmaster’s gestures, I assumed that Vincent’s punishment had been applied to his hand or hands. “We will not tolerate our pupils harassing younger students by extorting labels from beer cans. I trust you will reinforce our efforts to put an end to this bullying and underhanded trafficking here at St. Cuthbert’s by making it clear to your son that any recurrence of this scandalous behaviour will be dealt with summarily and severely. But I must rush.” It was apparent that he did not wish to talk further. “I am delighted to have made your acquaintance,” he concluded, thrusting out a ham-like hand to shake mine and bustled out leaving me with a sense of even greater bewilderment. Firstly, Vincent’s brief explanation did not tally with the Headmaster’s statement; secondly, the Headmaster’s statement did not tally with what I knew of my son; thirdly, the rather truculent remarks and attitude of the Head, combined with his air of disapproval, did not sit well with me; and finally, I had no idea what he was talking about. Certainly between the time Vincent left me and the time I met him coming out from the Headmaster’s Office, there was little opportunity for serious mischief. Surely five or ten minutes on the premises was insufficient time to set himself up as a seasoned “bully”, apart from the fact that such a concept was totally out of character for my son.
As I left the office I heard the Secretary calling to the child I had observed waiting on the bench: “Come in, Nathan, I have this form ready for your parents to sign. Make sure you bring it back tomorrow.”
“Yes, miss,” I heard him reply.
I was determined to get to the bottom of the issue as soon as Vincent arrived home from school that afternoon. I will not tolerate my boy lying to me; so, after talking things over with my wife, who was as bewildered as I was, I went into my study, seated myself at the desk and did a mental replay of the morning’s scenario.
Vincent has always been a truthful boy. He knows that, regardless the consequences, we tell the truth. I have never doubted my son’s honesty. Why would he tell me that he was punished for being late when, in fact, to my knowledge, he was not late; at least, not late for school? Of course, I realised, there was an alternative; it might have been “late for class” rather than “late for school”. That raised another question: if he was late for class, what was he up to between his time of arrival and the time for class? Then again, if he was late, why did the Headmaster accuse him of a completely different misdemeanor involving trafficking in beer can labels, whatever that implied? I know that young people collect all kinds of odd things; but beer can labels? Never have I spotted or heard mention of a beer can label anywhere in or around our house or anywhere else except on beer cans for that matter. No one in our home drinks beer nor do we keep beer for visitors, so the whole issue was incomprehensible relative to Vincent. Nothing made sense and because nothing made sense, I felt annoyed! This matter needed resolution and I fully intended to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible. If Vincent was pulling something he was going to pay the consequences.
Part 2We lived only four blocks from the school so the only reason for driving to school that first morning was because I was on my way directly to St. Thomas’ after dropping Vincent off. Routinely, we planned that Vincent would walk home or, if he preferred, ride his bicycle to and from St. Cuthbert’s. He arrived home shortly after four bringing with him a newly acquired friend who, he had discovered, lived across the street from us. Nathan was in Vincent’s class and having been present when Vincent came out from his encounter with the Headmaster, he, subsequently, offered his sympathy and an immediate friendship surfaced. Yes, indeed, he was the little chap with the cheery smile who had been seated on the bench outside the office. Since he was a “latch-key” child, Vincent had invited him in. He seemed a jolly young person and I was glad that Vincent had already succeeded in making a new friend. We always encouraged Vincent to bring his friends home so that we could maintain an unobtrusive check on his associates. Obviously, with his new friend visiting there was no opportunity to discuss the morning’s affair. Nathan was a friendly little chap without being at all forward or disrespectful. On the contrary, he showed proper respect and, we discovered over the next few weeks, was an altogether pleasant young person. He had a charming exuberance and delightful sense of humour.
“I saw you at school this morning,” he chirped enthusiastically and then, when Vincent excused himself to go to the ‘loo’, he slipped over to where I was seated and whispered furtively, “Vincent knows you’re upset. Don’t be hard on him, Dr. Scott, it wasn’t his fault. In fact it was downright unfair. I’m sure when he tells you what happened, you’ll be proud of him.”
I was about to ask him to elaborate but, before I had the chance to pursue the topic, Vincent was back. Nathan turned his back momentarily on his friend and placed his finger to his lips so that only I could see the gesture.
The boys spent the next hour or so together. I inquired if they had homework to do and on receiving their affirmative, suggested that they might like to sit at the table and get it out of the way. They both seemed to feel that it was a good idea. From my unobtrusive observation it appeared that their homework consisted primarily of reading several pages in their textbooks. It took them only half an hour or so before they had it done and were ready to enjoy each others company. Cindy had some snacks ready for them. I could not help but notice that Vincent was uncharacteristically subdued and did not enter into the ‘snacks’ with his usual enthusiasm. I sensed that there was something wrong and was reasonably certain that it had to do with what happened at school. I said that Nathan was welcome to stay until his parents got home and assured him that I would see his folks and suggest to them that the boys come home together from school on a regular basis and spend the time together until his parents got home from work rather than leave him home alone. My wife would be there to supervise their activities. Both boys thought the idea was “cool”. Nathan, however, did not stay any longer. He thought he had better go home right away because his parents did not want him hanging about (as he put it) after school without permission. As it turned out, when we visited them, Nathan’s parents were more than a little pleased with the arrangement.
After Nathan left, Vincent came over and sat down beside me. He looked up at me for a moment, his face started to crumple and tears began to streak his cheeks. He crawled onto my lap and holding me tight gave way to sobs. I allowed him to cry himself out before quietly asking, “What do you want to tell me, son?”
He remained silent for a brief period and then, choking back a residual sob, said in a small voice, “They hurt so bad.” His sobbing resumed.
“What hurts, son?” I asked.
“My hands,” he replied. The tears were now flowing freely. I had noticed that he was holding his hands rather awkwardly almost as though he did not want anyone to see them. He now held them out to me and I gasped with horror which rapidly turned to burning rage. His hands had been brutally lashed. They were severely swollen, red and raw looking. I was appalled.
“Is this what your Headmaster did to you?” I asked.
“Yes, Dad,” he replied.
“He did this to you for being late for class?”
“You do believe me, don’t you, Dad?”
I replied, “Vincent, yes, I believe you. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“Dad,” he continued, “you know I would never lie to you, don’t you?”
“Son,” I returned, “your Mother and I have always taught you to tell the truth and to our knowledge you have always kept our trust.”
“It’s all right for you to punish me, Dad. Just please don’t hit my hands, they are so sore and don’t ask me to explain just yet. Please trust me. I will explain everything as soon as I can.”
“Vincent!” I said more harshly than perhaps I should have. “I would never hit you on your hands. Surely you know that. I have never struck you on your hands. I would never abuse you, son. I would never punish you in a way that would injure you! I love you.”
“I know you do, Dad.” He lay quietly for a few moments.
Finally I took up where we had left off. “You rather put me on the spot, son,” I said. “I would never punish you without fully understanding why it is necessary to do so. Can you not at least tell me what you need to be punished for? Did you tell me the truth at school this morning?”
“Dad, I don’t lie!” Vincent’s indignation was genuine.
“You do understand that your explanation in the hallway outside the office was not the same as Mr. Cartwright’s when I saw him a few minutes afterward.”
The colour drained from Vincent’s cheeks. “I, I don’t know what Mr. Cartwright told you, but I promise I did not lie to you. Please believe me, Dad.” There was almost a note of panic in his voice.
“It is difficult for me to do so under the circumstances, son. Either you or Mr. Cartwright is not telling the truth,” I said. “Are you telling me that your Headmaster was not telling the truth? Please can’t you help me out?”
“Please, Dad,” came from the troubled lad, “I can’t explain without getting someone else into big trouble and I can’t do that. You see, I made a promise not to tell.” The boy was genuinely upset and I remained in a quandary.
“All right,” I said. “I am putting things on hold for the time being. You know that, out of respect for you and for myself, I never impose discipline without being absolutely sure that it is fair. You also know that I do not withhold punishment when it is deserved. I will not tolerate misbehaviour at school and if there is something we need to take care of then the sooner it is out of the way, the better. Frankly, I do not know what to do right now. We shall discuss it further tomorrow but certainly we cannot allow it to continue unresolved.”
“Thanks, Dad,” he said, giving me an impulsive hug. “I wish I could tell you, but honestly I can’t. Is it all right if I go to my room now?” It was apparent that he could not do his usual practice at the piano.
“Right now we are going to the bathroom and see what we can do for those hands of yours,” I said.
He followed me as I went to the kitchen and took a tray of ice from the freezer. “Maybe it would be better to do it right here at the kitchen counter,” I remarked. I got a basin from the cupboard under the sink, half-filled it with cold water and added the ice cubes and a dash of commercial bleach. “Just wait here a moment while I get some towels,” I said.
When I returned, I spread several towels on the counter, placed the basin on the towels and made Vincent sit on one of the bar stools.
“Hold your hands open,” I said. “I want to get a couple of digital pictures just in case we need to follow this up.”
After doing that, I said, “Now, put your hands in the water and keep them there. That should make them feel better.”
He was still crying softly. Vincent does not cry easily so I knew he was hurting. I felt the anger rising like bile in my throat.
Vincent had an important music examination coming up for which we would be running up to London to the Royal School of Music and I was concerned that his success would be jeopardized if his hands were not in good shape. He needed regular practice and no way could he do so with damaged hands. Do not misunderstand me; I support corporal punishment when it is administered fairly and within certain rigid boundaries. I believe that every child was born with a God-given area of its anatomy specifically designed for the purpose and to strike a child on any other part of its body is abusive and not acceptable. Hey-ho! I can see the need for an immediate encounter with certain school authorities since I will not tolerate my son, or anyone else’s for that matter, being abused. But all these ramifications were getting me no nearer to solving or even understanding the present issue. If Cartwright’s remarks were anything to go by, Vincent was guilty of a serious violation of school rules and, if indeed that were the case, he was deliberately lying to me. Both my son and I knew that such an issue could not be left unaddressed.
Our efforts at reducing the swelling and relieving the hurt from Vincent’s hands were effective to a degree. After soaking them for a while, he remarked that they felt a lot better.
“We are taking a trip to the hospital,” I said, in a voice that left no room for argument. “I want to have your hands X-rayed. There could be serious damage.” I could hardly restrain the rage that consumed me and only grew greater every time I looked at my son’s hands.
Cindy had been down in the basement taking care of the laundry while all this was taking place. I called down the stairway and asked her to come up for a minute. “Vincent has been hurt,” I said as I showed her his hands.
“I thought something was wrong,” she said anxiously, “But I didn’t want to say anything in front of Nathan.”
She reached down and took Vincent’s hands in her own. I thought for a moment that Cindy would explode. Her cheeks flushed and with barely suppressed fury she demanded, “Who did this to you?”
I quickly interjected, “It was a matter of discipline at school.”
“Discipline!” she hissed. “That’s not discipline, that’s wicked abuse!”
I told her that we were heading for St. Thomas’ to have his hands checked. “We’ll go from there,” I said ominously.
My wife and I tried never to interfere with the school authorities in matters of discipline, so we both grimly refrained from saying too much in front of our son. At the same time we both knew that we could not let this matter rest.
I had been in and out of St. Thomas’ several times since my arrival in town even though officially I was not to begin my duties there until the following week. The staff recognized me when we arrived at the emergency department and soon the medical personnel were giving my son the attention he needed. I examined the X-rays myself to be absolutely certain that there was no serious damage. It was with relief that I ascertained that there was, apart from severe bruising and swelling, no apparent damage.
Part 3Our evening meal was noticeably silent. We all had things on our minds that stemmed the usual conversational flow. Vincent was always full of fun and chatter and his present stubborn determination not to open up was annoying me. We are a close family and I felt this awkwardness was his fault. At the same time, while feeling annoyed, I was furious that anyone would so brutally mistreat a young child. Under the circumstances, I did not want to say anything lest I regret it afterward.
At last the meal was done. Vincent and I cleared the table, washed the dishes and tidied up the kitchen and dining area in silence. This was our daily routine aside from the silent bit, of course; Vincent usually chattered up a storm. My dear wife worked hard preparing meals and doing the thousand and one things that mothers do around the home and the least we could do to show our appreciation was to help with the chores. I instilled this principle into my son at an early age and endeavoured to set an example for him to follow. We insisted that my wife go into the lounge, immediately after dinner, put her feet up and relax with a cup of coffee while we did the dishes and the clearing up.
When we were finished, I said to Vincent, “Son, when you are ready for bed, come down to my study for a few minutes. I think we need to discuss a few matters before tomorrow. There will be no time before school and I don’t want to leave things hanging until evening.”
The colour rose in Vincent’s cheeks as he quietly replied, “Yes, sir,” before heading for the stairs up to his room. I am sure he was wondering if he was going to be punished. When discipline was necessary we always took it seriously and dealt with it promptly. Vincent knew that when he was ‘on the carpet’ he was required to address me as ‘sir’.
It was sometime later that there came a soft knock on my study door. “Come in,” I invited.
Vincent had changed into his night clothing and stood before my desk wearing his striped pyjamas and burgundy dressing gown. He had his hands clasped behind his back in the classic military ‘at ease’ position. His hair was still wet from the shower and he carried with him the fresh aura of soap, shampoo and toothpaste. He knows that I love him and I know that he loves me. He knows, too, that I always try to be fair so he was not afraid of me but was obviously nervous.
Quietly I asked him again if he had anything to tell me.
He looked down at his feet and I noticed his toes were wiggling, expressive of his agitation. “No, sir,” he said in a subdued voice.
“I need you to answer a few questions then,” I said. “You will answer me truthfully.”
“I would never lie to you, sir.”
“All right, then; you were punished this morning by Mr. Cartwright.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you tell me, please, how he punished you?”
“He used the cane on my hands, six strokes on each hand, sir.”
“Was that caning for being late?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you not feel that six on each hand with the cane is rather harsh for simply being late? Were you punished for any other reason?”
“No, sir, not that I know of,” he replied. “I had to give Mr. Cartwright a pink slip from my class teacher. It wasn’t folded or anything so anyone could read it. It said ‘LATE FOR CLASS’ in big letters.”
“And did you give that slip to Mr. Cartwright? Did he actually read it?”
Vincent thought for a moment before replying. “Well, not actually. You see, when he called me into his office, he was standing over by the bookcase next to the window. I said that Mr. Fielding sent me and he said yes, that he knew all about it. Then he told me to put the slip on his desk. I don’t remember that he actually looked at it. He just got the cane from the top of the bookcase and punished me. It really frightened me when I saw he was going to use the cane. I thought it would be a strap. I’ve never had anything hurt so bad.”
“Can you tell me anything about labels from beer cans?” I asked.
The question hit Vincent like a physical blow; he staggered, the colour drained from his cheeks and for a moment he looked as though he would faint. There was desperation in his voice as he looked up at me, pleading, “Please, sir, may I go to my room?”
Not knowing what to do or say, I finally responded. “If you have nothing more to say, you may go, however, you do understand that your refusal to open up is causing an unpleasant awkwardness between your mother, yourself and me which I will not tolerate. Just as soon as I am clear in my mind what course of action to take you may rest assured that I will take whatever steps I see fit and, in addition, I shall be paying a visit to your Headmaster tomorrow morning.”
There was no reply. He almost ran from the room and even though his back was turned towards me, I knew he was crying. This troubled me more than I could say. Vincent was no cry-baby and whatever the problem it had to be serious to cause him to react as he was reacting.
Part 4After a restless night, punctuated with visions of labels from beer cans and of small hands swollen and brutally lacerated, I finally gave up trying to relax. I went down to the kitchen at five o’clock and put on the coffee. When it was ready, I sat down at the table once again trying to understand. I pulled a pad from the drawer. It was one of my official prescription pads with my name, James Scott, M.B., Ch. B., F.R.C.S., at the top. I thought for a moment, deciding how exactly I should word my missive, and then began to write. I addressed the note to Vincent’s form master:
Dear Sir, I wish to call your attention to certain injuries sustained by your student, Scott, Vincent, on both his hands and would request that you take into account said injuries when assessing his written work and any other manual requirements until such time as the said injuries are healed.
I signed it, folded it, placed it in an envelope which I addressed to Vincent’s teacher and laid it on the counter for Vincent to take with him to school. Not long after, the alarm went off in Vincent’s room and within a few minutes, I heard the shower running.
My wife came down and set the table for breakfast. “I’m going up for a hot bath,” she said. “I think you and Vincent need a little father-son time together before he leaves for school.” She looked at the letter on the counter and doubtless guessing at its contents, remarked, “I am devastated by what happened to our boy. I’m glad you are not letting it rest.”
“As if I could or would,” I replied. She gave me a quick kiss and disappeared up the stairs.
It was only a few minutes before Vincent, looking very smart in his neatly pressed school uniform, entered the kitchen. With a forced smile he said, “Good morning, Dad.”
“Good morning, son,” I replied.
He got himself a bowl of cereal and some orange juice while I made the toast. After eating he got up and placed his dishes in the sink
“May I look at your hands this morning?”
He held out his hands. There was still ugly evidence of his punishment but not enough to cause undue concern. I was, however, uncertain as to whether or not Vincent’s up-coming music examination should be postponed. “So, how are they feeling?” I asked.
“They’re much better, Dad,” Vincent replied. “I think I’ll be able to put in a bit of extra practice time this afternoon to make up for yesterday. It was a bit stupid of me; being late for class, I mean. I really thought there was time for a quick visit to the ‘loo’.”
There it was again. I put my arm around his shoulders. “As for practicing we shall see. I will not allow you to risk further injury. You know that I love you, son.”
“Of course I do, Dad.” He looked up at me shyly.
“You know that you can always tell me what is troubling you.”
“Yes, Dad, I know.” He paused briefly. “Is it all right if I go now? I’d rather not be late again.”
Was he over-playing the late bit? I sighed inwardly. “Off you go then.”
I gave him the note for his teacher. He put it in his satchel, gathered his things together and with a hesitant smile and a quick hug made his way out the front door. I stood at the door and observed that no sooner had Vincent stepped outside than the door of the house opposite opened and Nathan came down his front path and crossed the road to join his new friend. He waved and tossed me a friendly grin. “Good morning, Dr. Scott,” he called.
I responded to his greeting and watched as the two lads headed towards the school gates. Half an hour later I picked up the telephone and entered the number for St. Cuthbert’s. My call was answered by a voice which I recognized as that of the efficient lady secretary I had spoken to the day before.
“Would it be possible for me to set up an appointment with Mr. Cartwright as soon as possible? The matter is urgent. I do not have to report for work until next Monday so am quite flexible.”
I waited patiently while she made the necessary arrangements. Finally her voice came back on the line: “Mr. Cartwright says he can give you a few minutes this morning at eleven if that would be convenient for you.”
“It is, indeed,” I replied. “That will fit in well with my schedule. I shall be there promptly at eleven.” I thanked her and put down the telephone.
Cindy came down looking fresh and as beautiful as she was the day we met fifteen years ago. “How did it go, luv?” she asked.
“It didn’t!” I growled. “He’s never been like this before. I simply can’t understand why he is lying to me.”
“Are you sure he is?” Cindy asked quietly.
“He’s got to be,” I said. “Either he is lying or Cartwright is lying and that is quite inconceivable.”
“There just might be a valid explanation,” she pursued. “Frankly, if I were a betting person, I would be willing to wager a fair amount on the integrity of our son. He is like his father and you know how I feel about him.” She gave me a light peck on the cheek.
I sighed wearily, feeling the effects of a sleepless night. “If only he would open up! He knows that I am reasonable. Surely he’s not afraid of me.”
Cindy looked shocked. “Darling! What a stupid remark! You know he’s not afraid of you. He adores you as much as I do. In fact I am seriously considering what we should do to keep all this adoration from going to your head!”
I knew she was trying to get me to lighten up and loved her for it but it wasn’t working and I think she knew. She became serious in a moment. “Darling,” she said, “what we need to do right now is pray about it. I believe the Lord is even more concerned about it than we are. You know we gave Vincent to Him as soon as he was born so He’s in this as much as we are. Let’s ask Him to help us through this mess.”
She sat across from me and we held hands as we bowed our heads. “Lord,” I prayed, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what to ask for. I want to be a good, responsible father and right now I don’t know any of the answers. Please help me. And thanks for giving me a wonderful wife who pushes me in the right direction when I need it.”
Part 5Later, I left home in time to walk the four blocks to the school and was waiting in the Secretary’s Office promptly at eleven. Mr. Cartwright let me cool my heels for several minutes before the intercom crackled to life. “Show Dr. Scott in please, Miss Eberly.”
The secretary rose. “This way please, Dr. Scott,” she spoke formally. She led the way to the Headmaster’s Office, opened the door and announced, “Dr. Scott to see you, sir.”
“Thank you, Miss Eberly,” he said getting to his feet and holding out his hand to me. Having completed the formalities, he invited me to sit down in a rather large, overstuffed chair and offered me coffee which I declined, politely. I found it disconcerting that everything about Mr. Cartwright was large; the desk, the chair, even the room and certainly Mr. Cartwright himself. I noted that the mug from which he was drinking his coffee held about twenty ounces!
He sat behind the desk and carefully fitted the large fingers of his large right hand to those of his equally large left. My thoughts ran something along the line of “you are now going to be analyzed and exposed by none other than an unusually large Sherlock Holmes.”
“To what,” he began in a rather pompous tone, “do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Dr. – ah – Scott?”
“It’s about my son, Vincent,” I began, “and the events of yesterday morning.”
“Ah, yes,” he cleared his throat firmly. “You were of course made aware, when you enrolled your boy in this establishment, that it is an accepted school policy to implement corporal punishment when we regard it as a necessary deterrent to unruly behaviour. In fact, you signed an agreement to the effect that you accept our school policies. I believe yesterday’s episode was a standard procedure, routinely imposed on late-comers.”
I interrupted him before he had time to develop his theme. “I have no problem with corporal punishment as a means of discipline when it is used fairly and with discretion. In fact, I employ it myself from time to time. I do however have strong views on how and where corporal punishment is administered; but more of that in due course. More pressing at this moment is my desire to know why my son was punished. Coming late was not the misdemeanor mentioned by you yesterday. From your remarks at the time, I gathered that his offense was of a distinctly more serious nature.”
“Ah, yes, Doctor, I believe, when I spoke to you yesterday, I had another student in mind. I did not realize my mistake until after I returned to the office. It is regrettable that we inadvertently were talking at cross purposes. I do apologize.” He endeavoured to dismiss the issue with a lighthearted laugh and shrug of his large shoulders.
At this point I was not about to let Mr. Cartwright off the hook. He was altogether too blasé and I wanted answers so I pressed on. “I have always endeavoured to reinforce discipline meted out to my son by school authorities. As a parent, I have the right to know why he was punished. Also, I should like to know who was witness to his punishment.”
Again, the Headmaster cleared his throat importantly. “I should have thought your son could have supplied that information.” He sniffed in a dignified manner. “Naturally, I shall have to consult the punishment record,” he continued in sonorous tones indicating that his word would be questioned only at great personal risk to the questioner.
“Please do,” I advised. “I am in no hurry.”
He opened a drawer of his desk and removed a large (like everything else), black book. Opening it, he hemmed and hawed profoundly. “Ah, yes, here is the entry: September 23rd, Scott, Vincent; reason for disciplinary action: arriving late for class; Signed Milton Cartwright, M.A., Headmaster and witnessed by Mr. W. Krabill, M. Sc., Physics Master. There, you see, all right and tight.”
“May I know, please, what punishment was administered?” I pursued.
“The record shows that he was given three strokes on each hand with a leather strap.”
“Is that the usual discipline administered for arriving late in class?” I asked.
“Generally speaking, yes, it is; unless it should be a repeated offense in which case the number of strokes may be increased at my own discretion, of course. Obviously, with your son, since it was his first class on his first day at this school, it would hardly have been a repeated offense”
“I understand,” I responded and continued, “Would you allow me to speak with the witness; I believe you mentioned a Mr. Krabill?”
“Mr. Krabill is occupied in his class presently. I should be reluctant to disturb him.”
“I see,” I remarked thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, not being able to see him now leaves me in a quandary. I have one or two questions that only he can answer to my satisfaction. I shall doubtless see him and be able to speak with him at the up-coming meeting of the Parent Teachers Association when I plan to bring up this matter.”
The Headmaster flushed angrily. “I resent your intrusion on my time and I certainly cannot tolerate your feeble efforts to intimidate me. I must ask you to leave my office immediately.” It occurred to me that he was overreacting and I was determined to find out why. He stood up. Did I mention that he was large?
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cartwright, if you construe my remarks to be an effort on my part to intimidate. I, as a concerned parent, have the right to bring up matters relevant to my concern at the PTA. Since you refuse to call Mr. Krabill, you leave me no other recourse.”
“When you enrolled your son in this establishment, you signed documents agreeing with our school policies which include certain policies regarding corporal punishment. I suggest you go home and read that agreement before making yourself look foolish in a public forum. “Now, kindly remove yourself from my office or do I need to request the custodian to assist me in your removal?”
I reflected that he surely would not need help in removing me from his office. I had the distinct impression that he could remove a grand piano from his office without help!
He was referring to the item (I checked it out later) in the brochure that read: St. Cuthbert’s is run on traditional lines with emphasis on self-discipline, courtesy, respect and excellence in every field of endeavour. Here, at St. Cuthbert’s, commitment, effort and success are rewarded. Students are encouraged to excel. If other means of encouragement are ineffective, corporal punishment will be administered at the discretion of the Headmaster. Before accepting any student at St. Cuthbert’s, the parents of the said student shall be required to sign an official form indicating their agreement with and acceptance of these policies as they affect their offspring.
I stood up. “Very well, Mr. Cartwright, I shall go; but only after one final word: I have photographs of my son’s hands taken after the event in question and I also had X-rays taken at St. Thomas’. Either meet me here in your office on my own terms or meet me in court.” I turned on my heels and headed for the door expecting momentarily to be blown into outer space. I believe that I mentioned before that Mr. Cartwright is large.
I had my hand on the doorknob when I was stopped by Cartwright saying, “I could well call your bluff, Dr. Scott, but I am a reasonable man so I shall endeavour to have patience. Come back, sit down and tell me what is really on your mind. Let’s see if we can settle this issue like mature adults.”
I returned, sat down and waited.
Since the Headmaster just sat there looking indignant, I decided to take the initiative. “Very well, Headmaster, listen carefully to what I have to say because I intend to say it only once. Never again will you or any other member of your staff touch my son’s hands.”
Mr. Cartwright’s already crimson cheeks turned several shades deeper crimson giving the impression that an apoplectic fit was imminent. Being a doctor, I was trained to handle emergencies so let him get on with his seizure. I waved him to silence and continued.
“There is a place on a boy’s body where corporal punishment may be administered without endangering anything except his pride. I take my son’s misdemeanors seriously. I also take my responsibility to administer justice fairly, equally seriously and I will do all in my power to ascertain that any other person, who has the authority to discipline my son, will do so fairly and within the bounds of reason. I would never do anything to injure my son and I will not allow anyone else to injure him. You may be unaware that I am an orthopedic surgeon and have recently been appointed Head of the Department of Orthopedics at St. Thomas’ Hospital. It is entirely unacceptable to strike a child on its hands. I speak as a qualified orthopedic surgeon and not as a parent at this point. Have you any concept of the delicate structure of the bones in the hand? You can do permanent damage to a child by striking him there. I have examined my son’s hands and the injuries he sustained were certainly not inflicted by a leather strap. My colleague at St. Thomas’, who examined Vincent on the day he was punished, confirmed my assumption. I fully intend to bring this to the attention of the PTA and the School Board. Had I understood that, in your school’s manifesto, corporal punishment included corporal abuse, I assuredly would not have signed any form of consent. Meanwhile I am quite serious in stating that a repetition of yesterday’s event involving my son or, for that matter, any other student at this establishment will precipitate police intervention. In addition, for your information, my son has considerable musical ability and there is the imminent possibility of him taking up a career in music. He is scheduled to appear at the Royal College of Music for an important examination a fortnight from this coming Saturday and you, by your unforgivable brutality have jeopardized my son’s success at that event. No one, I repeat, no one is going to jeopardize my son’s chance of success with impunity. Is that quite clear?”
Mr. Cartwright resembled, more than anything else, an angry bull being tormented by a feisty little toreador. He blustered and snorted while informing me that no one was going to come in and tell him what to do, etc., etc., etc., and how I could take my son you know where and do you know what. I could hardly approve of what he was saying but was, nevertheless, quite impressed with his rather colourful vocabulary.
He finally got a grip on himself. “I apologize, Dr. Scott. I am deeply embarrassed by my unseemly outburst. You have betrayed me into using some most unprofessional language and voicing inappropriate sentiments, but, you must admit, I have been sorely provoked, sorely provoked. Here at St. Cuthbert’s we are accustomed to dealing with more robust boys than apparently your son is. We endeavour to encourage the more manly pursuits in the fields of athletic achievement and physical development. Although I believe, several of our students are taking music lessons privately; here at the school, we endeavour to focus on and encourage a more masculine development of their personalities. These boys are the men who will guide the destiny of our nation. I do assure you, however, that the matter will be looked into and dealt with.”
I glared at this miserable, three hundred pound worm. “Are you telling me, Mr. Cartwright, that there is something unmanly or effeminate about being a musician? Have you any concept of the physical stamina required to execute the Beethoven “Pathetique” or the Chopin “Polonaise in A flat”? Do I need to remind you that the Romans, who produced the finest military machine in history, required every military cadet to study music in order to reinforce and balance out their masculinity? It was part of preparing their youth for manhood. Now may I see Mr. Krabill?” I asked.
“Really, my patience is being severely tried,” he blustered, “but I suppose I must humour you.” He shrugged his large shoulders, pressed a button on the intercom and spoke into it: “Miss Eberly, I should be greatly obliged if you would page Mr. Krabill for me. Give him my compliments and ask him to come to my office immediately on a matter of some urgency.”
We then sat in rather uncomfortable silence awaiting the arrival of Mr. Krabill. After several minutes, Miss Eberly announced his arrival on the intercom. He appeared to be annoyed, doubtless because of having his class interrupted.
Mr. Cartwright introduced us and explained that I had some pressing questions regarding young Scott’s punishment.
Mr. Krabill let it be known that he could hardly spare time from his students to answer questions that could be quite easily put off until a more convenient time.
I quickly assured him that what I needed to know could be dealt with in just a few moments and that my questions were pressing.
“Very well then, what do you need to know?” he asked ungraciously.
“My son was punished yesterday, in your presence, for being late.”
“Yes, indeed, I was present but do not recall being informed of the actual reason for the punishment; I doubt that the issue was tardiness.”
“Can you tell me exactly how my son was punished?”
“I believe it is recorded in the Official Record,” he answered, drawing himself up stiffly and sniffing disdainfully.
“Yes, indeed, the Headmaster was good enough to read me the relevant entry, but I felt that I needed to ask you, as you are the official witness, do you not consider six of the best with a cane on each hand rather severe for simply being late for class?”
Caught completely off guard and being unaware of the Headmaster’s frantic gestures which were just out of his line of vision but definitely not out of mine, he said, thoughtfully, “Actually, as I have said, I was not aware, at the time, for what infringement of the school’s regulations your son was being punished. I am sure you have misunderstood. I was under the impression, and still am, that the offense was considerably more serious than mere tardiness. If in fact the punishment was for tardiness, it would have been far less severe and the very fact that a cane was used rather than a strap is indicative of a serious ….” His voice trailed into silence as he finally became conscious of the Headmaster’s endeavour to communicate. “But of course that is a matter entirely out of my hands. Discipline is, in all its aspects, at the discretion of the Headmaster. If that is all Dr. Scott, I must be getting back to my class. You will understand, I am sure; my students are preparing for an important examination.”
I stood and offered my hand. “That is all, thank you, Mr. Krabill. You have been most helpful.”
The physics master took his rather embarrassed departure leaving an equally embarrassed Headmaster facing me from his side of the large desk.
I extended an insistent hand. “Now, may I see the Punishment Book?”
“I regret,” the Headmaster hastened to explain, “the entries in this book are of a confidential nature and I really must refuse your request.”
“I beg your pardon, Headmaster, but I understand that parents are permitted to see any entry in that book that relates to their child. That is presently my request. Failing your compliance, it will be my demand.”
Reluctantly, he released his hold on the book, knowing full well that, by law, he was required to allow me to examine it.
I got up from my seat and took the book closer to the window where the light was better. “I notice that the entries indicating how many strokes were delivered and the particular implement used appear to have been altered. I wonder if that was done before or after Mr. Krabill signed the register? Perhaps we should have him back but I should deeply regret having to interrupt his class a second time. I feel that he would regard it as a serious imposition.” It was only then that I noticed on the table by the window several labels from beer cans. Mr. Cartwright had to know what was claiming my attention.
“Are you a collector?” I asked, looking him squarely in the eye (you see, I could do so because I was standing while he was still seated). Then I added, “Of course, I remember now, you did mention labels from beer cans when we met yesterday. Perhaps you could enlighten me…”
The Headmaster was ashen. It was quite a contrast considering the impressively deep crimson of his former visage. “I..I ..This dialogue has extended far beyond what I had anticipated. I am really obliged to meet another commitment for which I am already late. Perhaps we could continue this interview at a more convenient time……” he stammered to an uncomfortable halt.
“You do realise, Headmaster, that you have some serious explaining to do and may I add that by remarks made to me yesterday morning concerning my son, you very nearly precipitated what could have been a serious miscarriage of justice over and above, what I regard as, the unduly harsh punishment already administered by you. I was prepared to discipline my son severely for what he was accused of by you. I can only regard as Providential that I did not act immediately according to my instincts. What has surfaced during the last few minutes has left me greatly disturbed and I feel entitled to a full explanation from you. Should you fail to contact me by tomorrow at the latest, I shall not hesitate to take certain action which could be embarrassing both to you and to your establishment.”
“I should be obliged if you would refrain from voicing idle threats. I am sure all can be explained to our mutual satisfaction, Dr. Scott,” interjected Mr. Cartwright, trying, as best he could, to save face.
“I certainly hope so, because if not you may become aware that my threats are not as idle as you appear to suggest,” I replied. During this time, not once had I raised my voice. I did not have to. When right is on one’s side, one need not shout. “Meanwhile,” I continued, “I wish to make it quite clear that nothing of what we have discussed today will be mentioned to Vincent. I will not say anything in his presence that would cause him to lose respect for the Head of his school; having said which, I leave the matter with you. Good day, Headmaster.” I walked out of his office without offering to shake his hand.
Part 6Arriving back at the house I told my wife that I would be going out for a while. I knew she could tell that I was upset.
“Don’t be late, dear,” she said with concern in her voice and added, “I love you.”
I drove out of town and found a quiet place overlooking the river. I parked in a secluded area and finally gave vent to my frustration. I pounded the steering wheel. I was never so angry before or, for that matter, since. I was angry with myself for being only five feet four and a half inches tall; I was angry because of what had been done to my son; I was angry with Vincent for clamming up in a way so uncharacteristic of him and leaving me in the dark; I was angry with my wife for being so understanding; I was angry with Cartwright for the brutal beating he had given my boy and for I didn’t know what besides, but whatever it was I was angry. I would have joyfully given him several black eyes – fat chance – he could pick me up and throw me across the room! Naturally, I was angry because he was so large. I was angry with Krabill for being so detached and for not intervening when I felt he should have; I was angry that Vincent’s hands were damaged on the eve of an important examination; I was angry with everyone; well, maybe not everyone. In fact I was inclined to be grateful to young Nathan for giving me pause before doing something which, considering subsequent developments, I should have regretted. Then I decided I was angry with Nathan, too, for not telling me more. I was angry because of the uncomfortable awkwardness in my home. I was most of all angry because I had no idea what to do. I hammered violently on the steering wheel again, threw back my head and howled. At that instant I caught sight of myself in the rear view mirror. I don’t know if it was my unstable state of mind or what, but the sight of me howling was the safety valve that released all the built-up pressure. I started to laugh and I laughed and laughed and laughed until I was totally drained. That hysterical outburst brought me to my senses. There was still a formidable array of unanswered questions but at least the tension was gone out of my mind and body. I felt that I could step forward as a mature adult instead of acting like a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum. Righteous indignation took the place of blind fury.
I drove back to the house, put the car in the garage and opened the door that led into the mud room and from there entered the kitchen. Cindy was busy at the sink. She looked up, concern registered on her face. I grabbed her around the waist, swung her off her feet and danced with her round and round the kitchen shouting, “Sweetheart, I love you.” I finally released her whereat she sank onto a chair and, laughing breathlessly, gasped, “Well, it’s a while since I saw you so elated. It can only be because you have solved the mystery of the wayward son or possibly you have cracked under the strain and need to be institutionalized.”
“No way!” I said. “There are as many unanswered questions as ever and I am no more insane than usual but I know without doubt that I have the most beautiful, the most talented, the most understanding and the sweetest wife in the world and with parents like he has, our son has to be the most wonderful kid in the world. Knowing that, there is no one and nothing that I can’t handle; even though he is seven feet tall. Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
“Speaking of our wonderful kid, he will soon be home, crying out for nourishment so I had better get something ready before he starts to swell up because of malnutrition,” said Cindy as she busied herself again with her interrupted task.
It was not long before Vincent came home with noticeably less bounce than usual. He had Nathan in tow. He gave a troubled look in my direction. “Hi, Dad,” he said in a rather subdued voice.
“What do you mean, Hi, Dad? Come here you rascally savage and give me a hug.”
He looked at me as though he, too, thought I might be insane. Nathan was looking on with an uncertain, but barely concealed, grin. Vincent acted as though he was not sure exactly what I meant.
“Come here, this minute!” I repeated, holding out my arms.
Suddenly the barriers came down. Vincent leapt into my arms and hugged me with all his might, burying his head in my neck.
“Don’t you know; you’re my favourite kid?” I asked him.
“But, Dad,” he responded, “aren’t you forgetting something?” His voice was lost somewhere towards the back of my collar.
“Of course I’m not forgetting anything, you funny man! I am just putting things in their proper perspective. Right now, you are my favourite kid. Come over here, Nathan, and help me tickle my favourite kid.”
It resulted with the three of us romping on the carpet. I think it was the relief of knowing that Vincent had not lied to me (I was convinced by now that he hadn’t) that triggered the surge of well-being that flowed through me. There was still a secret between us but I knew deep down that whatever was still unanswered would be revealed in due course and, whatever it was that needed to be dealt with, would be dealt with when the time was ripe. Meanwhile, I was not going to let anyone spoil the relationship that Vincent and I had with each other; not even Vincent himself.
The two boys had me on the floor and were both sitting on my back laughing happily. “Dr. Scott, you are so funny,” Nathan said. “It’s so much fun being here.”
We had a great evening, just like old times and I would not allow the cloud that was lurking in the backs of all our minds, overshadow us. I only allowed Vincent to practice for ten minutes because his hands were still stiff and sore. “Maybe a little longer tomorrow,” I said.
When his bedtime approached, he came over and stood by my chair. “Don’t we need to talk, Dad?” he questioned.
I smiled at him reassuringly. “Why don’t you come down to my study for a few minutes when you’ve had your shower and are ready for bed?”
He made his way upstairs and I could hear the muted sounds as he made his preparations for the night. He was back sooner than I had expected so I was still in the lounge when he appeared. “That was a quickie,” I remarked. “Let’s go to the study so we can talk without being disturbed.”
Instead of taking my usual place behind my desk, I sat down on the couch. Vincent stood at his customary “at ease” position when we had serious matters to discuss. “Not tonight, son,” I said. “Tonight we’re just going to sit here and talk.”
I beckoned for him to sit beside me on the couch and when he did so I put my arm around him. “It’s great having you back, son,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know, Dad, and it’s all my fault. I know you are going to have to punish me for that.” He was getting a bit teary-eyed. “I really wish I could tell you everything but, you see, I made a solemn promise not to tell. I actually crossed my heart and hoped to die.” He gave a sad little giggle. He thought for a moment and then added, “I know it’s wrong to keep secrets from you, Dad, and I almost wish I hadn’t promised. You could punish me right now and I would deserve it but after you’ve promised not to tell anyone in the whole world, it would be wrong to go back on your promise wouldn’t it?”
“Son, you must follow the dictates of your conscience and then face the consequences of your decisions like a man. That is hardly ever easy but it is part of growing up,” I replied gently. “You know you can talk to me at anytime about anything so I will wait until you are ready and then we can go from there. Right now, I am unable to determine what it is that needs to be addressed. Until I am able, we are going to be there for each other like we always have.”
Vincent pushed hard against my side. “You’re such a good pal, Dad. You’ve got to be the best Dad in the world.”
“You know my answer to that, son.”
“Tell me, Dad.”
“You’re just my favourite kid in the world; that’s all. Now off you go. Have a good night, favourite kid.”
“You, too, favourite Dad.” He scampered out of reach as my hand nearly came down on his little behind.
Yes, it was good to have him back. Drat Mr. Cartwright!
It was the following morning, shortly after nine o’clock, when I received a call from the school requesting my presence for three o’clock that afternoon. I assured the secretary, who placed the call that I would be there.
At the time stipulated, I was seated in the outer office awaiting the imperial summons. My curiosity was aroused when Mr. Krabill entered and with a brief, rather stiff, “Good afternoon, Dr. Scott,” proceeded to enter the Headmaster’s Room. Only a few minutes passed and then the intercom spat out, “I should be obliged, Miss Eberly, if you would ask Dr. Scott to step this way, please.”
Miss Eberly looked my way with a polite nod of her well-coiffed head. I stood, drawing myself to my full five feet four and a half inches, threw out my chest and proceeded towards the mouth of the den not unlike Daniel of old who, though doubtless somewhat reluctant to face hungry lions, faced the inevitable, trusting that righteousness would prevail.
Both Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Krabill stood and shook my hand before offering me a seat in front of the large desk.
Cartwright fidgeted in a way that he would have harshly condemned in one of his own students before saying in a rather stilted manner, “I believe, gentlemen, that there has been a rather unfortunate misunderstanding which obliges me to beg both of your pardons.” He paused and occupied himself briefly with what appeared to be the pointless shuffling through several papers lying on his desk. “I deeply regret, Dr. Scott, that the punishment meted out to your son, on Monday last, was unduly severe given the circumstances of his misdemeanour. I hope you will accept my apology along with the assurance that I will do all in my power to see that such a misunderstanding and miscarriage of justice does not reoccur.”
Gravely, I replied, “Whether I accept your apology or not will depend largely, Mr. Cartwright, on the extent to which you are prepared to go in order to right the wrong that has been done. I do feel compelled, however, to suggest that it would be more appropriate that your apology should be addressed to my son rather than to me. After all, it was he who suffered the consequences of your mistake for which I still await your explanation.”
“I shall explain in due course, Doctor, but before I do, I have to impress upon you the fact that Mr. Krabill is in no way responsible for what took place. He was not aware of the facts and only signed as witness to the fact that punishment had been administered. I apologize to you Mr. Krabill, for my unforgivable act of altering the book which I reluctantly admit doing, after you had already signed the entry. I could see no other way to reconcile the misdemeanour to the subsequent punishment as they were recorded. I repeat, it was unforgivable and I assure you that I fully intend to make a full report to the Board of Governors and tender my resignation.”
Mr. Krabill was glaring over his spectacles at the Headmaster. “Indeed, I should expect nothing less from you, Headmaster,” he remarked stiffly. “And, now unless there is anything more that concerns me personally, I should like to be excused from what I find is a most distasteful exposé. I shall endeavor, to the best of my ability, to continue to hold you in respect.” He stood up with determination and offered me his hand. “I deeply regret, Dr. Scott, my involvement in this matter. I trust that all of us will survive the inevitable scandal which is bound to ensue. I am appalled that such ill-advised action should take place at St. Cuthbert’s.” After shaking my hand he swept from the room, bristling with indignation.
Mr. Cartwright sighed heavily and wiped the perspiration from his large face with a large handkerchief. “I can understand Mr. Krabill’s umbrage. He holds the honour of St. Cuthbert’s high and resents anything that would in any way discredit that honour.” He sighed again and wiped.
“I am still awaiting the explanation to which I feel entitled and which will determine my future action in this regard,” I prompted.
“Yes, yes,” he responded impatiently. “I only hesitate because I am conscious of the validity of your remark that I need to apologize to your son. As much as it will embarrass me to offer it, I feel that he, too, deserves an explanation; so I am going to suggest that I call your son to my office now and make my apology and give a fitting but simple explanation, in your presence, for his benefit. I shall then dismiss him to his class and elaborate my explanation to the extent necessary for your benefit, Dr. Scott. Perhaps in that way we may be able to clear the air and make a fresh start. I sincerely regret my inability to undo the physical aspects of the action but in order to demonstrate to you the depth and sincerity of my regret for this whole unfortunate incident, I shall also invite your son’s class teacher to be present.” I added ‘a large gift of the gab’ to the already impressive number of large appointments surrounding the Headmaster. My internal trepidation and emotional involvement can be assessed when I mention to you that, in my imagination, at that particular moment, I saw Mr. Cartwright sporting a name tag identifying him as the “Garrulous Gorilla”!
“I leave that to your discretion, Headmaster,” I replied as graciously as I could. I was manfully (all five feet four and a half inches of me) trying to restrain my anger at this man who, if only for my son’s sake, had to be shown respect. If he were not so large, I would have kicked him, gladly, several times, but then he would probably have kicked me back and then where would I be?
Mr. Cartwright leaned closer to the intercom. “Miss Eberly.”
There was a prompt response after which he continued, “My compliments to Mr. Fielding and would you ask him to report to my office immediately and would he be so kind as to bring with him a student from his classroom by the name of Scott, Vincent.”
There ensued a period of waiting, after which a disturbance in the outer office announced the arrival of Vincent and his teacher. Vincent, when he entered the Headmaster’s Office, was pale and looked remarkably like a frightened rabbit. When he saw me he turned a few shades paler and looked like an even more frightened rabbit. I tried to smile reassuringly, mouthed “all right” and shook my head so he would understand that he was not in trouble.
The Headmaster rose and introduced me to Vincent’s form master. Mr. Fielding shook my hand with a firm grip and favoured me with a warm smile from an open countenance. He was tall, well-built and with an air of confidence. I felt that his pupils would respect him and do well under his tutelage. “I am delighted to meet you, Dr. Scott,” he said. “I am quite impressed with your son’s ability. He is a fine lad and it is a pleasure having him in my class. I am only sorry that we started out on the wrong foot, the ramifications of which, I assure you, have appalled me.” Vincent had spoken well of him and now that I had met him, I was sure that Mr. Fielding was a good man and a good teacher.
“Please sit down, Mr. Fielding,” said the Headmaster. “You, too, Scott,” he added, addressing my son.
Vincent seated himself uncertainly on the very edge of a straight-backed chair that stood at the side of the room. I felt certain that the chair was more often used for ‘leaning over’ than for ‘sitting on’.
After a rather embarrassed silence, Mr. Cartwright cleared his throat and began, "I have called you, Mr. Fielding and also you, Scott (again addressing my son) in order to set right a most unfortunate misunderstanding that occurred on Monday last. Scott, you were sent to my office to be disciplined for being late. This is standard procedure in this establishment as you will come to understand. Normally you would have received three strokes on each hand with the leather strap for that particular misdemeanour. At the time of your arrival at my office, I was expecting another student who was to be disciplined for a much more serious offense and without thinking I regrettably assumed that you were he and administered to you the punishment that should have been his. This other miscreant was also from your class, Mr. Fielding, so when Scott was called into my office and said that he had been sent by you, I naturally assumed that he was the other pupil and dealt with him accordingly. It was only after I had dismissed Scott and returned from my meeting that I noticed the pink slip, lying on my desk, indicating that his misdemeanour was simply coming late to class. I wish to say to you, Scott, that I am deeply sorry for my mistake and that I shall be careful in future that something like this does not happen again.”
He got up, stepped from behind his desk and held out his large hand towards my boy. “Forgive me, Scott,” he said. “Please can we make a new start?”
Timidly, Vincent took his hand. “Yes, Mr. Cartwright. I’m sorry I was late. I won’t do it again. I just thought that I was getting the normal punishment for late-coming.”
“You have my permission to take leave of your father and then you may return to your class, Scott,” he said to the clearly relieved youngster who gave me a shy smile as he left the room. “Mr. Fielding, if you would stay for just a moment, I should be greatly obliged.”
Mr. Fielding, who had risen from his seat, sat down again. He turned to me and in a voice that clearly showed his regret for what had happened, said, “You do understand, Dr. Scott, just as the Headmaster has said, it is standard procedure for late comers to be sent to the office and I did send the required memo indicating that late-coming was the offense. Frankly, I was horrified when I observed the severity with which your son had been beaten. His hands were so badly swollen that he was unable to do his written assignments that day. I excused him as a matter of course and made a point of remonstrating with Mr. Cartwright later that day but he offered me no explanation until now.”
“I assure you, Mr. Fielding, in no way do I hold you responsible for what has occurred,” I replied.
Turning to the sweating Headmaster, he continued, “I must confess that, contrary to the school’s policies, I have sent no late-comers to you since then although there have been several. I cannot express how deeply I resent what has happened to a pupil from my class and by reason of my unwitting instigation.”
At that point, Mr. Cartwright once again took the floor. “I am deeply mortified by my lack of responsibility in paying attention to details. Again let me assure you that I will do everything in my power to prevent the recurrence of such a regrettable oversight and, should I remain on at St. Cuthbert’s, I shall endeavour to make amends to young Scott.” Then, I assume, in a feeble effort to save face, he added, “I fear I cannot excuse your lack of adherence to school rules on this account, Mr. Fielding and I must remind you, Dr. Scott, that in matters of school discipline you have, by signing our agreement, accepted the mandates and policies of this school. Corporal punishment is part of those mandates and policies.”
I felt nothing but contempt for this man who did not even know when to keep his large mouth shut. I spoke sharply, “And I must remind you, Headmaster, that abuse of those mandates and policies will get you into serious trouble. I have agreed to support the policies of this establishment but I will not remain silent in the face of child abuse and endangerment for which crimes I hold you responsible. I can provide you with a large volume of evidence, taken from reputable medical journals, of the injurious effect of corporal punishment when applied to the hands of its victims, especially when inflicted by a cane or stick of any kind. If my son errs, you have my full consent to punish him on the seat of his trousers. That is what I understand by the term ‘corporal punishment’. If you strike him anywhere else, I promise that we will discuss the matter in a court of law. I am saying this in the presence of Mr. Fielding in order that there should be no misunderstanding between us. I intend to take up this matter with the Board at the earliest possible opportunity. I have already written to the Chairman requesting a place on the agenda at its next meeting.” I shook hands with Mr. Fielding and turning my back on Mr. Cartwright, left the office. I was still angry!
As I walked the short distance back to the house, I heard the dismissal bell ring from the tower of St. Cuthbert’s and knew that Vincent and his friend, Nathan, would not be far behind me. Indeed, I soon heard running footsteps coming from the rear and an excited young boy came up on either side with a breathless treble duo combining “Hi, Dad!” with “Hi, Dr. Scott!”
Part 7It was several days later that I noticed a significant change in Vincent. I arrived home one evening from St. Thomas’ and his bright “Hi, Dad” was a refreshing change from the rather subdued greetings of the last few days; ever since the “incident” at school. His enthusiastic hug had none of the restraint which I was reluctantly beginning to anticipate. It was my old Vincent again.
“We need to talk after tea, Dad,” he said as I removed my jacket and tie and loosened my collar stud.
“All right, son,” I responded. “How about, as soon as the kitchen chores are done, the two of us retire to the study?”
And that’s what we did. As soon as everything was cleaned up and put away; the floor swept and the dust bin emptied, we excused ourselves to my wife and made our way to the study. I turned on the lights and Vincent carefully closed the door.
“Is it going to be official or unofficial?” I inquired. His reply would determine whether I took my place behind the desk or on the settee.
“Probably we should make it official,” he replied thoughtfully.
I walked over, closed the curtains and sat down at the desk while he took up his position facing me, at the familiar ‘stand at ease’. I looked up at him expectantly.
It was at that point that I heard the door bell ring but knew Cindy would see who it was so did not pay undue attention.
“Dad,” he began with a hesitant smile. “We can settle things now. I’ve been released from my promise.” I sensed considerable relief and, indeed, suppressed excitement at this pronouncement.
At that moment a knock sounded and the door of my study was gently pushed open. Cindy stuck her head in through the opening. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, dear, but it is Nathan and he says it is really, really, really urgent and can’t wait not even for a minute.”
“If that’s the case, maybe you had better bring him in,” I said, noticing a frown creasing Vincent’s brow.
About then, a flustered and flushed Nathan pushed past my wife, entered the room and breathlessly blurted out, “I’m sorry, Dr. Scott. I saw your study light go on and I know what Vincent is about to tell you. It’s about what happened at school and I know he won’t tell it properly so I had to come over.”
While this was going on, Vincent was doing everything he could by way of body language and facial contortions to get Nathan to hush. Nathan turned impatiently towards his friend. “Just cool it!” he said. “You know good and well you won’t tell half the story and your Dad needs to know all that happened.” There was strong emphasis on “all”.
I turned laughing to Cindy who was still hovering at the door. “You had better come in as well, dear,” I said. “I have a feeling that what is about to transpire is going to be a family concern.”
Nathan turned to my wife, took hold of her hand and pulled her into the room. “O, yes, please, Mrs. Scott, you need to hear it as well,” he urged.
Vincent was blushing and muttering under his breath. Nathan was not about to be diverted.
“Well, how about we all sit down,” I said. “We’ll just keep it unofficial until we know where we stand- I mean sit.” I took the chair at the desk; Vincent sat on the very edge of the straight backed chair to the left of the desk; Cindy sat on the settee; Nathan was too worked up to sit down so remained standing, facing the rest of us. “All right,” I said. “Where shall we start? All I know at this point is that my son is no longer bound by his promise to keep things secret.”
There was an awkward pause; Vincent apparently reluctant to begin and Nathan feeling that since it was Vincent’s story, Vincent should be the one to start.
To break the impasse, I made a suggestion: “Suppose I ask a few questions just to start the flow?” I continued, “Vincent, what happened after you left me in the car and entered the school building that first day, Monday, was it not?”
Vincent shifted uncomfortably and, after clearing his throat, said quietly, “I was feeling a bit nervous, Dad, so I thought I would take a quick visit to the ‘bog’. I was sure there was enough time before classes started.” He hesitated and again cleared his throat.
“Get on with it,” urged Nathan in a loud aside.
Vincent stammered, “It was.. it was ‘kinda’ like, in the boys’ room, there were these two boys about my age and … and they had a younger chap cornered and they were giving him a bad time and he was crying and…”
Nathan was leaning forward, his eyes dancing, trying not to take over the narrative. “Yes, yes,” he urged, “get on with it! What did you do?”
“Well, I felt rather sorry for the younger chap and told the older boys to leave him alone and… well they ‘kinda’ left him alone and…”
Nathan could no longer hold back. “Told them to leave him alone!” he exploded, “you bloody well nearly scared the crap out of them!”
Cindy gasped and hastily brought her handkerchief to her mouth while I turned away to hide my barely concealed amusement.
It was Nathan’s turn to blush. Turning to my wife, he gasped, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Scott. Please don’t tell my parents. It just slipped out, but,” he continued breathlessly, “it was brilliant, totally brilliant! I knew Vinn wouldn’t tell you the whole story. He is just too modest. Those two bullies are total wimps and when Vincent took hold of the one chap’s shirt and tie and threatened to give him a black eye he got out real quick like but not before threatening to do something terrible to the little chap up against the wall next time they caught him. Vinn then helped the young chap tidy himself up a bit but by then the class bell had rung and he was late. Christopher told me all about it, he’s the little chap, you know. We’ve known each other all our lives. Our Mums used to take turns baby-sitting for us. He was so excited he couldn’t hold still. You’re his hero, Vinn. You’re the best thing since the Beetles!”
Vincent winced at being classified with the Beetles. He is not into ‘pop’ music – in fact he genuinely dislikes it.
“But I still don’t understand the ‘cross my heart’ promises and all the need ‘not to tell’,” I prompted.
Vinn was having problems with his throat again. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he began, “I don’t really understand it myself but there is some kind of deal going on about beer can labels. Some beer company is running a lottery kind of thing and everyone is busily collecting labels off of beer cans in order to win some fabulous prize. Anyway, there is a gang of toughs in the upper forms who are bullying the younger ones into collecting labels and forcing them to hand them over. I guess they are giving some of the younger ones a really rough time and some of the parents are complaining to the school authorities so they are trying to clamp down on whatever is going on.” He paused and took a deep breath.
Nathan took up the tale. “That’s what they were doing to Christopher,” he explained. “They have imposed a kind of ‘tax’ on some of the younger boys to be paid in beer can labels. He did not come up with the required number of labels so they were going to beat him up as an example to the other little ones. They told him that if he ratted on them they were going to do something really bad to him so Chris begged Vincent not to tell anyone what happened. He was so scared that he made Vinn cross his heart. The authorities rounded up those characters at school yesterday so now there’s no need for secrecy any more.”
“So you see, Dad,” said my son, “I knew I could tell you but I thought since I made my promise to Chris I didn’t really know what to do. I just felt all bothered inside and decided to do the honourable thing. Now I see it was a bit silly of me but at the time it seemed important.”
“No, son, it was not silly and I am proud of you for what you did but at the same time you do realize that you created a difficult situation here in your home and this needs to be addressed. As I told you before, when you decide on a course of action you must face the consequences of your decision responsibly. It is part of growing up.”
“I understand, Dad. I am truly sorry for the awkwardness I brought into the family and I’m ready to take whatever consequences you think are right.”
Nathan’s amazement was growing with the course of the conversation. “You are not going to punish him, are you?” he gasped. “I mean, he saved Christopher’s life!”
I smiled. “Come here,” I said and beckoned to both boys. They approached; one on either side. I put an arm around each and quietly explained. “One thing you need to learn growing up is that all through your life you are going to have to make decisions – some will be right decisions and some wrong. Regardless of right or wrong, the decisions you make will have consequences. The man of integrity faces those consequences responsibly. Do you see?”
“I guess,” replied Nathan with more than a little uncertainty. “But I still don’t see how you can punish Vincent when what he did was such a good thing.”
“But you see, Nathan,” I pursued patiently, “you are confusing two issues. Vincent’s punishment has no bearing on his heroic siding with the young victim in the boys’ room. The situation in the home is an issue in and of itself and needs to be dealt with accordingly. The slate needs to be wiped clean and just ignoring it because of other circumstances would be irresponsible for me as a father and detrimental to Vincent’s character development. I know it is hard for you to understand, laddy, but if you really try hard to separate the two issues in your mind I think you might be able to comprehend even though you may not be quite ready, at this point, to accept. I think Vincent understands, don’t you, son?”
“I understand, Dad,” was his prompt response. “You see, Nate, most parents these days let their kids get away with murder, well, not quite murder, but you know what I mean. My Dad is teaching me to be responsible for my actions and although I don’t like being punished, I know my Dad is right and I love him very much. He never gives me what I don’t deserve.”
Nathan let out a deep sigh. “I guess I’m beginning to see a little,” he said, still with that element of uncertainty in his voice.
Turning to Vincent, I remarked, “I will give this some serious thought tonight, son, and we will clear the account tomorrow right after lunch. I have to be at the hospital early so probably won’t see you before lunch but I only have to work half a day.”
The boys went off to Vincent’s room and I could see as they left that their mood was serious. I was proud to see how Vincent was doing his best to explain. Poor Nathan was definitely out of his depth!
Part 8Mrs. Lynch, our next door neighbour, was with Cindy in the kitchen when I led Vincent away to the place of execution, viz. my study. Cindy shared with me, afterward, details of Mrs. Lynch’s fascination with the whole exercise. She had said to my wife, “Are you going to let him beat your son?”
Cindy told her not to be ridiculous. “My husband would never ‘beat’ Vincent!” she said indignantly, “and furthermore if I even tried to intervene, Vincent would never forgive me. He adores his Dad and he would go into a decline if his Dad ever stopped giving him the attention he knows he needs and deserves.”
“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Lynch.
It was about then that Vincent and I returned to the kitchen where the ladies were still sitting at the counter having their coffee. I remember I had my arm around Vincent’s shoulders and we were sharing a joke and laughing although there were still tear streaks on Vincent’s cheeks. He turned enthusiastically to his mother.
“Mum! You can’t believe how Dad is improving. I have been onto him about his follow through and he is finally getting the hang of it. Of course since we made those holes in the paddle, like I told him, it really helps; cuts down on wind resistance and he can come in for a really brilliant three point landing. Wow! He can really lay it on, can’t you Dad?” He looked up for my response. “Those were real stingers!” he enthused, rubbing the relevant spot. He leaned over and whispered in his mother’s ear, “I’ll show you, Mum, after Mrs. Lynch is gone.”
“So what did you get this time?” asked Cindy, her eyes dancing.
“Three of the best,” he answered proudly and then leaning close to his mother again, whispered, “on the bare!” then somewhat louder, “one for letting down the team by getting into trouble at school, one for causing an awkward situation at home and one for causing my mother undue concern and emotional distress which she does not need at her time of life.”
“James!” squeaked Cindy, scandalized. “You didn’t!”
By this time everyone, except our guest, was laughing.
Mrs. Lynch’s reaction to the forgoing was priceless. Her mouth was drawn into a compressed ‘O’ and her eyeballs were rounded to match. Her face somewhat resembled a two-dimensional tricycle. She looked Vincent straight in the eye and asked, “But doesn’t it hurt when your father beats you?”
“Of course it hurts,” he replied indignantly. “That’s what it’s for! But, Mrs. Lynch, with all respect, my dad never ‘beats’ me. He just warms up my bottom a little – well, maybe more than a little – but only when I need it, don’t you, Dad? It helps me to think carefully before I misbehave another time.”
“Well, I never!” reiterated Mrs. Lynch.
“We are always careful to make sure that it is deserved, aren’t we, son?” I remarked gravely. “But run off now and wash your face. You look a bit disheveled and that will definitely not do in front of visitors.”
He dashed up the stairs, calling back over his shoulder, “Then can we play cricket for a bit, Dad? Maybe Nathan could come over.”
“All right, son and after that, a trip to the ice cream parlour might be in order.”
Once again, poor Mrs. Lynch gasped, “Well, I never! So you physically abuse your child and then try to make up to him by giving him a treat. What kind of a mixed signal is that, may I ask?” She snorted indignantly.
“On the contrary, Mrs. Lynch; when punishment is administered, the slate is wiped clean. We do not refer to it again and things return to normal. On Saturdays, when all necessary chores have been done and any needed business settled, we usually pay a visit to the ice-cream parlour, so, since other matters have been taken care of this afternoon, there is no reason whatever not to do what we normally do.”
“Well, I never!” repeated our Mrs. Lynch who appeared to have a limited vocabulary. Then as an afterthought she asked, “But why on the bare? -seems indecent.” Again she snorted indignantly. Actually she was quite an accomplished ‘snorter’ giving it that certain élan. Turning to Cindy she added, “Yes, I know I wasn’t supposed to hear but my hearing is not impaired!” She gave yet another smug snort and returned her attention to me.
“In reply to your question, Mrs. Lynch, there are several reasons for applying the paddle ‘on the bare’: firstly, it gives the punishment that added sting which effectively discourages a repetition of the offense; secondly, it enables the one wielding the paddle to closely monitor the effect of the paddling thereby avoiding undue harshness – in other words ‘warmed up’; perhaps even ‘heated’ but definitely not ‘scorched’; then, thirdly, there is the rather subtle humiliation involved which helps the boy realize that he is not as grown up as he thinks he is. It encourages him to strive for greater maturity and act more responsibly down the road.
Mrs. Lynch heaved a great sigh and once again said, “Well, I never.”
It was not long before she took her leave. Cindy and I had a good laugh.
“What a shocking thing for her to be present on such an occasion. She’ll doubtless have palpitations for the next three days. I am sure if her husband had warmed up his boys a little more often they would have turned out to be better and more responsible citizens than they are,” I commented, having already learned that her three teen-age sons were regarded as the terror of the neighbourhood and generally categorized as young hellions.
Vincent bounced into the room with a cheery, “Ready, Dad.” We set off for the back garden where we spent the next hour playing cricket. Nathan spotted us and came over to join in. He was, as a matter of course, included in the excursion to the ice cream parlour where we all indulged in our favourite flavours. Nathan was rapidly becoming one of the family.
It felt good to be back to normal!
Part 9 - EpilogueI cannot leave off this narrative without sharing two rather interesting aftermaths of the fore-going events.
The former is with regard to Mr. Cartwright’s resignation from his position as Headmaster at St. Cuthbert’s. As I was to discover later, his run in with Vincent was only one of several questionable actions on his part reflecting on his unsuitability for the position. Things were handled tactfully in order to avoid any kind of scandal and, I understand, Mr. Cartwright ended up behind a desk at the Ministry with the title of Inspector of Schools. Apparently one’s inability to do the job in no way impairs one’s ability to tell others how to do it. I find this a rather disturbing consideration. The Headmaster who replaced him was a fine individual who rapidly gained the respect of parents, students and faculty. The students immediately sensed that he was genuinely concerned for them and responded well to him. One result of that was that the strap rarely came out of the closet and the cane never.
The second aftermath was that, on the evening of the day on which Vincent and I had settled our affairs, I received a visit from a very serious-eyed young man and his father. After tea, we were seated in the lounge indulging in some trivial family chat, the drift of which I no longer recall, when the doorbell rang. Vincent jumped up to answer and returned with his friend Nathan followed closely by his father.
Nathan’s father accepted a cup of coffee while the boys went out to the kitchen to brew themselves a cup of hot chocolate. After some desultory chat, the boys having returned, Nathan’s father set down his cup, cleared his throat and made a remarkable announcement. “My son,” he began, “has suffered from a twinge of conscience subsequent to what I believe was an uncomfortable encounter between your son and a paddle. I beg your pardon. I did not mean to intrude on your privacy.” He raised his eyebrows and looked over at the boys. Vincent flushed becomingly. “Frankly,” he continued, “I am finding it difficult to reconcile my son’s mature behaviour with the young person I have known all eleven years of his rather adventurous life! However, I must say that his mature action has given me a real boost seeing that my son shows signs of becoming a man of whom I can be proud.”
Puzzled and somewhat overwhelmed by this rather opulent flow of verbiage, I wanted to tell him to get on with it but curbed my impatience and waited for him to get to the point.
“Nathan gave me quite an impressive spiel about taking responsibility for one’s actions, confessed that he used unseemly language in the presence of both you, Doctor Scott and your good wife and requested that I use the paddle on him in order to ‘clear the slate’. Perhaps, Dr. Scott, you can help me to understand what my son is talking about.”
I could hardly hold back my amusement as I explained a bit of what I had tried to help young Nathan to grasp the previous evening.
“I have to admit, I have been somewhat remiss in allowing my son to get away with things and cannot help but admire the way your son behaves from what I have seen. He is a credit to you both and if his behaviour is anything to go by, you are doing something right. Certainly I do not see any resentment on Vincent’s part. On the contrary he seems genuinely fond of his parents and is a well-adjusted young person, so, I have to admit, with a measure of reluctance, I have agreed to punish Nathan but I really need to get some guidelines from you before proceeding!”
I proceeded to share my strong convictions with our neighbour. “Discipline,” I said, “must be administered firmly - otherwise it is pointless; fairly - otherwise it will be resented and above everything else, lovingly. I am always careful to make absolutely certain that punishment is deserved. Vincent knows this and trusts me. He understands that misbehaviour has consequences. He knows, and this is so important, that I punish him because I care about him and he knows that I will never punish him in anger.”
I turned to Nathan. “Tell me, Nathan, why you have decided to ‘fess up and ask to be punished?”
Nathan looked a bit pale but spoke up bravely. “It’s just that Vinn is such a super chap and I want to be like him. He explained it all to me. Now I know why he is like he is.” He continued in a vein that indicated that he and my son had had a heart to heart chat after our talk in my study. “First, I let my family down. Anyone who heard me would think they didn’t do a good job bringing me up and that’s not true. Then, I let myself down by blurting out bad language without thinking. I’m really not that kind of kid, Dr. Scott., honest. And then by saying what I did in front of you and Mrs. Scott I was showing disrespect to you and I want to tell you how sorry I am. I don’t want you to have any doubts about Vincent and me continuing to be friends. Please forgive me.”
“Of course we forgive you, Nathan,” I hastened to assure him. “You have shown without any doubt that your parents have done a super job bringing you up and they should be very proud of you. Furthermore, my wife and I are happy that Vincent has you for a friend.”
Nathan’s father acted slightly embarrassed. “Could I ask you for a great favour, Doctor? Would you grant me the loan of your paddle? I see now that we should probably invest in one of our own.”
“Vincent and I made ours in our basement workshop,” I explained, “– sort of a father and son project, you know – and yes, indeed you are welcome to borrow it. In fact, if you want to get things over and done with you are welcome to use my study.”
“What do you say, son? Shall we take up Doctor Scott’s kind offer?”
“Yes, please, Dad,” said Nathan – still a little pale but clearly determined to see this through.
“Show Nathan and his father to the study and show them where the paddle is kept,” I said.
Nathan piped up, “Dad, please is it all right if Vincent stays with me when you paddle me. I think it might help me to be brave.”
“Whatever you say, son,” replied a rather bewildered father.
After a brief interval, the three returned to the lounge. Nathan’s dad had his arm around his boy’s shoulder. The boy looked up, his eyes shining with more than the residual tears, “Thanks, Dad. I can’t believe how something so painful can make me feel so good inside – clean like – I love you Dad.”
The two boys went off to Vincent’s room until a short while later when Nathan’s dad decided it was time to go home and peace settled over the Scott residence.
The End