Recollections of an Old (but young at heart) Oswestrian, circa 1952 - EPISODE 19, VENGEANCE IS A RING OF FIRE

There is no school throughout the length and breadth of our land where bullying of some kind does not take place, and Oswestry in the fifties was no exception. Prior to leaving Lancashire for a new scholastic life, our parents had tried to give us a flavour of what to expect by buying Tom Brown's Schooldays, a book written by Thomas Hughes based on his experiences at Rugby School for Boys.

Whereas we were semi-prepared to take on the Flashman type of bully as portrayed in the book, what we were not anticipating was this kind of behaviour from one of the Masters.

Teachers, particularly at boarding establishments, are there in loco parentis, and whereas strict discipline could be expected, what is unacceptable is a bullying Master.

Such people are a rarity now, but this particular era is a lifetime in the past when things were rather different, and one such character slipped through the net. Arriving at Oswestry in his mid twenties to teach PE, this Master had been educated at Bedstone, a school we visited twice yearly for cricket and football matches, and against whom we seemed to have a tradition of victory. Powerfully built and in his prime, he immediately began to alienate many boys who disliked his arrogant, surly manner, and he sat at the head of our corner table in the dining room wearing a permanent scowl.

There was no love lost between him and my brother, and it seemed to me inevitable that a confrontation would take place as they constantly crossed swords verbally. After one animated exchange, the teacher said, like a red rag to a bull, "Come to the Masters' common room after lunch, and I will teach you a lesson". Typical of my dear brother, his tongue engaged milli-seconds before his brain, and the retort of "Well, it's about time you taught me something!" raised the temperature somewhat. Coming as no surprise to me, I thought, "Oh dear, here we go... pistols at dawn".

 

The encounter turned out to be a rather serious one; positioning himself between my brother and the door once Bernard had entered the room, the thuggish master launched a vicious attack, in the process of which my brother's eardrum was perforated by the plaster cast the teacher was wearing on his broken arm.

The only way out of this unprovoked attack was via the semi-open window which was immediately above the entrance to the boiler room at the far right of the bike shed and opposite the Fives Court. It was quite a drop down into the pit, and as Bernard made his escape by this route the window slammed down almost trapping his fingers in the process. Fortunately, he landed without serious injury, and the incident was only brought to the attention of our parents much later, no action being taken against the perpetrator.

The bike shed, opposite the Fives Court

Revenge would be served cold!

It was only later during the afternoon, when his ear began to discharge, that Bernard realised there was a problem, and he told me that Matron was sending him over the road for treatment at the Cottage Hospital. I laughed and said that the 'PICKUPS' would soon be getting a reputation for sustaining injuries so that we could be pampered and fussed over by the lovely young nurses... and did he want someone to keep him company? Muttering something unprintable, he said that he had gone through the pain, so he wanted the gain. I could not disagree.

Surprisingly, nobody enquired how the injury was inflicted, and my brother remained broodingly silent as he contemplated revenge.

Our corner table (top left)

At the end of each week we all moved two places to the left at mealtimes, and boys who found themselves at the end of the table, and nearest to the hatch, became the two servers for the week ahead. It was not long before it was Bernard's turn and, in anticipation of this opportunity to exact retribution, my brother had made a clandestine visit to the chemist for a special ingredient he intended to add to his oppressor's breakfast. A couple of days later, as he was collecting the Master's morning porridge from the hatch, and well out of sight, my brother seized the moment. Ensuring that a large overdose of crushed Cascara (a strong purgative) became somehow stirred into the glutinous bowl of lumpy, unpalatable mass that went by the name of porridge.

For the next few days we all took extreme delight in watching this bully's discomfiture as his routine was dictated to by almost constant bowel movements. He must have been in extremis at times, because he was often seen sprinting towards the unspeakable outside toilets.

Mealtimes were most uncomfortable for him as he watched us all sniggering, and although he suspected my brother, he could prove nothing. Needless to say, he was loath to bring up the subject although he must have wanted to know the source of his problem, and I caught him on several occasions giving Bernard long, knowing looks.

                         

Eventually, and I knew it would happen at some point, Bernard, feigning innocence, enquired somewhat sarcastically what it was like being in the hot seat at the head of the table. If looks could kill!

  

I asked myself whether the punishment meted out by my brother really fitted the crime, and the answer was most definitely in the negative. The Master did not receive his just desserts, and sitting in splendid isolation on the toilet seat for several days was a small price to pay for a more serious assault. 

The 'Ring of Fire' would soon burn itself out, but the damage to my brother's ear would be more permanent. Bernard remained tight-lipped about the whole matter, never reporting it, and the real culprit got away very lightly.