Remembering Mr. Taylor


    If you saw him walking the school grounds there at Kimbolton Castle in Cambridgeshire, or up in front of his class you probably wouldn't give him too much of your time for Mr Taylor was really just an average looking man. He was quite well-built, with light brown hair, glasses, a slight and careful smile, except of course when he was real, real angry. I doubt he was ever angry in public though, it would have been safer that way, it was with us youngsters at night that he revealed his rages. 

  There was a three years age range of boys at the school, which by the way was only about a 20 minute drive from my house, but I got a scholarship and my folks wanted to give me what they thought was the best education, and so I slept at school rather than going home, a boarder is how it was known. So, the boys entered the school at  age of 9 or so, I forget exactly but young we were, dropped off by our tearful Mothers at the front door, everything packed up in a large trunk case, with our clothes, sports stuff, jams, peanut butter and biscuits for special treats.

  There were about 30 beds or so, we were laid out alphabetically by last name, starting from myself by the door, which made sense I guess because by last name is how we were known to all and amongst ourselves. 'Lights Out' was about 8:00, we were supposed to stay quiet and silent, and gradually fall asleep. It was easier of course in Wintertime but in Early Summer as the light continued to stream in the windows, it was almost impossible. We would chat and joke amongst ourselves, some boys up and down over and in others beds, playfully I mean. It was of course almost always the same crew of naughty kids, all were aware of the dangers involved here and the meeker boys just clammed up tight and pretended sleep.

  So at times we'd be jabbering away amongst ourselves, boy talk, teasing, daring, that sort of stuff and then Mr. Taylor would suddenly fling the door open and burst in. I imagine he must have been listening awhile to time his entry just right, but who knows maybe it was just bad luck on our part.

 "Who's talking!" would come the furious shout "I said, who's talking in here!"
He was visibly shaking and a silence and fear spread amongst us immediately. Sometimes if no-one 'owned-up' so to speak he would threaten to punish the whole roomful of us, at which point one of the braver boys, usually Douglas would climb out of bed, others would follow, as would I. He'd glare and shout and we'd all be gathering by the door in our pajamas. "Anyone else!" Then we'd be sent to the showers and changing room just down the corridor.

   He'd form us up in a line, call us out one by one, have us lower our pajama trousers, bend over, and then strike a vicious, vicious blow on our bare behind with a springy tennis shoe, at times there would be several, usually up to six. The pain was intense for awhile and there was nothing to do about it but rub your cheeks try not to cry in front of the other boys and then scatter back to bed. He'd stop by for a brief lecture, the anger still vivid in his eyes, and then in complete silence we'd all then try to sleep. Now just so as you know, this was not some clunky kind of Nike sneaker, this was a rubber shoe, easy to hold and swing, and shocking to receive, a weapon basically.

   Other times he'd almost quietly enter the room, I'm not even sure he would announce himself, he'd just be there, with no shouting this time, he'd just quietly stroll between the row of beds. We'd be totally silent, he'd be feeling his power I would think. He would stop at the end of the room to visit with the boys whose names just happened to end with M, lie with them and, well it was never really talked about what exactly happened, our fear of him was too great to talk of him amongst ourselves, but we knew he had favorites and we knew that he was smiling as he lay there. I guess the beds at the end of the room were that little bit safer for him, just in case some other teacher may come in, but they never ever did.

  Mr Taylor had one other habit that I remember, this was a day-time thing of his, he'd call you up to go over some homework or such, and as you stood by his side he would work his hand down the back of your shirt and into your underwear. You'd feel a cold strange hand gliding, caressing, resting gently. You would never say or do anything of course, for one thing he was the master of the situation, he was terrifying, you felt frozen, trapped, you just put up with it and waited for it to be over. Never ever told my folks about any of the school practices, curious you might think, as have I. Remember though that all outgoing mail was read by a teacher before it went out, we had a regular Sunday morning session for that, and you just kind of accept that is was them who sent you there, so they know what's up, that is the way the world is and there is not a darn thing you can do about it. I have seen Douglas with a behind that was quite literally black from the bruises. No-one was ever accountable, no-one. The hatred I felt for that place was actually given over to my father, I held him responsible, it took many many years to change that, which is truly a great, great shame.

  Mr Taylor would be in his seventies now I suppose, if of course he is still with us. I wonder sometimes what I'd do or say if I ever met him again. Slap him around a bit perhaps, just to let him know how it feels, let him feel the pain, the terror, the helplessness of it all. I guess once I'd done that a few times that that would be the end of it, maybe I'd just spit on the floor, curse him, turn and leave. Afterwards perhaps I'd feel a little better.