Goodbye Mister Tips

by Mike Ward

Charles Tipley was only ever so slightly tipsy. A couple of glasses of wine at lunchtime in the staffroom had been enough to lull him into a comfortably languorous state of well-being and bonhomie. As he packed a battered and very ancient brown leather briefcase with the last few bits and pieces of a lifetime's teaching he was aware of noise outside but there was nothing unusual about that; the place was a school after all, with some eight hundred teenage boys on the rampage most of the time. He would actually miss it all, but for the moment he packed away his things with a sense of relief. Schoolmastering wasn't the job it had once been and retirement held the promise of time for the scholarship he loved so much.

Tips, as he was known in the staffroom as well as among the boys, had arrived at Parkhill Grammar just under forty-three years ago and had somehow managed to defy all the odds by managing to see out his complete career in one school. Forty-three long years and now it came to this; a boozy lunch in the staffroom and a few knick-knacks in a briefcase. Retirement shouldn't have seemed all that wonderful a proposition for a bachelor with no near family and absolutely no hobbies. The only thing that might pass for an interest in his life was simply an extension of his teaching as he whiled away the evenings with a glass of whisky and the latest copy of his favourite scientific magazine. He prided himself on having kept up, on never having been left behind in the incredible flurry of scientific and technological breakthroughs that had occurred over all those years since he had left university at the grand old age of twenty-two, the proud possessor of a master's degree and a flowing academic gown. He had studied the best journals, taken time in the long summer holidays to go to conferences and seminars. He had even undertaken a second master's degree by distance learning. Charles Tipley was happy in the knowledge that he had done his best as a schoolmaster, and by all obvious standards his best had been outstanding.

For a moment he closed his eyes and recalled that day, just under forty-one years ago when his first batch of A-level students received their results. It had been a day of glory, of acclamation in the staff-room, of joy-filled handshakes from grateful pupils. A wonderful day way back there in 1965 and there had been many other wonderful, wonderful days. He chuckled quietly as all of a sudden he remembered the crowded sitting room in the summer holiday of 1969 when two dozen of his boys had come round to his home to watch that first landing on the moon.

He had bought his first television just for that evening and it had been worth every penny. The amazement, the sheer unbelievable wonder of those hazy crackling images. The excited smiling faces of his teenage pupils as they sat in total silence through those incredible minutes. The incredible beauty of young Nicholson, seventeen years old and facing his last year of school before he would go up and achieve so much at university. A fellow in physics no less, before another six years would be out. Sitting there on the floor with the others, totally unconscious of the effect he was having on the still-youthful schoolmaster at the back of the room. It had really been too unfair, the way the lad had come in, a pair of khaki summer shorts laying visible those long tanned legs. He had almost missed Armstrong's foot landing on the moon's surface so torn was he between watching events on the screen and the sheer beauty on his floor.

There it was again. He opened his eyes and looked out through the window in the direction of that strange noise. He was obviously hallucinating. He giggled, closed his eyes again, and then opened them quickly in an attempt to clear his vision. But it was still there, or at least, it appeared to be still there. It was obviously a phantasm. His mind quickly ticked off a list of rationalisations.

First of all, it was an hallucination because he was slightly tipsy. He wasn't used to alcohol in the early afternoon and so it was clearly affecting his brain. Secondly, the phantasm had the form of a schoolboy. The term had ended, the boys had rushed through the gates in their customary tide of energy and holiday-induced delirium. The boys had left the premises, therefore there could be no boys to be seen. So far, so good, Jonathan Tipley felt that some sort of sense was emerging. He continued. There was the utterly bizarre fact that the phantasm not only took the form of a schoolboy, but that schoolboy appeared to be climbing in through a classroom window. The window, like his study, was on the first floor of the red-bricked school. There was no ladder, there were no handy drainpipes to be climbed; therefore no boy could be climbing in through that window unless one admitted the possibility that boys, like Peter Pan and his companions, were possessed of the ability to fly. He snorted in derision; whatever was going on in his mind, there was no earthly possibility that a boy was in reality, climbing through a first-floor window and making no end of commotion as his legs waved in the air like a poorly coordinated swimmer.

Ah yes, those legs. Now there was the killer proof that what he could see was no more than a figment of a slightly drunken mind suffering the onset of stress. He had been warned by his doctor about the fact that many men find the first days and even months of retirement to be a stressful experience. He had believed that he would not be one of them, but he had obviously been wrong. Those legs gave the game away; definitely a phantasm. He remembered it well. September 1973 had seen the admission of the last two boys to enter this school wearing short trousers. Ridgewell in the second form was also wearing shorts that autumn, and very handsome he had looked indeed. By January of that school year, short trousers had been consigned to the past, no more would the tedium of teaching a class of dullards be relieved by the pleasant aspect, glimpsed from his position at the blackboard, of tanned flesh framed between regulation kneesocks and the hems of grey uniform shorts. Such sweet, sweet, memories.

1970 had been the year when modernity caught up with Parkhill Grammar. Until then the school rules clearly required that all boys wore shorts all year round during their first two years at the school. Naturally enough, most third-formers returned to school wearing the much longed-for longs, but there had always been a few fourteen or even fifteen year-olds who presented with knees bared in September and remained in shorts, no doubt by parental command, for another year or so. The end of the Easter break would bring a fresh crop of white thighs to be tanned through the hotter days of summer. But 1970 was the beginning of the end, the uniform requirements changed to reflect the ghastly fashions of the time. The traditional short-back-and-sides had given way to unutterably awful hairstyles, the traditional short trousers rejected by more and more boys until, a mere three years later, only Ridgewell and those two eleven year-olds were left. Oh dear; Ridgewell, the last boy he had caned over taut short trousers; beautiful in agony. He recalled that he had felt a pang of sadness even then as if in anticipation of the years of drudgery ahead.

But that wasn't quite fair now, was it. He had had some incredibly able pupils, far more than his fair share. Even this last year had had its moments, its stars. There was Atkins of the fourth, fair-haired and gorgeous and amazingly bright; a star in the making if ever there was one. Fisher of the lower sixth, tall and quick on the rugby field, sharp on the uptake in the classroom, and quietly confident in his little flirtations. Oh sweet lad. Yes, the years had passed quickly and well. He had much to be proud of even if he acknowledged that much of the personal pleasure of actually teaching had faded in tandem with the old traditions. He still appreciated the sight of a fit youth in shorts, he still lamented the passing of the cane. Oh mysterious beguiling rod, how he had worshipped at her altar.

He had, he was certain, never caned a boy without good cause. In fact, it had been noted that he caned less frequently than many of his colleagues. He had been careful. But when the necessity arose he had acknowledge the pleasure he derived from wielding the rod over the grey-clad bottoms of the youths who had been entrusted to his care. There could be nothing to be gained by lying to oneself. The cane was his goddess, every moment of ecstasy that he had experienced as an adult had been hers to command. Oh dear, he giggled softly, suddenly recalling days when he had brought the rod down to discipline some errant youth when his own backside was still ridged with welts inflicted by one of the understanding gentlemen that he used to visit. Good god, if the boys had guessed! Or worse, imagine if he had been in some accident and word got back to the headmaster or the governors or indeed anyone in this wretched town, that the senior science master of Parkhill Grammar had been admitted to hospital with some very strange marks on his beleaguered bottom. It would have been too awful; no doubt he would have had to flee or worse. But all that was in the past now. He had indeed been very careful.

So there it was. He was drunk, therefore he was imagining things. The boys had all left for the holidays, therefore there was no boy to be seen. Boys do not fly, therefore no boy was flying through a first-floor window. Over thirty years had passed since the last pair of grey short trousers had been seen on these corridors, therefore no boy would have been seen dead wearing such a garment even on such a pleasant summer's day as this. Wine and the headiness of these last few minutes in this much-loved study that had been his refuge over these four decades had combined to produce this phantasm. It was all a bit of silliness really. He clasped the bag shut, folded his much-faded gown, and took one last look around the room.

Good times; he had seen some good times in this old school. He wiped his eyes. Silly really, the way he was feeling so emotional. There would be good days ahead too, of course there would. Nothing left to do now but close the door and take his keys down to the central office.

Central office indeed! In the old days it had been the bursar's, genial old codger. Ex-navy and fond of a little port. When it was all getting too much one could slip into that office for a few minutes, linger over a favourite Turkish cigarette, sip an ancient port, and crack a few jokes with the bursar who was very much a gentleman himself.

Oh yes; that had given him a bit of a turn, it had. Bent over, bared bottom stretched across an old gentleman's desk, seven strokes into a sixteen-stroke sentence. Play had been interrupted by the doorbell, the firm command to remain in place, snatches of conversation in the hallway. "How do you do it, you old devil". Footsteps. Another voice, a stranger but something familiar. "Very nice, very nice indeed. Don't let me interrupt." The thrashing restarted and continued its course. "Eight Sir. Please thrash me even harder Sir". Between the sweet agony of each cut, a desperate hope that the new arrival would stay over there by the door and would leave, having watched without seeing the face of the rod's willing victim. "Sixteen Sir. Thank you for thrashing me so soundly Sir." A minute, maybe even more, in total silence save for his own breathing as he recovered. The stranger had indeed left; these were gentlemen of discretion, trusting only a few, a small circle of devotees. But a few days later, finding sanctuary in the bursar's office he had shivered when the old Commander opened a new bottle of vintage port with the words, "I think you'll like this one, Tips. Very nice, very nice indeed". Jonathan nearly spluttered the precious liquid over his suit as they exchanged winks. Good days, long gone now.

He turned the corner of that old-familiar corridor. Strange how there still seemed to be some sort of disturbance going on in that classroom. Nothing too wild, just the sound of desks moving and snatches of boyish giggling. That phantasm seemed to have really taken hold. It could do no harm to pause for a moment and confirm his complete certainty that there was nothing going on in that room. He took a breath, opened the door and strode into the classroom, his posture, without any consciousness on his part, adjusting to the role of disciplinarian and schoolmaster as it always did when moved among boys. He moved towards the large table that stood in front of the room and without averting his eyes from the body of the classroom, placed his bag and gown on the table, moved slowly around it, and then settled back against the table's edge in that poise favoured by generations of schoolmasters. He was clearly in a worse state than he had thought, the phantasm had taken on a new form, not just one boy but five, all somehow familiar to him, all very strange.

But clearly still a phantasm, even if it was very lovely to behold. He settled back against the table, chuckled, and began to work his way through another list of proofs for the imaginary nature of the scene that had somehow formed itself before his eyes. Obviously a phantasm. First of all, the five teenage boys were standing to attention in the presence of an adult. Well that had gone out when? Good god, it must have been some fifteen or more years since a class had last stood in silence to greet his entrance. So that was a pretty strong proof in itself. Boys do not go out of their way to show respect to ancient teachers, therefore these could not be boys.

The second proof was a development of one of his earlier proofs. There seemed to be a boy by the window, but he was wearing uniform shorts and so he could be dismissed as a figment of the imagination. There seemed to be two more short-trousered youths in the room, they too could be summarily dismissed. One in particular was an obvious piece of daftness manufactured by a tired brain for he appeared to be wearing the regulation kneesocks with their turnover tops in the school colours and his head sported the old school-cap. Well, those caps and socks had not even been available in the local outfitters for over thirty years now. Definitely phantastic.

The two remaining figures were not quite so anachronistic and it took him a few moments to work his way through to what should have been so obviously unreal in their appearance. For starters, their hair was neatly groomed. Then there was the fact that they seemed to be wearing blazers and neatly-knotted ties. Now even in 2006 things hadn't degenerated do much at Parkhill Grammar that ties and blazers had joined caps and shorts and kneesocks in the museum of school apparel, but blazers were slung over the backs of classroom chairs, ties were knotted through every possible permutation other than that envisaged by their designers. Neatness, respect for authority, traditional dress worn in the traditional manner; he had nothing to fear. These too could be dismissed.

But he lingered. The old schoolmaster lingered and savoured the fruits of his manifest delusion; it was after all, a sweet sight. It was strange how these products of his imagination had managed to take on the form of some his particular favourites of the past year or two. Sweet lads all, bright and inquisitive, eager to learn and stimulating in their quest for scientific insight. Stimulating. Yes, a good word that. Stimulating lads all five.

Over by the window was Ford, year eleven and with a confident poise that belied his sixteen years on earth, a good mind for mechanics and lenses and a youth of most pleasant countenance, and utterly gorgeous in shorts. Lovely manners too for a twenty-first century boy. Pitkin, at nineteen he had been one of the oldest in year thirteen and obviously imagined himself as being too mature for schoolboy pranks. He had just sat four science subjects at A-level as well as maths and French; far too bright for his own good but university would take some of the edge off that. Clarke, year twelve, tall and spindly and a bit goofish, but a wonder on the computer when it came to plotting astronomical charts and working out the distances between planetary and other objects. Totally infatuated with the sixteen inch reflector he had built when he was only twelve years old. Newman, another sixteen year-old from year eleven, frighteningly intelligent and definitely carrying too much knowledge for his age. Somewhat ungainly and a bit on the sturdy side. Who would imagine that he might look so handsome in short trousers? And last of all, the lad in the kneesocks and cap was Ridgewell, yes, very much his father's son. Another year twelve lad and one with a good old-fashioned streak of mischief, but absolutely nothing malicious at all in him, and from the shape of those over-tight shorts it looked as if he might even have inherited his father's most excellent and most caneable buttocks.

Caneable, now there was a thought and a half. Real boys could not be caned, for not only was it not permissible to cane a schoolboy, there was absolutely not even the remotest possibility that any contemporary youth would deign to submit to the rod. Phantasies can be caned and indeed, in Jonathan's long life, the lads of his fantasies were often caned. He looked down at the desk half-hoping that his deluded state would magic a cane into being, completely awestruck at the sheer beauty of the shaped rattan that his desire had brought into being. He stood up, picked up the rod and examined it. Dark with age it could have been the goddess herself in all her perfection. Not quite one of those dreadfully heavy rods, often labelled as senior canes, that could be bought for a few pounds from many a dealer in replica instruments of discipline. Neither was it one of those miserable little efforts that brought fear to the eyes of neophytes but would have been scorned by children of seven or eight in the old days. No, this was no more and no less than a proper school cane, beautifully crafted, completely smooth along its length, carefully shaped to form that iconic crook-handle, and despite its manifest age, flexible and obviously fit for service as intended.

He turned to the figure by the window. "Ford, what on earth were you doing, scrambling through windows?"

"I was coming back in Sir." There was definitely an inappropriate smirk on that face. Whatever it was, corporeal reality or invention of the imagination, it was daring him to use that cane. Well, it was the sort of dare that any traditionally-minded schoolmaster was going to accept.

"Bend over the desk boy".

Oh sweet goddess, who could imagine so much beauty? The bared thighs emphasised the vulnerability of the cloth-covered target, the tightened shorts gave a definite firmness to the buttocks, the outstretched legs quivered in anticipation of the pain to come. Phantasm or reality, the time had come for the final test.

And phantasm or reality, this was not a time for rushing. Mister Tipley savoured each second, every movement was carefully considered, all was done as if in some sort of holy ritual, which of course, in a way, it was. Six strokes each, five lads, thirty cuts in all. Each cut administered carefully and with reverence by an old schoolmaster, invested for these moments beyond time with all powers and attributes as if he was indeed the last high-priest in the temple of the sweet goddess.

Each figure that bent for the rod offered its own distinct sacrifice of beauty. Ford's perfect buttocks, his toned and tanned legs, his spine delightfully arching in response to each stroke, everything about him was composed and designed as if submission to the rod had been the ultimate purpose of his creation. The two more senior boys seemed to thrust back after each stroke, ever-eager to offer a perfect target, ever-willing to embrace the pain. The sturdy Newman should have been the least attractive proposition and yet, bent over and presenting a short-trousered backside, he was every inch the perfect sacrifice to the not-so-tender caresses of the goddess, and from his delirious pleas he seemed to be just as much a faithful worshipper as any other who had yielded before her over the ages. And then there was Ridgewell junior. Oh sweet pleasure, such delicious fruit, how could any man have merited so much reward in this earthly life? Each cut of the cane seemed to combine in magical harmony to bring master and boy closer and closer to uninhibited ecstatic joy.

The thirtieth stroke was met by a silence that was not of this world as Mister Tipley brought the ancient cane to his lips and kissed it in gratitude. Phantasm or reality he had never known so much pleasure in all his life. His days as a schoolmaster were over and now at last, he felt as if he could truly welcome the years ahead in hope and anticipation of fulfilment. He threw his gown over his arm, picked up his case and turned towards the other figures in the classroom. They were standing to attention, each with hands by his sides, looking directly and quietly at the old schoolmaster. "Class dismissed".

As he stepped out into the corridor their salutation echoed in his ears and he walked off with a happy sprightliness that had failed him for some years now. "Goodbye Mister Tips. Goodbye Mister Tips."

The principal of Parkhill Grammar School for Boys stood by his office window and watched the departing figure of Jonathan Tipley, head of the school's science department until that afternoon and now striding off with what seemed to be an uncharacteristic levity across the school yard and out into retirement. A sweet old bloke in his way but really, it would do the school no harm to move on with the times. His results had been outstanding and parents seemed to love him, but his methods had been hopelessly outdated. The latest inspection report had made it clear that the inspectors could see no merit in the way the sciences were being taught in the school and had insisted that an action plan be drawn up to modernise the labs and lesson plans. Although they had been kind enough to recognise that Parkhill's boys achieved results that were consistently in the top fifteen per cent in the country. But times move on, just as well the old guy had come to a natural end. But. "Good grief, what on earth?! He couldn't really be carrying �. Bloody hell, where on earth did he keep that hidden all these years? Oh sod you, you daft old bugger. Goodbye Mister Tips."