506
PARTISAN REVIEW
Mrs. Simpson was nicknamed Bingo, and I shall call her
by
that name for I seldom
think
of her by any other. (Officially, how–
ever, she was addressed as Mum, probably a corruption of
the
"Ma'am" used by public school boys to their housemasters' wives.)
She was a stocky square-built woman with hard red cheeks, a
flat
top to her head, prominent brows and deep-set, suspicious eyes.
Although a great deal of the time she was full of false heartine&'!,
jollying one along with mannish slang
("Buck
up, old chap!" and
so forth), and even using one's Christian name, her eyes never lost
their anxious, accusing look. It was very difficult to look her in
the face without feeling guilty, even at moments when one was not
guilty of anything in particular.
"Here is a little boy," said Bingo, indicating me to the strange
lady, "who wets his bed every night. Do you know what I am going
to do if you wet your bed again?" she added, turning to me.
"I
am
going to get the Sixth Form to beat you."
The strange lady put on an air of being inexpressibly shocked,
and exclaimed "I-should-think-so!" And here occurred one of those
wild, almost lunatic misunderstandings which are part of the daily
experience of childhood. The Sixth Form was a group of older boys
who were selected as having "character" and were empowered to
beat smaller boys. I had not yet learned of their existence, and I
mis-heard the phrase "the Sixth Form" as "Mrs. Form." I took it
as
referring to the strange lady-I thought, that is, that her name was
Mrs. Form. It was an improbable name, but a child has no judg–
ment in such matters. I imagined, therefore, that it was
she
who
was to be deputed to beat me. It did not strike me as strange that
this
job should be turned over to a casual visitor in no way connected
with the school. I merely assumed that "Mrs. Form" was a stern
disciplinarian who enjoyed beating people (somehow her appearance
seemed to bear this out) and I had an immediate terrifying vision
of her arriving for the occasion in full riding kit and armed with a
hunting whip. To this day I can feel myself almost swooning with
shame as I stood, a very small, round-faced boy in short corduroy
knickers, before the two women. I could not speak. I felt that
I
should die
if
"Mrs. Form" were to beat me. But my dominant feeling
was not fear or even resentment:
it
was simply shame because one
more person, and that a woman, had been told of my disgusting
offense.
