Original subtitles

In 1929, when I was 13, I was

sent to a famous English boarding school for

boys.

In those days, life was pretty brutal at

schools like these, and you won't believe this,

but even now, 50 years later, if I

sit for too long on a hard chair,

I begin to feel my heart beating along

the old wounds on my bottom where I

was flogged.

Do you want six with your dressing gown

on or four with it off?

The prefect used to say to us down

there in the changing room late at night.

This is a storey about those school days

of mine, and for once, I have not

made anything up.

It's all true.

Morning, Mr. Perkins.

Thank you.

Five days a week, for 36 years, William

Perkins had been taking the 812 train to

the city.

He liked the process of commuting.

There is a regularity about it that is

agreeable and comforting to a person of habit.

And in addition, it served as a sort

of slipway, launching him gently but firmly into

the waters of his daily business routine.

One of his special little pleasures was to

have his own particular seat in the same

compartment with the same good, solid people sitting

in their right places with the right umbrellas

and hats and ties and newspapers.

Until one morning, something rather disturbing happened.

Chaps, take a mic, please.

Mind the cigar.

This is a smoker.

You can do as you please.

I just thought I'd ask.

A matter of form, really.

Form?

Or seeing I'm the new boy.

Pretty.

Quite a popsy, don't you think?

I find it rather early in the morning

conversation, don't you?

Good God.

You remind me of my old company commander

in the Coast Stream Guards.

If a new subaltern so much as dared

to say good morning to him, he barked

back with seven in rapid fire.

Good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning,

good morning, good morning, good morning.

And that's twice for a week.

Very funny.

Good chap, then.

Work with him at the grind.

He's your slave, darling.

What's the matter with you?

Letting a perfect stranger rattle.

Ruined my day.

Better not prove to be a regular.

Morning.

Morning.

This year's here again.

Afraid so.

Third day running.

Any idea who he is?

North of August.

My God.

Galloping.

Not after all these years.

Not galloping Foxley.

You beat me to it this morning.

You're sitting in my place.

No.

These last mornings, you have been sitting in

mine.

Oh, you should have told me.

I'd have swapped.

I said I was the new boy.

No.

I was.

I was the new boy.

Glad we motored down, were you?

Yes.

You soon settled in?

Yes.

Best days of your life are just beginning.

You see.

Jolly fine school.

I say.

Don't they teach you better manners than that?

It seems to me an apology is in

order.

I'm so sorry.

I don't like your tone, sir.

Really?

You strike me as being impudent and ill

mannered.

I can only hope that you're the exception

here.

I shouldn't wish only some of mine to

pick up such habits.

Ah, Mr. Perkins.

I see you've already met our head of

house, Bruce Foxley.

Very fine sportsman.

All rounder.

Football, cricket.

His manners leave something to be desired.

Really?

I dare say it's the excitement of being

back, eh, Bruce?

Exactly, sir.

Why don't you go and sort out the

junior duty roster?

Take your pick of the new chaps.

With pleasure, sir.

Well, Perkins.

I expect you feel very much the new

boy.

Don't worry.

You'll soon make your mark.

Just what I've been telling him.

Report to Natron there's a good chap.

Chin up.

Tickety-boo.

Bye, Dad.

Bye, William.

Now, keep your pecker up.

Right soon.

Naturally, he feels he's walking into the lion's

den.

All the new men do.

But he soon passes off.

New boy, get that hat off.

Perkins!

Yes?

You're mine, boy.

Am I?

My personal servant.

Valet.

Bedmaker.

Dog's body.

Washer-upper.

Boot-cleaner.

You're my slave, Perkins.

Slave by the shine.

Slave by the shine.

Slave by the shine.

Slave by the shine.

Right, Perkins.

Recite your duties.

When the bell rings, I get up, dust

the desk, clean his shoes, put out his

clothes, polish the fender, clean the grate.

Morning, Foxley.

What do you think you're doing?

Cleaning the grate.

You're behind schedule.

No.

Shut up, slave.

I'm breathing.

You'd better get down to the bogs.

Bogs?

The lavatories.

The water closets.

The latrines.

Les petits coins.

The places of easement, boy.

Do I clean them?

If necessary.

Then you warm the seat for me.

And if it's not warm enough, then I

warm yours.

Something wrong?

You're staring.

I'm sorry.

Do you imagine we've met before or something?

I'm sorry.

I know very well we've met before.

Oh, yes.

Oh, yes, Foxley.

I could expose you for the perfect swine

you were.

You don't recognise me, do you, eh?

Moustache.

March of years.

But I recognise you all right.

Oh, yes.

No.

I've decided, Perkins.

It's going to be with the dressing gown...

off.

Please.

Off.

Hurry up.

Come on.

Now, touch your toes.

Tighter.

Much tighter than that.

Now, what are you?

I'm...

I'm a lazy little boy.

Who can't light a fire?

Who can't polish a button without smudging the

uniform?

What else are you?

Don't know.

I don't like your tone, sir.

You strike me as impudent and ill-mannered.

And your father's very particular about manners, isn't

he?

Well?

Well?

It's a question requiring the answer.

Yes, boy.

Yes.

Yes.

Stay still.

Blubber, boy, and you get an extra stroke.

This is why I'm known as Gallop in

Foxleigh.

It's because I always beat at the gallop.

Psst.

Oi.

Psst.

Perkins over there.

How many did you get?

Perkins?

Yes.

Oh, he got five.

Five.

Well, his dressing gown has two.

Oh, yes.

It was going to be four, but he

blubbed.

He always blubbed with Foxleigh because of the

runner.

He goes down the basin passage.

It's time for you to feel the pain,

you see.

At first, you don't feel anything.

Just a sort of blunt thud.

A sort of numbing.

But after a few seconds, about ten, that's

the time it takes Galloping Foxleigh to go

down the basin passage.

Then it starts like a red-hot poker,

by which time he's galloping back.

Whoosh-whack.

Whoosh-whack.

Poor old Perkins.

Perkins?

Perkins.

What?

Show us the damage.

Go on.

No.

Come on, we're on your side.

No.

Please.

Come on, we're ever so sorry.

Let's see the marks.

Oh.

Right.

Rather far apart.

Not up to Foxleigh's usual standard.

Too close.

It's actually touching.

That low one's a rotten shot, but it's

bled.

Golly, Foxleigh's really got it in for you,

Perkins.

What's the idea?

Back to bed, all of you.

So, Perkins showing off, is he?

Is that it?

Another peep out of any of you, and

you'll get what Perkins got.

All coming back.

Small eyes.

Corrugated forehead.

The wavy, oily hair.

The glove.

The white glove.

Catch.

Butterfingers.

Better.

You're improving, Perkins.

Thank you, Foxleigh.

It took me all day.

At first glance, that is.

But we'll see what my patent dust detector

can do, shall we?

Good.

Ah.

So.

You're a lazy little bounder after all, aren't

you?

I thought I'd just...

You thought?

Well, we'll meet later on, won't we?

After prayers in the changing room.

It was under the chair.

As my slave, you clean my study.

And clean means clean.

Yes, Foxleigh.

And you've forgotten the wild irises for my

desk.

But there wasn't time.

There is now.

The pipes are full.

You'll have to hurry.

The pond's only two and a half miles

across the fields.

A drowned rat.

Don't come in.

Only four.

Hopeless.

I couldn't reach.

That's another stroke.

Go on.

Get your coat off.

We need to talk.

We need you to make more toast.

What's your slave like, Julian?

Shaping up.

I picked a dud in Perkins.

Idle, insolent, incompetent.

Have to beat him almost daily.

I'm developing muscles where I didn't even know

I had them.

You expect me to eat this?

It's hardly done, this side.

But you don't like it burnt.

Useless.

You've earned yourself another strike, Perkins.

And to think...

I used to write home and say I

was all right.

Except I got a cold because I was

caught in the rain.

Never a word about how he beat me.

You beat me.

You.

Seven minutes to Camden Street.

Seven minutes to Exposio.

Foxley.

It's...

It's a thought.

Yes.

Why not?

Why not?

I wonder if I might have your attention,

just for a few moments.

I know it's not customary for us to

speak very much on this daily journey.

And I hope you'll forgive me.

But this gentleman's presence...

has prompted some old memories of my school

days.

Yes.

Yes, it was a long time ago now,

of course.

But I remember.

Yes, I remember very well.

You see, I suffered.

I suffered terribly at his hands.

I was his slave.

And I could never do anything right.

Because he was a total sadist.

What in the old days we would have

called a bounder.

He made my life a misery per year.

I almost committed suicide because of him.

He hasn't recognised me.

But I've recognised him.

Oh, yes.

He was head of my house at public

school.

And he wielded absolute power over the new

men.

As we small boys were called.

And as we know, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

This man was a perfect Hitler to me.

Any service not performed to his satisfaction...

was a beatable offence.

And how he loved to exercise that privilege.

He used to carry the cane.

That's just like the one he used to

beat me with.

So scientifically...

his peculiar talent was torture.

Mental and physical.

Gentlemen.

Galloping Foxley.

Well, Foxley.

Do you recognise me now?

William Perkins.

St Wilfrid's.

I'm very glad to meet you.

But I'm Fortescue.

Jocelyn Fortescue.

To Eaton, 1928.

Ah, we seem to have arrived.

Sorry, old boy.

We all make mistakes.

We all make mistakes.