(gap: 2s) When I reflect upon my childhood, I recall many occasions when discipline was administered with a firm hand. Yet, none is etched so deeply in my memory as the incident that occurred just before my birthday—a time when one would expect only joy and anticipation, but instead, I found myself gripped by apprehension and unease.
Our home was the very picture of 1950s suburban respectability, with its pastel wallpaper and the gentle hum of the black-and-white television. My parents, ever mindful of propriety, always engaged a babysitter whenever they left the house or entertained guests. The routine was unchanging: my brother and I, freshly bathed and dressed in our nightclothes, would await the sitter’s arrival. The air would be filled with the scent of my mother’s perfume and the distant clinking of glasses as the adults gathered in the living room. We were expected to remain quietly in the toy room or our bedroom, the laughter and conversation of the adults drifting to us like echoes from a distant land.
Christine, our babysitter, was a familiar figure—only eighteen months my senior, yet she carried herself with an authority that seemed to grow whenever my parents departed. She was permitted—indeed, expected—to discipline us if we misbehaved, but there was a strict rule: she was not to administer corporal punishment. Her methods were limited to stern warnings, standing in the corner, or the threat of reporting our misdeeds, though she seldom followed through.
On this particular evening, the house was alive with the voices of my mother’s friends, ladies who had attended school with her and now gathered in their finest dresses, their laughter ringing through the halls. I remember feeling a peculiar mixture of resentment and pride—I believed myself too old for a sitter, old enough to be trusted with responsibility. After all, Christine was scarcely more than a year older than I.
Spurred on by this sense of injustice, I became quite unmanageable. I defied Christine at every opportunity, my behaviour growing more audacious with each passing moment. When she attempted to settle us with a programme on the television, I would seize the remote and change the channel, taking a perverse delight in her exasperation. I tormented my brother with unkind words, and when bedtime arrived, I refused to leave the toy room, my heart pounding with a curious blend of fear and excitement.
In retrospect, I see that I never truly considered the consequences. Christine had always been lenient, her punishments mild and her threats rarely realised. I felt untouchable, certain that the worst I might face was a scolding or a brief period in the corner.
But that night, I went too far. At half past nine, Christine’s patience finally gave way. I watched as she left the room, her footsteps echoing down the hallway, and disappeared into the living room where my mother and her friends were assembled.
Moments later, my mother appeared in the doorway, her face set in a mask of cold fury I had never before witnessed. The room seemed to contract around me, the air thick with tension. “Peter, come here at once!” she commanded, her voice sharp and unwavering. I expected a stern lecture, perhaps a forced apology, and then to be sent to bed. But as she reached into her handbag and withdrew the strap, a wave of dread swept over me, chilling me to the core.
This was no ordinary strap. It was a dreadful object, the sort one might imagine lurking in the shadows of a Roald Dahl tale. Mother kept it coiled tightly in her handbag, concealed like a secret weapon. The leather was thick and dark, almost the colour of treacle, with a faint, sinister sheen that caught the lamplight and made it seem almost alive. It was heavy, its weight promising pain, and the edges were worn smooth from years of use, though the centre remained stiff and unyielding. As she uncoiled it, the strap made a soft, menacing hiss, and I could see the tiny cracks and creases along its length—each one a silent testament to past punishments. The smell was sharp and unmistakable: old leather, polish, and a metallic tang that seemed to sting my nostrils. In that moment, the strap seemed to grow longer and heavier, and I felt as if the walls themselves were closing in on me, trapping me in a cage of fear and regret.
My mother’s grip was unyielding as she drew me over her knee. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. The world narrowed to the dimly lit room, the scratchy feel of my pyjamas against my skin, and the cold, unyielding presence of my mother’s lap. The strap gleamed ominously in her hand, and I could feel the anticipation of pain building inside me, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach. The first smack landed with a resounding crack, the sound sharp and final, and a jolt of pain shot through my body, hot and immediate. My breath caught in my throat, and tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them. The second and third smacks followed in quick succession, each one more intense, the pain blooming across my skin like fire. By the fourth, I was sobbing uncontrollably, my cries raw and desperate, echoing off the walls. My mother’s face remained stern, her eyes cold and unwavering, her hand steady as she delivered a total of twelve smacks. Each one was delivered with deliberate force, the pain searing and unrelenting, burning deep into my memory. The strap was so heavy it seemed to press the lesson into my very bones, its sting lingering long after the sound had faded. When it was finally over, I was left trembling and breathless, my bottom throbbing with pain, my body wracked with sobs.
Mother stood me up, her expression still hard, and pointed to the corner. “You will stand there for fifteen minutes and reflect upon your behaviour,” she said, her voice cold and resolute. My legs felt weak and unsteady as I shuffled to the corner, the room spinning slightly around me. As I stood there, tears streaming down my face, the shame and regret settled over me like a heavy blanket. The severity of the punishment had left a deep, aching impression—not only upon my skin, but upon my heart. In that quiet, lonely corner, I felt the full weight of my actions and the lesson my mother intended to impart, a lesson I would carry with me for many years to come.
