My mother, though we lived on a council estate, had grown up in a comfortable middle-class home, a world of polished silver, pressed linens, and the gentle hush of drawing rooms. She carried herself with a certain poise, her back always straight, her voice clipped and precise, as if she were determined to keep the dust and noise of our estate at bay. After inheriting a significant sum from her own parents, she became fiercely determined to raise our family’s standing—insisting on proper manners, good behaviour, and a sense of discipline that matched her ambitions for us. Every meal was a lesson in etiquette, every greeting a test of our refinement.
With her new wealth, Mother quickly set her sights on the world of the upper class. She began to spend much of her time attending luncheons, teas, and charity events, eager to be seen in the company of those she now considered her peers. Her calendar filled with social gatherings, and she was often away at dinners or soirées, determined to secure our place in a higher social circle. I remember the rustle of her silk dresses as she swept through the house, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air long after she had gone, and the way her laughter—so bright and brittle—echoed down the hallway as she prepared for yet another event.
For my sister and me, this meant we were left behind more and more, our days shaped not by Mother’s presence but by the routines of nannies and nannies. The house, though filled with the trappings of her new ambitions—gleaming china, heavy velvet curtains, and a radio that played the latest classical music—felt emptier for it. We watched her dress in her finest clothes, her mind already on the next event, while we remained in the care of hired help. The sound of her heels on the tiled floor became a signal that she was leaving, and the closing of the front door marked the beginning of another long, quiet afternoon.
Our regular nanny, who had always been a steady presence in our lives, had to go away for a fortnight to visit her family. She was a gentle woman, with soft hands and a voice that could soothe even the most stubborn tantrum. During her absence, Mother hired a temporary nanny to look after me and my sister. This new nanny was there to keep a close eye on us, and Mother made it clear she expected us to behave impeccably. But from the very start, I found myself at odds with her—she was nothing like our usual nanny, and we certainly did not get along. Her voice was sharper, her patience thinner, and her rules seemed endless.
I was quite a handful for the temporary nanny—every instruction she gave, I simply ignored. I refused to eat my tea as she asked, pushing the plate away with a stubborn glare. While she was setting the table, I unscrewed the top of the salt cellar, giggling to myself as I imagined the chaos that would follow. Another time, I was caught with a sweet in my mouth and she told me to spit it out. I replied, “No! You can’t make me!” My defiance was a shield, a way to test the boundaries of this stranger who had invaded my world.
One evening, we were at the tea table when the nanny picked up the salt cellar and the lid came off, spilling salt everywhere. The white crystals scattered across the tablecloth like tiny diamonds, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then her face turned red, her eyes narrowing with fury. She was absolutely furious with me, her voice rising as she scolded me in front of my sister, her words sharp and cold.
Just then, my mother arrived home from her shift at the mill, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her hair still pinned in perfect waves. She paused in the doorway, her eyes taking in the scene—the nanny’s raised voice, the spilled salt, my guilty face. The nanny wasted no time, telling Mother everything I’d done, her words tumbling out in a rush of frustration and accusation.
Mother, always conscious of appearances and determined that her children would not be seen as unruly, came over, lifted me out of my chair with a firm grip, and told me I was to get a smacked bottom—and the nanny was to watch. Her voice was low and steady, but there was a steeliness in her eyes that made my stomach twist with dread.
The sitting room was suddenly charged with tension. The fire in the grate crackled, casting flickering shadows on the floral wallpaper. I could feel the heat of the flames on my back as Mother positioned a straight-backed chair in the center of the room, the legs scraping harshly against the linoleum. My heart pounded in my chest, the sound of the clock on the mantelpiece ticking louder with every second. My sister sat frozen, wide-eyed, while the nanny perched on the edge of the settee, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
Mother made me stand in front of her, her hands resting on my shoulders as she gave me a stern talking-to about how I was expected to behave. Her words were measured, each one landing like a stone in my chest. She told me to apologise to the nanny, her gaze never leaving mine. I refused to do as I was told, my lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the wireless radio in the background.
Mother’s face hardened. “If you won’t apologise, you’ll get it all the harder,” she said, her voice icy, disappointment radiating from her. She also told me I’d be kept in all weekend—she would not have her children reflecting badly on her efforts to better our place in the world. The threat of confinement hung over me like a shadow, but still I would not give in. My defiance was all I had left.
With that, Mother told the nanny to sit and watch. The nanny sat, her hands folded tightly in her lap, as Mother put me over her knee. The room seemed to shrink around us, . I felt the rough fabric of Mother’s skirt.
The spanking started. I cried and screamed and yelled at Mother to stop and kept saying I was sorry. My Mother really worked on my bottom – then I had to stand in the corner for about 10 minutes.
Afterwards, my Mother told the sitter that she had permission to spank me if I did not obey. My nanny ’s face was full of relief.
I did get another spanking from the nanny the next day – she spanked just as hard. She had told me to take a bath and I refused. So she spanked me with her hand. Later, she told my Mother that I had been spanked because I would not take a bath.
Mother came in my room and asked me why I had not done as I was told. I could not give her a reason, so she put me over her knee for another spanking. Afterwards, she told me that if I did not obey, not only would the sitter spank me, I would get it again from her.
Mother was very firm on this issue, and I had several subsequent trips over both my sitter’s and Mother’s knees.
