Before I tell you more about my mother, I must explain how we came to live in the north of England. We had moved from the south, enticed by the promise of more affordable homes. My parents thought it a sensible decision—a way to provide a better house for less money. Yet for my mother, the move was never a happy one. She always felt out of place, as if she were a visitor in a land that was not her own. The difference between north and south was pronounced in those days, and she felt it deeply. The accents, the customs, even the weather, all reminded her that she did not quite belong. She missed the familiar ways of the south, and though she tried to settle, she never truly did. (short pause)
My earliest memories of the north are tinged with a gentle sadness. The air was always thick with coal dust, and the sky, even in summer, seemed a pale, watery blue. Our council estate was a world unto itself—rows of red-brick houses, windowsills bright with potted geraniums, the scent of laundry soap and chimney smoke mingling in the air. Children’s laughter echoed off the walls, but I was always on the edge, watching from behind the lace curtains. (short pause)
My mother believed in firm and unwavering discipline. She was a woman of simple, practical tastes—her clothes were always plain, neat, and modest. I remember her in sturdy skirts and blouses, never a frill or a bright colour, her hair pulled back tightly, not a strand out of place. Her shoes were sensible, her apron always spotless. She moved with upright posture and brisk, purposeful steps, her presence radiating order and control. There was a certain economy to her gestures—never a wasted movement, never a moment of hesitation. Her voice was always firm, never wavering, and she kept everything in its proper place, from the cushions on the settee to the shoes lined up by the door. (short pause) She would not tolerate mischief or disrespect, and her no-nonsense attitude meant that even a glance from her could silence a room. Her presence alone commanded obedience.
I remember the way she would inspect the house each morning, running her finger along the mantelpiece for dust, straightening the antimacassars on the settee, and tutting softly if anything was out of place. She had a way of making even the smallest task seem like a matter of great importance. I can still hear the rhythmic clatter of her shoes on the linoleum, the faint scent of lavender polish trailing in her wake. (short pause)
At first, she preferred to address any misbehaviour at once, dealing with it immediately and firmly. Later, however, she adopted a more ritualised approach, reserving discipline for scheduled sessions, which were both more formal and more severe. She believed these sessions allowed her to better demonstrate her love and guidance. Her greatest wish for me was that I should not become like the other children in our neighbourhood. Because of this, I was rarely allowed to play outside, and if I did, it was always under her watchful eye. She was also a devout Christian and ensured I attended church every Sunday.
I remember watching the other children from our front window, their laughter drifting up to me as they played football in the street or skipped rope on the pavement. Sometimes, I would press my hand against the cold glass, longing to join them, but knowing better than to ask. My mother’s rules were clear, and her expectations even clearer. (short pause)
Each Sunday, after we returned from church, a session would begin. There was little warning, but I always knew what was to come. Mother would send me into the spare bedroom. She would then open the closet and retrieve her leather strap. Once she had it in hand, the punishment would commence. Sometimes there were brief lectures, but she always reserved her greatest energy and focus for the discipline itself.
The spare bedroom was a small, chilly place, with faded wallpaper and a single iron-framed bed. I remember the way the light would slant through the window, dust motes swirling in the air as I waited, heart pounding, for the sound of her footsteps on the landing. The moments before she entered seemed to stretch on forever, my mind racing with dread and desperate hope. (short pause)
The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself. My stomach would twist into knots, my palms clammy as I stood by the bed, eyes fixed on the worn carpet. The room felt colder in those moments, the silence broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards as she approached. I could hear my own breathing, shallow and quick, and the distant sounds of children playing outside—a world away from the ordeal I was about to face.
Sometimes I would try to plead, promising to be good for the entire week to come. Very rarely did these entreaties earn me more than a few seconds’ delay. Then it would begin.
“I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry…” I would say, my voice trembling, sometimes breaking into sobs before the first stroke even landed. The strap would whistle through the air, and the first sharp sting would jolt through me—a line of fire across my skin. Each stroke was distinct, the pain building with every one, my body tensing and recoiling, but there was nowhere to escape. I would clutch the bedframe or bury my face in the pillow, muffling my cries as best I could, but the pain was always raw and immediate. Each session, my mother would deliver exactly twelve smacks with the strap, each one measured and deliberate, as a lesson in obedience and respect. The sound of leather striking skin echoed in the small room, and by the end, my resolve would would diminish.
Looking back, it is interesting how well behaved I would be for several days after one of these sessions. Many times, I recall Mother’s little compliments regarding my ‘sweetness’ or how ‘good’ I behaved after a good hard Sunday session. I could not help myself. It was just so much easier to be ‘good’ after having been whipped. Even my walk became quieter, tamer, more delicate.
Was she right to be so strict? I can’t really judge. I know she found my comportment after a session to be pleasingly preferable to that before. She probably felt she was successfully domesticating me.
