In the heart of a bustling Scottish estate, during the days when the world seemed painted in faded colours and the wind always carried the scent of coal and sea, I was a girl with a new baby brother. I adored infants, and so I was always eager to help my mother or the nanny with his care. There was nothing more delightful than being allowed to feed him, holding the bottle all by myself, feeling terribly important.
As my brother grew, the nanny would take him out in his pram, and my older brother Jeff and I would walk alongside. One evening, just before supper, I asked my mother if I might take the baby for a walk around the block on my own. The house was busy, and my request was granted. My mother fastened him into his harness, and off we went, the two of us, feeling very grand indeed.
After several weeks of these walks, a mischievous idea crept into my mind. I cannot say what possessed me, but I decided to play a trick on my little brother. When we were far from the house, I pointed to the sky and exclaimed, “Look out! The pigeon men are coming!” Then, I darted behind a tree, leaving him alone and frightened. He began to cry, and I, wickedly, found it amusing. Yet, as soon as the tears began, guilt washed over me, and I would rush to comfort him, pretending to be his rescuer. He was always relieved to see me.
This became a daily ritual. Each time, I promised myself I would not do it again, but the temptation was too great. I despised myself for it, knowing how much it upset him, but I could not resist.
One afternoon, as I hid behind the tree, my mother appeared, her face grave. A neighbour, unable to bear witness to my mischief any longer, had telephoned her. “Gigi! Come out at once! What are you doing?” she called. She gathered my sobbing brother into her arms and said, “Go home, young lady. There will be punishment for you.”
My mother soothed the baby, assuring him that all was well, and made me push the empty pram home. When we arrived, she handed my brother to the nanny and led me upstairs. My heart pounded with dread, for I knew I deserved what was coming.
She brought me into her bedroom, where my father was dressing for dinner. She explained what I had done, and I felt a deep shame, for my father and I were very close. He looked at me gravely and said, “I cannot believe my dear one would do such a thing.” Tears welled in my eyes. He told me I would be punished, and I nodded, understanding.
My parents conferred quietly, deciding who should administer the punishment. In the end, my mother prevailed. My father left for the parlour, and my mother turned to me with a look of solemn duty.
She drew out a sturdy wooden hairbrush and placed it on her dressing table. Then, she unbuttoned my overall straps, which fell from my shoulders. I was already weeping, but she said nothing.
With a swift motion, she delivered the first smack to my bottom—sharp and stinging. “Why am I going to spank you hard?” she asked. I could barely answer through my tears. Because I did not reply clearly, she took it as defiance and delivered a second, even harder smack. I crouched down, clutching my sore bottom, sobbing.
She lifted me to my feet and repeated, “Why are you being punished this afternoon?” I managed to stammer out the truth, and she nodded, satisfied that I understood.
Then, over her lap I went—head down, arms dangling, feet off the floor. My mother placed her left hand firmly in the middle of my back and began the punishment in earnest. She delivered ten firm smacks with her hand, each one echoing in the room and burning on my skin. I howled, but she did not relent until the tenth smack had landed.
She stood me up and spoke to me about the dangers of frightening little children, reminding me of the terrors I had once imagined—monsters under the bed and shadows in the closet. She explained that I had planted a dreadful fear in my brother’s heart, one that the grown-ups would now have to help him overcome.
I sobbed out my apologies, rubbing my sore bottom, but my mother was not finished. “You must learn a lesson you will not forget.
Over her knee again I went, and this time she used the hairbrush on me.
The spanks were quick, rapid-fire whacks, and the sting was incredible. I was leaping all over Mother’s lap but she held me firmly.
When it was over, Mother pulled up my panties and left the overalls off, knowing that I would have to change for dinner anyway. “Here – take these to Nanny and get dressed for dinner. Come down as soon as you are ready.”
As Mother gave me the overalls she kissed my on the wet cheek and told me that we could forget all about this now, and that she would need my help with being a nanny to my younger siblings. She wanted to be able to trust me.
I wanted to answer but I was in too much emotional pain. I arrived in the nursery . Nanny gave a clucking sound under her tongue and said that I must have gotten quite the spanking from my mother. I nodded.
Without any more talking, which was a relief to me, she helped me dress for dinner. Then she told me to go down with Jeff, for she would be with my little brother and the new baby in the nursery. I took Jeff’s hand and led him downstairs to the dining room.
My father met us at the door. He gave Jeff a hug, and Jeff ran to Mother, who showed him how to sit in his chair properly. My father stooped down and looked into my eyes. “Oh, my little princess! You have had such a time. Why do you do these things?”
He scooped me up and carried me to my chair, placing me carefully in the seat. I said nothing through the meal and ate just a bit, but the relief of having this all over was enormous.
I cannot emphasise the value of being caught and punished enough, if one is caught in something that is too great a temptation. As a child, I just could not stop what I was doing.
Every adult in that house knew what had to be done, and I knew that there would have been no disagreement as to the method and speed of the carrying out of the penalty. They all knew how guilty I felt, and they were loving me by co-operating with my need to be punished and forgiven.
I have spoken with my brother several times in recent years about this incident. I have apologised frequently to him for having frightened him so at such a critical age. He doesn’t recall it – but he feels close to me when we talk about it.
