The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and the distant tang of the sea, and the sun, though never quite warm enough in Scotland, shone bravely through the clouds. It was one of those rare afternoons when the world felt wide and full of possibility, and the council estate was alive with the shrieks and laughter of children. I was one of them, darting between the washing lines and the battered swings, my knees already scuffed and my hair wild from the wind.
My mother, tall and brisk, stood with the other young mothers, their voices rising and falling in a symphony of gossip and gentle admonishments. I remember the way her eyes followed me, a mixture of pride and exasperation, as if she could already sense the trouble brewing in the air. She must have decided, at some point, that it was time for us to go home. But I was far away, lost in a game of peever, the chalk squares blurring beneath my feet, the world shrinking to the rhythm of my skipping.
She called for me, her voice sharp and clear, but I was too far to hear. Instead, she sent another little boy—red-cheeked and eager—to fetch me. He came running, breathless, and told me my mother wanted me. But I, stubborn as a mule and certain of my own importance, refused to believe him. I stayed where I was, convinced that the world would wait for me.
When I finally wandered back, the sun had dipped a little lower, and the shadows stretched long across the pavement. My mother’s face was thunderous, her lips pressed into a thin line. In front of all the other mothers and their children, she announced, “You’re going to be spanked when we get home, young man!” Her words rang out, sharp as a slap, and I felt the eyes of everyone upon me.
I was mortified. My cheeks burned hotter than the sun, and I wished I could shrink into my shoes. I hadn’t realised I was in trouble. The injustice of it stung almost as much as the threat of what was to come. I could see, even then, that my mother’s anger was laced with embarrassment. She wanted the other mothers to know she was a good disciplinarian—a proper Scottish mother, stern and unyielding, as was expected in those days.
She wasted no time. With a quick, apologetic nod to her friends, she seized my hand—her grip firm, but not unkind—and marched me away. The walk home felt endless. The estate, usually so familiar, seemed suddenly vast and unfriendly. I stared up at her, searching her face for any sign of mercy, but she looked straight ahead, her jaw set, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
Her hand, which had so often comforted me, now felt like a shackle. It was warm and soft, but I could not help but imagine it as an instrument of pain. I remembered, with a shiver, the sting of her palm on my bottom—a punishment I knew all too well. Each step brought me closer to that dreaded moment, and my heart thudded in my chest like a trapped bird.
When we reached our flat, the familiar smell of toast and coal dust greeted us. She led me upstairs, her footsteps echoing on the linoleum, and closed the door to my room behind us. The room was small and tidy, the bed neatly made, the wallpaper patterned with faded flowers. She sat on the edge of the bed, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap.
I expected her to act at once, to put me over her knee as she always did. But she hesitated. The anger had drained from her face, replaced by something softer—regret, perhaps, or sorrow. For a moment, hope flickered in my chest. Maybe she would let me off with a warning. Maybe she would forget her promise, just this once.
But my mother was nothing if not consistent. She believed, with the unshakeable certainty of her generation, which meant that if she promised a spanking, we always got it. As I learned later in life, my mother believed that if she promised a spanking and didn’t follow through, her authority would be undermined in her child’s eyes, and misbehaviour would worsen.
She took hold of my wrists with her left hand and pinned them snugly against the small of my back, which left me completely unable to move or cover myself up.
Her eyes were sad and moist, and it was obvious she really didn’t want to go through with her earlier promise. I hoped that maybe she really wouldn’t, and that maybe – just maybe – she was going to let me off with a warning.
But after quietly admonishing me for several seconds more, she raised her open hand high. My view of her face blurred from sudden tears as I frantically cried ‘no, Mother, please no!’
My shouts of protest quickly dissolved into cries of distress as Mother began to administer crisp, smarting slaps squarely across my bottom. As the all-too-familiar sensation of Mother’s punishing palm welled up, I turned my head to cry into my pillow as she continued to swiftly smack my unprotected behind. Each slap hurt worse than the last and very soon my pillowcase wet with my tears.
At last, she got up and left my room, closing my door behind her.
As the minutes passed my sobs and sniffles slowly subsided, and I noticed myself recovering a bit more quickly than I usually did from a Mother spanking. That’s when I realised that although she had given me the discipline she had promised, and though it had certainly hurt, she been a little less severe with me that afternoon than she usually was.
