(gap: 2s) Childhood in the late 1960s in Barnsley was a world of contrasts—gritty and grey, yet alive with the vibrant pulse of working-class life. The council estates were a patchwork of red-brick tower blocks, their balconies festooned with washing, the air thick with the mingled scents of coal smoke, wet concrete, and the ever-present tang of washing powder. The Beatles’ melodies drifted from open windows, blending with the distant clatter of Mersey buses and the shouts of children at play. Every day felt like a chapter in a storybook, with its own rhythm and rituals.
Among the children who roamed those concrete playgrounds was my school friend, Paul. He was a wiry boy with a mop of unruly hair and a mischievous glint in his eye, always quick with a joke or a dare. But behind his bravado, Paul carried a secret bitterness—one that centered on his stepmother. He called her ‘my wicked stepmother’ with a theatrical sneer, spinning tales of her cruelty and strictness, painting her as a fearsome ogre who ruled the flat with an iron fist. Yet, as the years would reveal, his feelings were far more complicated than he let on. In time, he would come to love her, perhaps even more than his own mother, though he never admitted it out loud. Still, her discipline was legendary, and Paul chafed under her rules.
Paul’s stories about his stepmother were the stuff of playground legend. He described her as a battle axe, a tyrant who doled out punishments with relish, her voice echoing through the flat like a judge’s gavel. He claimed she beat him daily, that she relished every moment of his misery. So, when I was finally invited to tea at Paul’s flat, I braced myself for a confrontation with this monstrous figure. The reality, however, was nothing like the stories. The flat was small but warm, the psychedelic wallpaper swirling in the lamplight, a coal fire crackling in the grate, and the faint hum of the telly providing a gentle backdrop. Paul’s stepmother greeted me with a soft smile, her hair swept up in a neat beehive, her eyes kind but alert. She moved with quiet authority, her presence commanding but never harsh.
The rules in Paul’s house were clear and unyielding. Shoes off at the door, hands washed before tea, voices lowered when adults were speaking. Paul bristled at these boundaries, longing for the freedom he’d known with his natural mother, who had let him run wild through the estate until dusk. But in those days, discipline was as much a part of life as the taste of jam butties after school or the sound of the ice cream van’s jingle. It was woven into the fabric of our days, a constant reminder that childhood was not just about innocence, but about learning respect and restraint.
Despite Paul’s complaints, his stepmother was nothing like the dragon he described. She was attractive in a quiet, understated way, her features softened by a gentle smile. Her voice was low and soothing, but there was a steeliness beneath it—a certainty that brooked no argument. She treated everyone with the same calm courtesy, including Paul, as long as he followed the rules. But there was no mistaking the authority she wielded, the unspoken understanding that, in this house, her word was law.
As I found out one day, she was not a woman to be crossed. I was at Paul’s house for tea after school. He was trying to show off to me and demonstrate how much he hated his stepmother. I was shocked by this behaviour – if I had dared do anything remotely like that at my house, my own Mother would certainly have taken her slipper off to me.
Paul’s stepMother issued him with several warnings, but finally she had had enough. She told Paul to go to his room and get ready for bed, adding that she would be up soon.
I saw the look change on Paul’s face. He said: “No – you can’t. Not with George here.” She turned back from the sink and gave him a look. “I said your room – now – or I will do it here.” Paul didn’t say another word and did as he was told.
She then turned to me and said kindly: “I’ll be back soon. Here, here have a slice of cake – I made it this morning.” She was perfectly nice to me but I knew Paul had pushed her buttons and was now for it. I knew from many an experience with my own Mother what happened when you went too far.
Paul’s stepMother went to the kitchen door, which was open. She half closed it and for the first time, I saw hanging on the back of it a thick, wide brown leather strap, around 18in long, and a thin crook-handled cane, about as thick as a pencil and 3ft long.
She took down the cane and went upstairs with it. From the kitchen, I could hear her calmly telling her stepson off. I also heard Paul say: “Please close the door!” A firm ‘no’ was her response. By now, I had a good mental picture of what was happening, and I crept to the bottom of the stairs so I could listen.
Paul’s stepMother told him to bend over the pillows. I then heard 12 firm strokes of the cane being applied to my friend’s bottom, and some predictable yelling as the punishment was administered.
Finally, I heard her say: “Sort yourself out and come down when you’re ready. But don’t take too long – your friend is waiting.”
I hurriedly scuttled back to the kitchen. Paul’s stepMother came back in, calm as anything, and asked if I would like another slice of cake and a drink. As she did so, I watched her put the cane back behind the door.
In all the years I knew Paul’s stepMother, I never once heard her shout or even raise her voice, but she was strict as anyone I ever knew. She was the nicest person in the world if you behaved, but she was most definitely not a lady to cross.
