The early 1970s in Scotland had a certain chill to it, not just in the air but in the way the world seemed to move. Our council estate was a patchwork of brick and concrete, the kind of place where the laughter of children echoed off the walls and the scent of laundry mingled with the ever-present damp. I went to a school that paddled fairly regularly – not at the drop of a hat, but enough that the threat always lingered in the back of your mind, like the grey clouds that never quite cleared.
(short pause) There was an unspoken order to things. Girls, if they were to be paddled, would usually face the female gym teacher, while boys were sent to the vice-principal. It wasn’t a rule, more a tradition, but traditions in our world had a way of being bent, or broken, when it suited the adults. I learned that lesson the hard way.
(pause) I was young, restless, and desperate to be noticed. There was a thrill in pushing boundaries, in feeling the eyes of the boys linger a little longer. Sometimes, I’d leave my bra at home, wearing shirts that left little to the imagination. It was a small rebellion, a way to feel grown up, even if it was against the school’s strict dress code. For a while, I got away with it – three, maybe four times. But the universe has a way of catching up with you.
(pause) That day, I remember the classroom felt stuffy, the air thick with the scent of chalk and old books. I was fidgeting in my seat, half-listening to the lesson, when Mrs Jackson’s voice cut through the haze. She called me to her desk, her eyes darting away from the rest of the class. There was a flush to her cheeks, embarrassment or maybe sympathy, as she quietly told me she suspected I was breaking the dress code. She scribbled a note, her hand trembling just a little, and sent me on my way to the office. My heart pounded in my chest, a dull ache of dread and hope – maybe I’d get detention, maybe I’d get lucky. But deep down, I knew I was in for it. I just didn’t know how bad it would get.
(pause) The walk to the office felt endless. Every step echoed in the empty hallway, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum. I could feel the eyes of the secretary on me as I sat, waiting, the clock ticking louder with every second. After what felt like an eternity, Mr Washburn, the vice-principal, called me in. His office smelled of old paper and aftershave, the kind that clung to your clothes long after you left. He didn’t waste time. “Are you wearing appropriate uniform?” he asked, his voice flat, almost bored. I told the truth – there was no point in lying. He reminded me, with a hint of disappointment, that this was my third trip to the office that semester. “I see no recourse except corporal punishment,” he said, his words heavy and formal, as if he were reading from a script. Who talks like that? I wondered, my stomach twisting.
(pause) Some schools, I’d heard, made you wait a day or two, sent a note home for your parents to sign. Not ours. Here, justice was swift. I braced myself for the usual routine – maybe he’d send me to the gym, or call Mrs Bradford, the gym teacher, down to the office. But then he told me Mrs Bradford was already gone, off to coach an away game, the team bus having left before the final bell. That meant he’d have to do it himself. My heart dropped. He picked up the phone, called my mother, and spoke in hushed tones for less than two minutes. Then he called in his secretary to witness what was about to happen.
(pause) I’d been paddled before, but this time felt different. The room seemed smaller, the air heavier. Mr Washburn wasn’t a big man, but in that moment, he seemed to fill the space. As I bent over his desk, the edge digging into my hips, I became acutely aware of everything – the scratch of my jeans, the way his eyes lingered a moment too long, the cold dread crawling up my spine. I tried to steady my breathing, but my hands were shaking.
(pause) He was quick – much quicker than Mrs Bradford. Three sharp pops, each one a bolt of pain that stole the breath from my lungs. The first was the worst, a white-hot sting that made me cry out, my voice echoing off the walls. I couldn’t hold back the tears. They came in great, heaving sobs, not the quiet sniffles I’d managed before. I felt exposed, humiliated, and so very small.
(pause) When it was over, I had to sign a form, my hand trembling so badly I could barely hold the pen. Mr Washburn’s voice softened. He told me he was sorry, that he didn’t want to do it, and I believed him. There was a sadness in his eyes, a weariness that made me wonder how many times he’d had to do this before. He told me to take my time, to compose myself before heading back to class. I sat there for a moment, trying to gather the pieces of myself, the pain in my backside throbbing with every heartbeat.
(pause) The walk home was agony. Every step sent a fresh wave of pain through me, and I was grateful I didn’t have to face the bus, the stares and whispers of my classmates. But the worst was yet to come. My mother would be waiting, and I knew she wouldn’t be gentle. Breaking school rules was bad enough, but being ‘slutty’ – that was unforgivable in her eyes.
(pause) As I stepped into the house, the familiar smells of home – boiled potatoes, damp wool, the faint trace of bleach – did nothing to comfort me. My mother stood by the table, her face unreadable. On my chair, a pair of scissors lay waiting. My heart sank. I knew what it meant. I started to beg, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush: “Please, mommy, not a switch! I’m sorry! My bottom is already sore. I’m sorry! Please, no, please, please…” She didn’t say a word, just waited, her silence heavier than any scolding. When I finally ran out of words, she pointed to the back door.
(pause) Picking a switch was a ritual all its own. It was only the third time in my life I’d had to do it, and each time felt like a walk to the gallows. The bushes behind our house were thick and tangled, the branches rough beneath my fingers. I searched for one that was just right – not too thin, not too thick – and as I stripped away the leaves and twigs, my tears fell silently onto the ground. The air was cold, the sky heavy with the promise of rain, and I felt utterly alone.
(pause) I walked back inside, the switch trembling in my hand. My mother’s face softened for a moment when she saw me, but her resolve didn’t waver. She told me to bend over the back of the chair. As I turned, I heard her gasp – a sharp, involuntary sound. She hadn’t believed me when I said how bruised I was. For a fleeting moment, I thought she might let me off, that mercy might win out. But then, with a swift, practiced motion, the switch came down. Swish, swish, swish. Each stroke was a line of fire, and I screamed, the sound raw and desperate.
(pause) It was over quickly – the shortest switching I’d ever received, no more than a dozen licks. But the pain lingered, a deep ache that settled into my bones. I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing, my mother standing over me, her own eyes shining with unshed tears.
(pause) Later, as the dusk settled over the estate and the streetlights flickered on, my mother sat beside me. She told me she’d almost waited a day, thought it might be kinder to let me recover before punishing me again. But she decided that the waiting would be worse, that a whole day spent dreading what was to come would be its own kind of cruelty. So she did it then, quick and sharp, and then it was over.
(pause) That night, as I lay in bed, the pain slowly fading, I thought about everything that had happened. The rules, the punishments, the small rebellions and the heavy consequences. I wondered if things would ever change, if I would ever be free to make my own choices without fear. But for now, all I could do was close my eyes, listen to the distant sounds of laughter drifting in from the street, and hope that tomorrow would be a little kinder.
