(gap: 2s) Once upon a morning, in a modest Kent home nestled among red-brick council estates, a little boy awoke with a curious plan. The air was tinged with the scent of toast and the distant laughter of children at play, but in my heart, a mischief was brewing. I cannot say now what I wished to avoid—perhaps a dreary school day, or a tedious visit to Auntie’s—but I resolved to feign illness, as children sometimes do.
(short pause) My mother, a wise and practical woman of her time, had a steadfast rule: only a true fever, measured at 38 degrees or above, could excuse a child from his duties. She was not one to be swayed by mere complaints of tiredness or a vague ache. With gentle hands, she felt my brow, her eyes narrowing with suspicion, and sent me to my room, promising to fetch the thermometer.
(pause) I knew the ritual well. Into bed I climbed, pulling the covers up to my chin. Mother soon appeared, her arms full with the tools of her trade: a bottle of sharp-smelling alcohol, a tuft of cotton, and the glass thermometer, cool and gleaming. She checked its silvery line, ensuring it read below 36, and handed it to me with a nod. I accepted it, my heart thumping with anticipation.
(short pause) In those days, as was the custom in many European homes, temperatures were often taken in the most reliable manner—rectally. Mother, ever faithful to her medical books, believed this was the surest way. So, while my friends might have graduated to oral thermometers, I, like many French and English children, was expected to manage the task myself, beneath the safety of my bedclothes.
(pause) As Mother departed, I faced a dilemma. If my temperature was too low, my ruse would be discovered. But I had a clever idea—one I thought was entirely my own. I withdrew the thermometer, switched on my bedside lamp, and held the glass close to the warm glow, hoping to coax the mercury higher. Little did I know, this trick was as old as time, and mothers everywhere had seen it before.
(short pause) Mother usually waited three whole minutes, but on this morning, perhaps guided by motherly intuition, she returned early. The door creaked open, and there I was—caught, thermometer in hand, lamp hastily switched off, cheeks burning with guilt.
(pause) I stammered, searching for an excuse, but Mother’s eyes flashed with disappointment. She told me, in a voice that brooked no argument, to remain where I was. Off she went, her footsteps brisk and purposeful.
(short pause) When she returned, she was armed with the thermometer, a tube of Vaseline, and a square of toilet paper. She sat upon the bed, her expression grave, and instructed me to and lie across her lap. My heart fluttered with dread, for this was the very position reserved for the most serious of lessons.
(pause) When Mother took our temperatures herself, she always used Vaseline, for she was gentle and did not wish to cause pain. I obeyed, as I had done many times before, and lay across her knees, feeling the weight of my misdeed pressing upon me.
(short pause) Mother prepared the thermometer with care, and in a soft but firm voice, told me to “push.” I did as I was told, for I was used to such things—Mother still gave me medicine this way when I was ill, believing it the most effective. I lay still, the seconds stretching long, as she counted to three minutes.
(pause) At last, she withdrew the thermometer and examined it. Her voice, dry and tinged with irony, remarked how odd it was that my temperature was perfectly normal, despite my earlier complaints. She asked if I had an explanation, but I could find none. The truth was plain for all to see.
(short pause) Then came the moment of reckoning. Mother, with a heavy heart, explained that I had committed several wrongs: I had tried to deceive her, I had risked breaking the precious thermometer, and, most gravely, I had lied about my health. These were not the actions of a good and honest child.
(pause) With a gentle but resolute hand, Mother delivered a spanking—a proper, old-fashioned one, as was the way in those days. She did not use a slipper or a wooden spoon, as some mothers did, but relied on the firmness of her palm. The smacks were sharp and stung mightily, and I could not help but cry out, both from the pain and the shame of it all. My sister, sitting quietly in her room next door, later confessed she had heard every sound.
(short pause) Mother did not delight in punishment, but believed it necessary to teach right from wrong. She spoke as she spanked, her words clear and measured: “We must always tell the truth, especially about our health. Deceit brings only trouble, and a broken thermometer could bring real harm.” The lesson was as lasting as the sting in my bottom.
(pause) At last, Mother decided I had learned enough. She wiped me clean with a gentle touch, told me to dress, and carefully cleaned the thermometer before returning it to its case. She left the room, her footsteps soft, leaving me to reflect on my actions.
(short pause) In the days that followed, I remembered the lesson well. When next I was truly unwell, I feared the return of the “little ones’ way,” but Mother, satisfied that I had learned my lesson, allowed me to take my temperature as before. I never again tried to trick her, for I had learned that honesty, though sometimes difficult, is always best.
(pause) And so, remember: a mother’s love is sometimes stern, but always wise. The lessons we learn in childhood, though they may sting at the time, shape us into honest and good-hearted grown-ups. And that, as every child of the 1960s knew, is the very best lesson of all.
