(gap: 2s) In our house in Belfast, back in the early 1970s, a good hiding was as common as a mug of strong tea, and the air was always thick with the scent of boiled cabbage and the distant echo of children’s laughter bouncing off the red-brick walls. My mother, a devout Catholic with a heart as fierce as her faith, was the one who always did the honours. She never missed Sunday Mass, not even when the rain battered the windows or the wind howled down the alleyways. The rosary beads hung beside the thick black leather belt—well-worn from years of use—on a hook in the chilly hallway, right next to the umbrella stand and the battered wellies. That belt was reserved for me and my older brother, and we knew it as well as we knew the sound of the Angelus bell.
The house itself was a patchwork of bold-patterned wallpaper, the kind that made your eyes water if you stared too long, and the furniture was simple but sturdy, every cushion and chair bearing the marks of a family that lived life with gusto. The kitchen always smelled of stewed tea and fresh soda bread, and the Sacred Heart picture watched over us from its place above the mantel, its eyes seeming to follow our every move.
When we were for it, Mother would send us to the scullery, that cold little room at the back of the house where the lino curled at the edges and the tap dripped a steady rhythm. We’d have to stand with our hands flat on the cupboard doors, feet apart, and our backsides sticking out, just so. It was a position that left us off-balance, unable to shield ourselves, and feeling very small indeed—like sinners awaiting judgment.
The wait was always the worst part. We’d stand there, hearts thumping like the Lambeg drum on parade day, the cold seeping through our socks, while Mother fetched the belt from the hall. I always thought she made us wait to let the lesson sink in, and perhaps to remind us that mischief had its price. Sometimes, I’d hear her muttering a prayer under her breath, her lips moving silently as she asked for strength to do what was right in the eyes of God and the Church.
I remember clear as day watching my brother get his turn. Mother was a big woman, strong from years of scrubbing floors, carrying shopping up the Falls Road, and kneeling in church pews until her knees were raw. Her hands were rough, but her grip was steady, and she swung that belt with a force that made the air whistle. By the third stroke, my brother was bawling, tears streaming down his cheeks, his face red as a beetroot.
He’d wriggle and twist, trying to dodge the next lash, but there was no escape. The sound of leather on cloth echoed through the house, and I’d squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear. That day, he got at least six or seven good wallops, and the lesson was not soon forgotten. Afterwards, he’d sit at the tea table, shifting uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair, his plate of fish fingers and chips growing cold as he sniffled into his sleeve.
The worst hiding I ever got was when I was fourteen, on a day when the sky hung low and grey over the estate, and the drizzle made the pavements shine. I’d started seeing a boy called Gerry, a lanky lad with a mop of dark hair and a smile that made my heart flutter. We’d taken to sneaking into the back of my da’s old Ford Cortina, parked in the yard, for a bit of innocent courting—just holding hands and whispering secrets, nothing more.
One damp afternoon, with the smell of rain in the air and the sound of the neighbours’ telly drifting through the open window, I pinched the spare key from the nail in the kitchen and led Gerry to the car. We were barely settled in the back seat, giggling and sharing a stolen moment, when the car door flew open with a bang that made us both jump. There stood Mother, her face thunderous, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and disappointment.
She gave poor Gerry a clout across the backside that sent him scrambling, and roared at him in a voice that could be heard halfway down the street. “Get out of here, you wee scamp! And don’t let me catch you near my daughter again!” Gerry bolted out the side gate, her warnings about telling his mammy and daddy ringing in his ears, his cheeks as red as the poppies in the churchyard.
I sat frozen, cheeks burning, as Mother glared at me, her hands planted firmly on her hips. The silence between us was thick as porridge, broken only by the distant sound of a dog barking and the steady drip of rain from the gutter.
I’d never seen her so furious. She hauled me out of the car, her grip like iron, and marched me straight to the kitchen, her footsteps echoing on the worn linoleum. The Sacred Heart picture seemed to glow brighter, as if bearing witness to my shame.
There, I was told to bend over, gripping the edge of the worktop, my heart hammering in my chest. I could see the Sacred Heart picture on the wall, watching over the whole scene, and I felt the weight of every saint and angel in heaven pressing down on me. The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and carbolic soap, and I was certain the neighbours could hear every word through the thin walls.
I felt utterly ashamed, knowing the neighbours could probably hear every word—and that Mother would be mortified if word got back to the priest. The thought of Father O’Malley hearing of my disgrace made my stomach twist with dread.
Mother took her time fetching the belt, her footsteps slow and deliberate. When she returned, she gave me a stern talking-to about decency, the dangers of “carrying on” with boys, and the importance of keeping to the straight and narrow. “What would the neighbours say? What would Father O’Malley think if he heard of this? What if you ended up in trouble?” she demanded, her voice trembling with emotion. I had no answer, only tears streaming down my face, hot and bitter.
Then came the punishment—nine hard strokes, each one stinging worse than the last. The sound of leather on cloth, the sharp intake of breath, the burning in my skin—all of it is etched in my memory. I howled, but Mother did not relent until the lesson was well and truly learned. She said it was her duty, as a Catholic mother, to keep me on the right path, and that she would answer to God for my soul.
Afterwards, I was sent to my room for the rest of the day, the walls closing in around me as I lay face down on my bed, the Bay City Rollers staring down from their poster, silent witnesses to my misery. Mother rang Gerry’s house, her voice clipped and cold, and he got a hiding from his own da. We were forbidden from seeing each other again, and I was threatened that if I was to ever repeat such ungodly behaviour, I would be sent to a Mary Magdalene home—a fate whispered about in hushed tones by the women of the parish.
From that day, Mother watched me like a hawk, her eyes missing nothing, her faith and discipline woven into every moment of our lives. I learned that in Belfast, a moment’s folly could bring a world of trouble—but also, perhaps, a lesson meant to last a lifetime. In our house, where the rosary beads clicked and the belt hung heavy, faith and discipline went hand in hand, and every hiding was a lesson in love, as fierce and unyielding as the city itself.
