One Must Never Steal, and Certainly Never Smoke

In the gentle Sussex village of Chailey, where the hedgerows were thick with blackberries and the air was sweet with the scent of hay, lived my Aunt Gracie. She was my Father’s elder sister by a good dozen years, and I adored her and her three boys—Joseph, Patty, and Johnny. Johnny, being just a year my senior, was my closest companion, and together we roamed the meadows and lanes as if we were brothers born.

Many a weekend I spent at Rose Cottage, sharing Johnny’s bed beneath a patchwork quilt, the two of us whispering secrets long after the church clock had struck ten. Aunt Gracie treated me as one of her own, bathing us together in the deep enamel tub and fussing over us with the same loving care. Sometimes, she would notice my bottom was rather red, and with a knowing look, she’d ask if I’d been a naughty boy and who had seen to my discipline. It was mortifying to confess, but Aunt Gracie was a firm believer in the old ways. More than once, she told Father he ought to take a firmer hand himself, and not leave all the discipline to Mother.

One golden Saturday, Johnny and I, in a fit of mischief, pinched a packet of Aunt Gracie’s Woodbine cigarettes and crept off to the copse behind the cricket pitch. We puffed away, coughing and spluttering, until our stomachs turned and we dashed home, green about the gills.

Patty, ever the watchful middle brother, heard our retching and fetched Aunt Gracie at once. She found us pale and clammy, and demanded to know what had brought on our sorry state. With heads bowed, we confessed our crime. Aunt Gracie’s eyes widened in shock, but she wasted no time in tending to us.

She dosed us with a spoonful of chalky medicine from the brown bottle in the pantry, and soon our tummies settled. Then, with brisk efficiency, she stripped us down and popped us in the bath, scrubbing away the smell of smoke and shame.

Once we were clean and dry, Aunt Gracie sent us to her own room, where we perched nervously on her eiderdown, knowing full well what was to come. The air was thick with anticipation, and we tried to look as small and innocent as possible.

Presently, Aunt Gracie entered, a large wooden spoon in hand. Johnny’s eyes grew wide as saucers. She sat herself on the little bench at the foot of the bed and fixed us with a stern gaze.

“Now then, which of you thought it clever to take my cigarettes?” she asked. Quick as a flash, Johnny blurted, “It was Eddie’s idea, Mother!” I was aghast, for it had been a joint adventure, but Johnny, used to the rough-and-tumble of older brothers, knew how to shift the blame.

Aunt Gracie beckoned Johnny over first. He shuffled forward, and she laid him across her lap, raising the wooden spoon. The sound of the first smack echoed in the little room, and Johnny yelped. He was the youngest, and not much used to such treatment, so the tears came quickly.

When she was done, Johnny’s bottom was as red as a poppy, and he sniffled as he returned to the bed. Then it was my turn. Aunt Gracie pulled me over her lap and showed me the spoon, her eyes twinkling with a mixture of sternness and affection.

The spoon stung, but not as much as Mother’s or Father’s hand. I gritted my teeth and tried not to cry, glancing at Johnny, who now watched with a certain satisfaction. Aunt Gracie, seeing my stoicism, put down the spoon and finished the job with her hand, until I, too, was squirming and sniffling.

At last, she let me up and sat us side by side, delivering a proper lecture. “Let this be a lesson, boys. If you ever do such a thing again, you’ll not sit comfortably for a month of Sundays!” she declared, her voice ringing with authority.

Dismissed, we slunk out of her room and nearly collided with Patty in the hallway. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of our crimson behinds, and let out a low whistle. “Red Butt Boys!” he teased, a nickname that stuck for years to come.

Despite the sting and the shame, the whole escapade only drew us closer. That afternoon, we put on our pyjamas and climbed into bed, even though the sun was still high. Later, Aunt Gracie called us down for a hearty supper and let us watch a bit of telly before bed.

I thought the matter settled, but fate had other plans. When Father came to fetch me home, Aunt Gracie recounted the tale. Father, ever fair, declared the punishment sufficient, but Mother was of a different mind.

The next day, as I soaked in my own bath at home, Mother entered, her face grave. “Eddie, Aunt Gracie told me all about the cigarettes. I shall have to spank you when you’re done.” I protested, tears welling up, but Mother was resolute.

After my bath, I dried myself and went to her room, heart pounding. Mother sat on her grand bed, and without a word, pulled me over her lap. She spanked me soundly, using the lower part of her hand, just as she’d once boasted to her friend on the telephone.

When she finished, she turned me to face her. “Eddie, I spoke to Aunt Gracie. She did not spank you enough. You were a very naughty boy. Do you understand?” “Yes, Mummy,” I sobbed.

“And do not tell your Father, or you’ll be spanked again,” she warned, sending me off to my room to reflect on my misdeeds.

Alone, I pondered the unfairness of it all—spanked twice for the same crime! But as I lay there, I realised the lesson was clear: one must never steal, and certainly never smoke, no matter how tempting the adventure.

That evening, at supper, Father noticed my discomfort and asked if anything was amiss. “No, nothing!” I replied hastily. He looked puzzled, but said no more. Perhaps he guessed the truth.

Nor was this the last time I found myself over a knee. Once, Mother spanked me in front of my little brother for hitting him, and he watched with glee. The worst, though, was at Grandmother’s, with her fearsome clothes brush—a punishment I richly deserved.

Looking back, I cannot fathom why I was such a rascal, though I was spanked at least once a month for seven years. Only the most memorable spankings remain vivid, especially when Mother insisted I open my legs for a particularly thorough lesson.

On another occasion, Mother spanked me so hard I could not sit, and when I refused to do so, she spanked me again. After that, I forced myself to sit, even though it felt as if I were perched on a bonfire.

Such were the ways of childhood in Chailey, where lessons were learned the hard way, and love was as firm as it was kind. And though my bottom often smarted, my heart was always full, for I knew I was cherished, and that every lesson, however painful, was given with love.