Once, in the gentle days of my childhood, our little family—Mother, Father, my younger brother, and I—came to dwell in a modest council house upon a bustling Surrey estate. The houses, with their pebble-dashed walls and cracked windows, stood in neat rows, and the air was often filled with the laughter of children at play, their jumpers patched and their shoes well-worn, yet their spirits undimmed.
My brother’s room was the first to be made cheerful. Mother, ever thoughtful, chose wallpaper adorned with bright red trains, and curtains to match. A new carpet, though a trifle short, was laid, and the bedspread, too, was a parade of trains. I watched with eager anticipation, for my own room was to have racing cars, and I longed for the day when my bed would be dressed in bright red, even if the rest of the room remained chilly and bare.
At last, the weekend arrived, bringing with it the promise of transformation. Father and I set to work, peeling away the old wallpaper, the paste cool and sticky on my fingers. Father, patient and kind, showed me how to do it properly, and entrusted me with a whole wall. I felt very grown up indeed. My brother, meant to help, soon tired of the task and wandered off, his mind already turning to mischief.
The radio crackled softly as Father and I worked. He had just said, “You’re doing splendidly, old girl,” when Mother’s voice rang out, sharp and clear, from down the hall. “What have you done?!”
We hurried to see what was amiss. There stood Mother, her face grave, and my brother, clutching a paintbrush and a tin of paint. Somehow, he had managed to open the tin and had splashed paint everywhere—on the new carpet, the bedspread, and even himself. The paint was on the walls, the floor, and in his hair. How he had managed such a feat was a mystery.
Father sighed, “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” but Mother, her lips pressed together, instructed him to clean up while she dealt with my brother. “You, back to your room and gather the wallpaper scraps,” she said to me, her voice firm but not unkind. I obeyed at once, my heart fluttering, as Mother led my brother away to be cleaned.
From my room, I could see Mother and my brother as I knelt, picking up scraps of wallpaper. My brother’s face was red and anxious, his eyes wide with worry.
Mother spoke little, but what followed is etched in my memory. She led my brother into her bedroom, the door left open, and took up one of her old slippers from the sideboard. “You have been a very naughty boy,” she said, her voice trembling with disappointment. She sat upon the bed, drew him across her lap, and prepared to teach him a lesson he would not soon forget.
“Please, Mother, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” my brother pleaded, but Mother was resolute. She raised the slipper and brought it down with a firm smack. My brother cried out, startled by the sting. I watched, frozen, for never before had either of us been punished so.
Mother’s face was set, her jaw firm, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You must learn to respect the property of others,” she said, her voice steady. My brother kicked and wriggled, but Mother’s arm was strong, and the slipper fell again and again, each smack echoing through the little house.
Soon, my brother’s tears flowed freely, his cries filling the room. After a time, he ceased to struggle, lying limp across Mother’s lap, his sobs growing softer. “Please, Mother, I’ll be good! I promise!” he wept, but Mother continued, determined that the lesson would be learned.
Though my brother had been mischievous, I began to feel sorry for him. Mother, usually so gentle, was unyielding, her sense of duty outweighing her tenderness. The slipper rose and fell, rose and fell, until my brother’s cries grew hoarse and his little body trembled with exhaustion.
At last, Mother set aside the slipper, her hand trembling. She helped my brother to his feet, his face wet with tears, and led him to his room. He could scarcely walk, and his sobs echoed down the landing. I caught a glimpse of his poor backside—red and sore, a testament to the seriousness of his mischief.
“Look what you have done!” Mother said, turning my brother to face the mess. “This is what happens to naughty children who do not listen.” She bent and gave him several sharp smacks on the backs of his thighs, and my brother howled anew, his voice broken and weary. “You must not touch things that are not yours! Do you understand?” she said, her voice ringing with authority.
With one final, firm slap, Mother sent my brother to her room. “Stay there! Do not move, do not touch anything, and do not come out or speak to me! No tea for you tonight, and straight to bed when I have finished here.” I kept my head down, gathering wallpaper scraps, my hands trembling.
Father returned a little later, his face drawn. He thanked me quietly for my help, and together we carried the bags to the car, the silence between us heavy and thoughtful.
But Mother’s sense of duty was not yet satisfied. After tidying the mess and making up a clean bed, she fetched my brother from her room. She sat upon his bed and, with a heavy heart, gave him another spanking, this time with her hand. He lay across her knee, his top half on the bed, her other leg pinning him gently but firmly.
“You must learn, once and for all, that actions have consequences,” she said, her voice gentle but unwavering. She held his arm behind his back and administered the spanking, her hand falling with measured firmness. My brother sobbed and begged, “Please, Mother, I’ll never do it again!” but Mother, though surely pained, did not relent until she was certain the lesson was learned.
The door was open, and I could see all. If Mother knew I was watching, she gave no sign. Perhaps she wished the lesson to be shared. It was, for I was filled with awe and fear. When she finished, I hurried back to my room, shaken and quiet, my heart beating fast.
I heard Mother say, “Now, go to bed and stay there! Do not come out until morning—unless you wish for another hiding!” Her voice was stern, but there was a tremor in it, as though she, too, was troubled by what had passed.
I continued my task, scraping wallpaper, my mind whirling. I had never imagined a spanking could be so severe. My brother’s sobs lingered as Father and I went downstairs for tea. The house was quieter than usual, the air heavy with the weight of the day’s events.
On the estate, it was often said that after a proper hiding, a child would not be able to sit down. For my brother, this was true. The next morning, he stood to eat his breakfast and spent much of the day lying face down on his bed, silent and subdued. His eyes were swollen, and he flinched whenever Mother drew near.
I resolved never to cross Mother. It was the only time she ever gave such a hiding, as far as I know, and I was determined never to earn one myself. The lesson was clear: mischief may seem tempting, but the consequences are real and lasting.
I always thought Mother’s actions that day were out of character. She was usually loving and merry, quick to smile and slow to anger. But that day, she was resolute, and it frightened me. No one in the family ever spoke of it again, as if by silent agreement.
The memory of my brother’s punishment left a mark upon me. I was wary of Mother for years, tiptoeing about, always careful to obey. If she meant to make an example of him, she succeeded.
Witnessing a real hiding was a sobering experience. I can still hear my brother’s cries, the sound of the slipper, the sight of his little red bottom as he was led away. It is a memory that has never faded.
Many things from that day remain with me—Mother’s determined face, her unwavering hand, and the shock that, after such a stern slippering, she could still find it in her to spank him again. She wished, I think, to ensure the lesson would last a lifetime.
I have often wondered how a gentle, loving mother could deliver such a punishment. Perhaps she was frightened, or perhaps she believed it was the only way to teach us right from wrong. In those days, a hiding was seen as a lesson, a means to guide children onto the proper path. Yet the memory endures, a gentle reminder that even the kindest hearts may be steely when it comes to teaching what is right.
And so, dear reader, let us remember: mischief may bring a moment’s delight, but obedience and respect bring peace to the home and happiness to the heart.
