The following incident unfolded on a day that seemed, at first, as unremarkable as any other in our little corner of 1970s Surrey. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and distant coal smoke, the hum of a milk float echoing down the estate’s neat, rain-darkened roads. There was no warning, no sign, no reason for what was to come. Even now, decades later, I cannot explain what possessed our Mother that afternoon, or what strange current ran through her veins.
(short pause) After school, as was my daily duty, I collected my younger brother from the infants’ waiting room—a cramped, sunlit space that always smelled faintly of chalk and boiled sweets. Infants finished fifteen minutes before juniors, so he and a couple of other small boys would sit on tiny chairs, swinging their legs, watched over by a kindly teacher with a cloud of lavender perfume. I remember the feel of my satchel strap digging into my shoulder as I led him out, his hand sticky in mine, the playground echoing with the shrieks of children and the distant clang of a bell.
(pause) My brother was my opposite in every way—where I was quiet and careful, he was a bundle of wild energy, all elbows and knees and untied laces. That day, he seemed even more excitable than usual, bouncing on the balls of his feet as we walked home, his voice rising and falling in a stream of nonsense songs. The estate was alive with the clatter of bikes and the shouts of children, the air tinged with the promise of rain.
(short pause) We reached our back door, the paint slightly chipped, and Mother greeted us with her usual brisk efficiency. She wore a patterned blouse and her favourite pearl earrings, her hair pinned up in a way that always made her look taller. The kitchen was warm, filled with the aroma of stewing tea and the faint tang of bleach. We peeled off our coats and shoes—mine neatly placed on the rack, my brother’s flung in a heap. He darted after Mother, arms flailing, shrieking with laughter as she caught him mid-flight and spun him around, calling him her “little monster.” I watched, a little envious of his easy chaos, as I hung my coat and lined up my shoes with military precision.
(pause) As she set him down, Mother’s voice softened. “Have you been a good boy at school today?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. My brother, never one to miss a chance for drama, leapt into the air, waving his arms and crowing, “I was baaaad!” His voice echoed off the tiled walls, and I saw Mother’s lips twitch with amusement.
(short pause) I busied myself at the kitchen table, unpacking my bag, the familiar clink of my lunch tin and the rustle of exercise books grounding me. Mother continued her gentle interrogation, her questions light and teasing, until she was satisfied that my brother’s naughtiness was all bluster. He grinned, cheeks flushed, and I felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment.
(pause) And then, without warning, the world shifted. Mother sat down on a dining chair beside me, her skirt rustling against the vinyl seat. She reached for my brother, pulling him gently but firmly across her lap. “This is what happens to naughty little boys who tell their mummy stories!” she declared, her voice half stern, half playful. I froze, the air suddenly thick with anticipation.
(short pause) Mother’s eyes met mine, searching, almost challenging. “Isn’t that right, Thomas?” she asked, her tone loaded with meaning. My heart hammered in my chest, my cheeks burning. I could only nod, words lost somewhere between fear and fascination.
(pause) I stood rooted to the spot, every muscle tense, as Mother raised her hand. My brother squirmed, giggling, but I was transfixed. I knew, in that moment, that Mother could see straight through me—my curiosity, my embarrassment, my secret longing to understand this ritual. Her gaze lingered on me, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
(short pause) With a gentle firmness, she began to smack the seat of my brother’s shorts. The sound was sharp but not harsh, more a series of playful pats than real punishment. My brother squealed and kicked his legs, but there was laughter in his voice. Still, I sensed an undercurrent—a warning, perhaps, or a lesson meant for both of us.
(pause) For me, the world narrowed to that moment. My legs felt weak, my face flushed, and I barely dared to breathe. I watched every movement, every flicker of Mother’s hand, the way her wedding ring caught the light. She glanced up at me more than once, her eyes bright with amusement and something else—understanding, maybe, or complicity.
(short pause) The spanking lasted less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity. When it was over, Mother set my brother on his feet and wagged her finger at him, scolding him in a mock-serious tone. He grinned, utterly unfazed, and scampered off, already forgetting the whole thing. I stood there, staring at the empty space on Mother’s lap, my mind whirling.
(pause) “Thomas!” Mother’s voice snapped me back to reality. She repeated her question, her hands resting on her knees, head tilted as if peering over invisible spectacles. “Have you been a good boy at school today?” The room seemed to shrink, the ticking of the kitchen clock suddenly deafening.
(short pause) I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my hands trembling at my sides. Did she know how I felt? Was she offering me a chance to join in the game, to share in the strange intimacy of the moment? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was the thud of my heart and the dryness in my mouth as I shook my head, barely able to meet her gaze.
(pause) “Oh, Thomas!” Mother sighed, her voice exaggeratedly mournful. She crooked her finger, beckoning me closer. “You’re a big boy, so I’m going to have to smack your bottom for much longer and much, much harder than your brother!” Her words hung in the air, half threat, half invitation.
(short pause) I stepped forward, drawn by her voice and the promise of something I didn’t fully understand. Mother guided me across her knees, her hands gentle but sure, arranging me just so. I could smell her perfume—lavender and starch—and the faint scent of soap from her hands. My heart pounded, my skin tingling with anticipation. I knew, somehow, that this was a gift, a secret shared between us.
(pause) The first smack landed, a sharp sting that sent a jolt through my body. I focused on the sensation, the warmth spreading across my skin, the sound of Mother’s hand against my shorts. She scolded me softly, her words a blur, but I clung to every detail—the pattern of the carpet, the hum of the electric fire, the way the afternoon light slanted through the net curtains.
(short pause) I didn’t want it to end. Each smack was a spark, a connection, a reassurance that I was seen and known. Mother paused, her hand resting on my back. “Promise you’ll be a good boy in school, Thomas,” she said, her voice gentle. I nodded, my voice barely a whisper.
(pause) “I should hope so,” she replied, her tone lightening. “Or I shall have to put you across my knee again, you naughty boy!” She finished with a flurry of smacks, a little harder but still playful, leaving a warm, tingling glow that lingered long after I stood up.
(short pause) Dizzy and elated, I stumbled to my feet. Mother smiled at me, her eyes soft, and touched my cheek with the hand that had just smacked me. For a moment, we shared a look—a silent understanding, a memory forged in the quiet of our council house. “Go wash up and change for tea, now!” she said, dismissing me with a final, affectionate pat.
(pause) I drifted to my room, the world suddenly brighter, every sound and smell sharper than before. I’d been spanked—and it was wonderful. The warmth lingered, a secret comfort, as I changed out of my school clothes and splashed cold water on my face.
(short pause) At tea, Mother caught my eye more than once, her lips twitching with suppressed laughter. I blushed, staring at my plate, certain she could read every thought in my head. For days, weeks even, I replayed the scene in my mind, hoping for a repeat, but Mother never mentioned it again. I was too shy to ask, too proud to misbehave on purpose.
(pause) That was the end of it. I was never naughty enough to be smacked for real, though in my early teens Mother would sometimes threaten us with a playful wag of her finger, her voice full of mock severity. By then, we were too old, and she knew it. The ritual belonged to childhood, to the secret world of council houses and rainy afternoons, to the strange, sweet ache of growing up in 1970s Surrey.
(long pause) Even now, when I walk those quiet estate roads, past the lamp posts and the dandelions, I remember that day—the warmth of Mother’s hand, the laughter in her eyes, the way the world seemed to pause, just for a moment, in the golden light of a Sunday afternoon.
