(gap: 2s) At the very end of our quiet little lane in Knaresborough, where my brother and I spent our happiest days, there stood a great, empty textile mill. Its tall, crumbling walls and broken windows loomed over the cobbled street like a silent giant from another age. All the children in the neighbourhood found it a most thrilling place to play, even though we were told very firmly—by mothers, fathers, and even the vicar—never to go near it. Of course, being children, this made it all the more mysterious and tempting. There were no windows left to break, for many years of children had already broken them all, and the echo of laughter seemed to linger in the dusty air.
One golden afternoon, when the sun shone so brightly that the shadows looked like pools of ink, my brother and I crept into the old mill, our hearts beating with excitement. We gently kicked a worn football to one another, the sound of our shoes on the stone floor echoing through the empty halls. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and dust, and shafts of sunlight danced through the empty window frames, making patterns on the floor. Suddenly, we heard the voices of some older boys coming from the far side of the building. My brother’s eyes grew wide with worry, and I felt a flutter in my tummy. We tiptoed away, holding our breath, and found ourselves in a large, open shed we had not visited for a long time. It felt like a real adventure, as if we were explorers discovering a secret land.
As we crept along, something heavy fell to the ground with a tremendous crash. The older boys cheered and shouted, their voices bouncing off the walls. My brother and I froze, our hearts thumping. We knew at once that the caretaker would soon come to see what had happened, so we decided it was best to leave at once, slipping quietly towards the exit like two little mice.
But as we turned a corner, we came face to face with the caretaker himself—a stern old man in a flat cap, with bushy eyebrows and a voice like thunder. Usually, if he found children in the mill, he would simply tell them to go away, wagging his finger and muttering about “young scallywags.” But this time, he was quite certain that we had caused the noise. We tried to explain, our voices trembling, that we had not done anything wrong, but he would not listen. He took us firmly by the arm, his grip strong and unyielding, and led us to the gatehouse. He told my brother that he knew exactly who he was, so there was no point in running away. I remember thinking, “But we are innocent! Surely, if we tell the truth, everything will be all right.” Yet, deep down, I felt a cold knot of fear.
Another caretaker joined him, and together they put us into an old, rattling van and drove us home. The van smelled of oil and old coats, and I sat very still, staring at my shoes. The caretaker told our mother that we had damaged the mill, and that it was a dangerous place for children. He said that if we returned, he would call the police. I felt a lump in my throat, for I had never been in such trouble before.
Once inside, Mother looked very cross indeed. Her lips were pressed together, and her eyes flashed with disappointment. We tried to explain again that we were innocent, but she did not listen. She looked at my brother and said, “Shall I deal with this, or shall we wait for your father?” I was not quite sure what she meant, for we had already been scolded, and the house felt very quiet and serious.
I looked at my brother, who insisted once more, his voice small and sad, that we had done nothing wrong. Mother waited, her arms folded, and at last my brother, looking very downcast, replied, “You, Mother.” He was sent straight to his room, his shoulders drooping as he climbed the stairs.
When he had gone, I told Mother again, my voice trembling, that we had not done anything. She did not believe me. She asked me the same question: “Shall I deal with this now, or would you rather wait for your father’s belt?” I had never been threatened with the belt before. I had sometimes been smacked on the backs of my legs, and once with a slipper, but the thought of the belt was very frightening indeed. My mind raced with worry—what if Father was even crosser than Mother?
“What are you going to do?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper. Mother repeated her question, her face very serious. “Me or your father—what shall it be?” “You, Mother,” I answered, hoping it would not be too dreadful, and wishing with all my heart that I could turn back time and make everything right again.
(short pause) “In there!” Mother pointed to the dining room. The room was small and rather cold, with faded wallpaper and a heavy oak sideboard that seemed to watch over everything. The smell of Sunday roast still lingered in the air, mixed with the faint scent of lavender polish. She closed the door behind us, and the latch clicked with a sound that made my heart jump. Mother pulled out a hard-backed chair from the table, its legs scraping on the floor like a warning. She sat down, her face very grave, and beckoned me over. My heart beat quickly as I walked towards her, my legs feeling wobbly and weak.
Mother took hold of my arm and gently but firmly pulled me over her knee. My face pressed against her skirt, which smelled faintly of soap and starch, and the room seemed very quiet except for the ticking of the clock and the distant sound of children playing outside. I could hear my own breathing, quick and shallow. Mother held my arm tightly, Then, she began to spank me. The first smack landed with a sharp sound, and I gasped. The sting was quick and strong, like the bite of a nettle. Mother did not stop—her hand rose and fell again and again, each smack firm and clear. “You know better than this! I have told you many times!” she said, her voice both sad and stern. She gave me twelve hard smacks, each one making my bottom sting more and more. Tears ran down my cheeks, and I cried into her skirt, feeling both the pain and the shame. I thought, “Why does she not believe me? I am telling the truth!” When she finished, my bottom was very sore, and I was sobbing, my face hot with tears.
I slid to the floor, crying and holding my sore bottom. Mother put the chair back, then took me by the arm and led me upstairsI tried to rub away the sting as I walked, sniffling and wishing I could disappear.
That slow walk to my room, with my bottom burning and my heart heavy, is a memory I shall never forget. I had been thoroughly spanked, even though I was innocent. I wondered if Mother would ever believe me, and I felt very small and alone.
Once in my room, Mother gave me six more smacks, just as hard as before, and then sent me to bed. “No tea for you,” she said as she closed the door. I lay on my bed, crying quietly for a long time, the pillow damp beneath my cheek. I thought about all the times I had been naughty before, and wondered if perhaps this was my punishment for those times, too.
Not long after, I heard my brother being punished in Mother and Father’s bedroom. He cried and begged for mercy, but Mother was very firm. She used her hairbrush, and I could hear the sharp smacks and my brother’s sobbing. She gave him twenty smacks with the hairbrush, each one loud and clear, and I covered my ears with my pillow, wishing it would all stop.
The next day, my brother showed me the marks on his bottom. It was still very red, and there were bruises where the hairbrush had landed. You could even see the shape of the hairbrush in some places, like a strange pattern. He winced as he sat down, and we both agreed that we would never, ever go near the mill again.
I learned later that it was my brother’s second time being caught at the mill, even though he was innocent this time. Mother’s rule was clear: a first offence meant a sound spanking, a second meant the hairbrush, and a third would mean Father’s belt. I never found out what that was like, and I was very glad. The thought of Father’s belt made me shiver, and I resolved to be as good as gold from then on.
For many years after those two sound spankings, I kept telling Mother that we were innocent. She always replied, “Well, you had probably done something else to deserve it, so we shall call it even!” I would pout and protest, but deep down, I knew she was probably right.
She was right, of course—I had. But I kept very quiet about that! And so, dear children, remember always to obey your parents and stay away from forbidden places, for a sound spanking is a lesson not soon forgotten. And sometimes, even when you are quite sure you are innocent, it is best to tell the truth, accept your punishment bravely, and try your very best to be good. (long pause)
