(gap: 2s) My brother Peter, who is but a year older than I, recently reminded me—rather triumphantly—of the notorious day when both of us received a most thorough chastisement from our mother, Margaret. Not that I needed any reminder; that day is engraved upon my memory as if it were yesterday, the details as clear as the sunlight that streamed through our living room windows.
We both remain on excellent terms with Mother—she was, and still is, a splendid mother, the sort who could summon a smile with a single glance, yet whose word was absolute in our household. What transpired that day was not a matter of true wickedness, but rather a perfect storm of circumstance, mischief, and the inexhaustible energy of two boys. In fact, we consider ourselves fortunate that it was the only occasion in our entire childhood when we found ourselves on the receiving end of such discipline.
Our parents were in the midst of house-hunting, a process that seemed to occupy every waking moment. On this particular day, Father—John—was absent, likely at work or perhaps seeking respite from the ordeal of property viewings. With no one to leave us with, Mother had no choice but to bring Peter and me along to view three houses in a single afternoon. Before we even set foot outside, she fixed us with a look that permitted no argument. “I expect you both to be on your very best behaviour,” she said, her voice crisp and precise. “No running, no shouting, and absolutely no rough play. Do you understand?” We nodded solemnly, though I suspect even then Peter’s eyes were already alight with mischief.
The first house was exceedingly dull—a mausoleum of beige carpets and heavy drapes, the air thick with the scent of mothballs. We trudged from room to room, our footsteps muffled, and, as boys will, began to nudge and poke each other, mischief simmering just beneath the surface. Peter, ever the instigator, whispered, “I wager you cannot touch that vase without being caught.” I, never one to refuse a challenge, accepted, and so began a silent contest of dares and double-dares, all under Mother’s vigilant gaze.
At the next house, the warning was even sterner. “If I must speak to you again, there will be consequences,” Mother murmured, her lips barely moving as she smiled at the estate agent. Yet again, the house was as dull as dishwater. The rooms were all the same, and our patience wore thin. We continued our antics, attempting to trip each other and giving the occasional shoulder nudge, stifling giggles as we passed through the endless parade of identical bedrooms.
The third house, however, was a revelation. It boasted a magnificent garden, with a grand old tree in the centre of a flower bed, its branches stretching out like the arms of a benevolent giant. Peter and I exchanged a glance, and in an instant, we were off—dashing round and round the tree, our shoes kicking up clods of earth, occasionally slipping and collapsing in fits of laughter. The garden was our kingdom, and for a few glorious minutes, we were knights, pirates, and explorers all at once. We did not believe we were doing anything wrong—merely two lively boys releasing pent-up energy after an afternoon of enforced good behaviour.
Meanwhile, Mother was deep in conversation with the estate agent and the current owner, her voice floating across the lawn as we darted about the tree. In retrospect, it must have been rather vexing, but we were not being deliberately naughty—simply brimming with energy. On the way back to the car, we trailed muddy footprints through the house, oblivious to the horrified looks of the owner and the estate agent. Mother’s face was a mask of polite apology, but her eyes flashed with a warning that even we could not ignore.
Once in the car, Mother drove us home in stony silence. The engine’s hum was the only sound, save for the occasional sniffle from Peter. I believe he attempted to ask her something—“Mother, may we have ice cream when we return home?”—but she did not reply. We did not comprehend the gravity of this silence, and continued to prod each other and giggle, convinced that the worst was over. In hindsight, Mother must have been absolutely furious, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Upon arriving home, Mother closed the front door with a force that rattled the plates on the wall, removed her coat, and seized me firmly by the arm. “Upstairs to your room! Shut the door and remain there! Do not come out or open the door until I fetch you. Now, off you go!” Her voice was sharp, but not raised—if anything, the quietness made it all the more alarming. She propelled me towards the staircase, her grip unyielding.
Grabbing Peter by the collar and instructing me to hurry, she herded us both upstairs, pushing Peter ahead. I dashed to my bedroom door, and Mother commanded, “Inside—and remain there!” Her tone permitted no argument, and for once, neither of us dared protest.
She then bundled Peter into the spare room, which was cluttered with odds and ends—an ironing board, the Hoover, a small desk with Susan’s old typewriter, and so forth. The door closed behind them. I caught a stern “NOW!” from within. Mother emerged, spotted me peeking out, and pointed sharply. “Inside, and shut that door! Learn to do as you are told!” I obeyed at once, my heart pounding in my chest. Mother then disappeared into her own room—I never saw what happened next, but I could imagine her steeling herself for what was to come.
I stood behind my door, ears straining for any sound. There was some shuffling, a few muffled words—Peter’s voice, high and anxious, “Mother, please, we did not mean—” and then a door closed. Silence, then the unmistakable sound of a spanking commenced: the sharp, rhythmic smacks, punctuated by Peter’s yelps.
Neither Peter nor I had ever been spanked before. This was uncharted territory—and rather alarming. I was certain I would be next, and the prospect did not appeal. I pressed my ear to the door, my palms clammy, my mind racing with every possible excuse I could muster.
Soon enough, I heard Peter’s cries of distress as his backside was made to smart. His voice grew higher and more peculiar, until he was wailing outright. This was my elder brother, who had not shed a tear even when he split his knee open at the seaside! Now he was pleading and sobbing, “Sorry! Please, Mother, I shall be good! I promise!” But Mother was unmoved, her resolve unwavering.
Suddenly, it ceased. I listened for the door and Mother’s footsteps, bracing myself for my turn. But then the spanking resumed, and Peter’s protests reached a new pitch—he was howling at the top of his lungs, his words dissolving into incoherent sobs. I imagined him wriggling and kicking, but Mother was not to be deterred.
I was trembling with fear. What on earth was Mother doing to him? After what felt like an eternity, the door opened and Peter’s incoherent wailing filled the landing. Mother ordered him into his room (“and remain there!”) and his door closed. I shrank back from my own door, wide-eyed, as Mother approached, her footsteps measured and deliberate.
My door swung open. Mother said nothing—she simply took my arm and marched me to the spare room. I was already sniffling, asking, “What did we do? What did we do?” The door closed behind us with a finality that made my stomach drop.
The spare room was dim, the late afternoon sun slanting through the curtains and casting long shadows across the clutter. Mother’s face was set, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes glistened with a mixture of exhaustion and resolve. She declared, her voice low and controlled, “You had ample warning—you brought this upon yourselves. You will not embarrass me in public again.” Her eyes were bright, but not unkind; I could see the strain in her face, the weight of the day pressing down on her.
She sat on a straight-backed chair, the kind with a floral cushion, and pulled me across her lap. The sensation was mortifying—my legs dangling, my face pressed against the scratchy fabric of her skirt. She adjusted me so my bottom was in prime position, her left arm pinning my waist with surprising strength. I could smell the faint scent of lavender from her dress, mingled with the sharper tang of furniture polish and the dust of the spare room. Then, without further warning, her hand came down with a sharp, echoing smack.
The first blow stung so fiercely I gasped, my whole body jolting. The sound was crisp, almost ceremonial, and the pain bloomed instantly, hot and bright. Mother’s hand was unyielding, each smack delivered with a measured, deliberate rhythm. I squirmed and kicked, but her grip was ironclad. The room seemed to shrink, the only reality the relentless sting and the sound of my own voice—pleading, promising, sobbing. “Please, Mother! I am sorry! I shall be good!” I wailed, but the smacks kept coming, each one a lesson in obedience, each one burning hotter than the last.
My resistance crumbled quickly. I felt my face flush, tears streaming down my cheeks, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain was sharp, but it was the humiliation that truly overwhelmed me—being so utterly helpless, so completely at Mother’s mercy. I could hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, the distant sound of Peter’s muffled sobs through the plaster, and the steady, unyielding rhythm of Mother’s hand. The world narrowed to the ache in my backside and the blur of my tears.
At last, Mother paused. She held me firmly by both wrists, preventing me from rubbing my sore behind. I was limp, my body wracked with sobs, my vision swimming. “Look at me!” she commanded, her voice firm but not unkind. I forced myself to meet her gaze, blinking through the tears. Her eyes were stern, but there was a flicker of sadness there, a glimmer of regret.
She gripped my wrists in one hand, and with the other, she reached for her hairbrush—a heavy, old-fashioned thing with a polished wooden back that gleamed ominously in the slanting light. She held it up before my eyes, letting me see the seriousness of her intent. My heart thudded in my chest, my breath catching in my throat.
“If I ever have to bring you in here again, you shall receive this for ten minutes, without a break! Not my hand—just this! Now, I am going to give you a taste—half a minute with the brush. That is nine and a half minutes less than you will receive if there is a next time!” Her words rang in my ears, each syllable a promise of future discipline should I ever transgress again.
With my bottom already aflame, I could scarcely imagine anything worse. But Mother was true to her word. She pulled me back over her knee, pinned my wrist, and brought the brush down with a crack that seemed to echo off the walls. The pain was immediate and searing, a deep, throbbing ache that eclipsed the sting of her hand. Each smack landed with a force that made me cry out, my voice rising in pitch until I was nearly screaming. The brush was relentless, the blows coming in quick succession, each one a fiery brand. I kicked and wriggled, but Mother’s grip was unyielding, her resolve absolute. The half minute felt like an eternity, the pain building with each stroke until I thought I might faint. The last few smacks were accompanied by her warning: “Do not forget—ten minutes, without pause, if there is ever a next time!” Those final blows were so fierce I thought I should never sit comfortably again. On the pain scale, it was an eleven!
At last, Mother released my wrist. I was so spent I could not lift myself from her knee—I simply hung there, sobbing, my body limp and trembling. The room seemed to close in around me, the air thick with the scent of lavender polish and the faint tang of fear. My bottom throbbed with a heat that radiated down my legs, my whole world reduced to pain and shame.
A final, hard smack from her hand spurred me to my feet. She lifted me up
