The summer that Grandmother came to reside with us was a season that seemed to stretch on endlessly, thick with the scent of freshly mown grass and the distant drone of cicadas. She arrived in a flurry of pressed linen and the faintest trace of lavender, her suitcase thumping onto the hallway floor with a finality that made my heart leap. Even the air in the house felt altered—charged, expectant, as though the very walls were bracing themselves for her formidable presence. Grandmother possessed a remarkable ability to command a room without uttering a single word. Her posture was as straight as a ruler, her gaze sharp and unwavering. When she entered, conversations faltered, laughter faded, and even the family dog slunk quietly to his bed. My mother seemed to shrink a little, her usual easy smile replaced by a nervous flutter at the corners of her mouth. I remember watching her smooth invisible wrinkles from her skirt, glancing anxiously at Grandmother as if seeking silent approval.
One sweltering afternoon, the sort where the air clings to your skin and the world feels slow and sticky, Tommy and I pleaded for a trip to the shopping centre. “Just an hour, Mother, please?” I begged, already picturing the cool blast of air conditioning and the rainbow swirl of ice cream cones. She relented, but her warning was clear: “Back before dinner. No exceptions.” We promised, fingers crossed behind our backs, and dashed out the door. The shopping centre was a wonderland—arcade lights blinking, the sweet tang of waffle cones in the air, the echo of laughter bouncing off the tiled floors. Time slipped away from us, lost in the hypnotic rhythm of video games and the slow melt of ice cream on our tongues. It was not until the sky outside the glass doors blushed pink with sunset that we realised how late it had become. My stomach twisted with dread as we hurried home, the weight of our broken promise growing heavier with every step.
The house was eerily quiet when we crept inside, shoes scuffing the doormat. Mother stood in the family room, arms folded so tightly her knuckles were white, lips pressed into a line so thin it nearly disappeared. The overhead light cast harsh shadows, making her look older, sterner. “You two are late,” she said, her voice trembling—not only with anger, but with worry, disappointment, and something else I could not name. “You know the rules.” Her words hung in the air, heavy and final. She marched us into the living room, where Grandmother sat in her favourite armchair, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked at us over the rim of her spectacles, her expression unreadable, but I felt the weight of her judgment settle on my shoulders like a lead blanket.
The next moments unfolded with a slow, dreadful inevitability. Mother’s cheeks were flushed, her hands shaking as she reached for the old wooden hairbrush that lived in the drawer by the fireplace. I watched her, heart pounding, as she hesitated—just for a second—before calling me forward. The room felt impossibly small, the ticking of the mantel clock impossibly loud. I could see Tommy out of the corner of my eye, his face pale, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I am sorry, Mother,” I whispered, but it was too late. She pulled me over her lap, the fabric of her skirt scratchy against my skin, and brought the hairbrush down with a sharp, stinging smack. There were five smacks in total, each one delivered with a trembling hand, each one a lesson in the importance of keeping one’s word. The pain was hot and immediate, and I gasped, tears springing to my eyes. When she let me up, my pride stung almost as much as my backside. Tommy’s turn came next, and I watched as he tried to be brave, biting his lip until it turned white. But the hairbrush did not care about bravery, and soon he was sniffling, tears tracking down his cheeks as he received five smacks, each one a reminder that promises must be kept.
Throughout it all, Grandmother watched, her eyes narrowed, lips pursed in a thin line of disapproval. When Mother finished, Grandmother’s voice cut through the silence like a knife. “Mother, it is plain as day you have not the faintest idea how to discipline children. It is high time you learned from someone who knows!” Her words stung, and I saw Mother’s face flush a deep, mortified red. She did not argue—she simply set the hairbrush down, her hands trembling.
Grandmother rose from her chair with a slow, deliberate grace, her movements precise and unhurried. She beckoned me over with a single, crooking finger. My legs felt like jelly as I shuffled forward, dread pooling in my stomach. She pulled me across her lap, her grip ironclad, and picked up the hairbrush. The first smack landed with a force that made me yelp, the sound echoing off the walls. There were ten smacks in all, each one measured, relentless, always in the same spot. I squirmed, desperate to escape, but Grandmother’s hold was unyielding.I looked up at her, searching for mercy, but her face was set, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Please, Grandmother, I am sorry! I shall never do it again!” I sobbed, but Grandmother’s resolve was unbreakable. The spanking continued, each smack a lesson, each tear a silent plea. When the tenth and final smack landed, I was released, and the lesson was clear: disobedience brings consequences, and remorse must be genuine.
(pause) There were, however, occasions when Grandmother would employ a different implement altogether—one that seemed to belong to another era, and which struck fear into our hearts. This particular Implement was Grandmothers dreaded Carpet beater, an implement that had seen much use over the years on my mother and her brothers and sisters. However that is another story for another time.
