I was brought up by my grandmother, a lady for whom discipline and order were the very foundation of life. Her home was always quiet, her rules numerous and unyielding. My aunt, on the other hand, was a striking woman in her early forties, with a kindly, open face framed by soft brown curls and always a dusting of flour upon her apron. Her voice was gentle and melodic, capable of filling a room with laughter or soothing away any fear. Her eyes, warm hazel, sparkled with mischief and understanding, and she moved briskly about the house, always busy. She wore simple, practical dresses in cheerful patterns, and her hands, though roughened by years of baking and housework, were always gentle. My aunt’s home was filled with the scent of baking and laughter. She never raised a hand to me, and this annual change in regime was more than welcome; it was a breath of fresh, liberating air, much like the adventures of William himself.
In a small flat within my aunt’s home lived her elderly mother-in-law, Margot. Margot was a woman of quiet dignity, her silver hair always neatly pinned, and her posture upright despite her years. Her eyes, a soft grey, held a gentle wisdom and a glimmer of mischief, reminiscent of a lively youth. She dressed in simple, well-kept clothes, favouring floral blouses and long skirts, and always wore a delicate string of pearls. Margot moved with measured grace, her hands steady and capable, whether pouring tea or icing a cake. She spoke softly, her voice warm and reassuring, and her laughter, though rare, was genuine. Though she had lived through hardship and war, Margot carried herself with resilience and kindness, never raising her voice or hand in anger. She was always very kind to me, a silent ally in this house of warmth, often pressing a secret chocolate into my palm with a conspiratorial wink.
Regrettably, this domestic harmony was shattered one afternoon. Drawn by the distant hum of the city, I slipped out of the garden gate and vanished. To me, it was a grand adventure, marvelling at the tall buildings and the sea of faces. But back at the house, my absence was my aunt’s nightmare. A frantic search ensued, her calls growing ever more desperate. Hours later, cold and lost, I was found by a policeman and brought home in the back of his car, the flashing lights a beacon of my disgrace. It was the sort of escapade William himself might have attempted, though the consequences were far from amusing.
The journey home was silent. My aunt’s face was a mask of cold fury and lingering fear. ‘Do you have any idea how worried I was? Anything could have happened to you!’ she finally exclaimed, her voice trembling with both anger and relief. I believe she would have punished me on the spot, but a bandage was wrapped around her dominant right hand. After a thorough scolding, she pointed upstairs. ‘You are filthy. Go and wash yourself.’ When I emerged, clean but shivering, I found no clean clothes on my bed. The omission felt deliberate. My aunt entered, her expression unreadable. Her voice was low and firm. ‘Hermann, you have been exceedingly naughty. Go downstairs and see Margot. She will know what to do with you.’
My heart sank. Margot? I obediently went downstairs, my bare feet cold on the floorboards, and rang the bell to her flat. The door opened at once. ‘Come in, Hermann,’ she said, her voice devoid of its usual warmth. She took my wrists and gently placed my hands by my sides. ‘Sit down.’ She indicated a wooden chair at her kitchen table. I obeyed, the bare wood feeling hard and unyielding. To my astonishment, Margot poured us both a cup of tea. ‘I have some work to do in here first,’ she explained calmly. It felt surreal, sitting there in disgrace while Margot, the designated disciplinarian, calmly finished icing a cake and slid it into the oven. The sweet smell filled the kitchen, a strange counterpoint to the dread in my stomach. I knew, as William often did, that a reckoning was at hand.
Once the oven door was closed, Margot wiped her hands on her apron and turned to me, her eyes resolute. ‘Come with me,’ she commanded, her voice grave. She led me into her cosy sitting room and sat on the sofa, patting her lap with a slow, deliberate motion. ‘Well, Hermann,’ she began, ‘your aunt and I both believe you must be punished. What you did was dangerous and caused us great distress. You must learn that actions have consequences. Lie across my knee.’ My heart pounded, dread rising within me. There was no room for argument. I knew I deserved it. With trembling hands, I moved to her side and, without protest, draped myself across her lap, my face burning with shame. I could feel the rough fabric of her skirt against my bare skin, the room silent save for the ticking of the clock. Margot’s left hand pressed firmly into the small of my back, holding me in place. I felt her right hand lift, and then—CRACK!—the first smack landed squarely across both cheeks. The sound echoed, sharp and unyielding. The sting was immediate, a hot, biting pain that made me gasp. She did not rush. Each smack was measured, deliberate, and impossibly hard. She alternated from cheek to cheek, her palm connecting with a relentless rhythm: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. By the tenth, my skin was already burning, and I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to cry out. But Margot was not finished. She paused only to adjust her grip, then resumed, her hand falling again and again—eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. The pain built with each blow, a deep, throbbing ache beneath the surface sting. Tears welled in my eyes, and by the time she reached thirty, I was sobbing openly, my legs kicking helplessly. Still, she continued, her voice calm and unwavering as she counted out each smack, making sure I understood the lesson. Forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five. At last, she stopped, her hand resting on my blazing, swollen bottom. ‘Now,’ Margot said firmly, ‘go back to your aunt and apologise properly.’ She dismissed me with a final, stinging slap that left me breathless, my face wet with tears, my body trembling from the ordeal. It was a harsh lesson, but one given with care, as a true moral correction.
Sniffling, I did as I was told, my bottom throbbing with every step. My aunt was waiting, arms folded. ‘Did it hurt?’ she demanded, her voice stern, though I could see the worry in her eyes. I nodded, my eyes brimming with tears, the soreness a powerful reminder. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Let us hope that teaches you a lesson. Now, straight to bed.’ Later, as dusk settled, she came into my room with a glass of milk. She sat on the edge of my bed, her anger gone, replaced by the warmth I cherished. ‘I was not angry because you were naughty, Hermann,’ she said softly. ‘I was angry because I was frightened. I love you.’ In that moment, I understood. The punishment was not cruelty, but a painful, desperate expression of love and fear. The marks on my skin would fade, but the lesson—seared into my memory—would remain, as William himself might have discovered after one of his escapades.
As I lay in bed, the soreness a constant reminder, I reflected on the day’s events. My aunt’s words echoed in my mind, and I realised that her anger had been born of love and fear. The punishment, though harsh, was given with care, a lesson to guide me in the future. I resolved, as William might have done, to be more thoughtful in my adventures, knowing that those who care for us sometimes must be stern to teach us right from wrong.
