I was brought up in the 1960s and 70s, a time when parents were generally much stricter with their children than they are today. In our household, discipline was considered a virtue, and my mother, in particular, believed it was her duty to instil good manners and honesty in her children. The cane was still used in most schools, including mine, though I was fortunate never to be punished at school. At home, however, both my parents, and especially my mother, were keen on the subject of discipline. Our days were filled with routines, chores, and the ever-present expectation to behave properly, to speak politely, and to show respect to our elders. My mother would often remind us that a well-behaved child was a credit to the family, and she took great pride in ensuring we lived up to that standard.
Throughout my childhood, I received the occasional old-fashioned spanking if I stepped out of line. These were never given in anger, but always as a firm reminder of the boundaries set for me. My mother would explain, both before and after, why I was being punished, and would always comfort me afterwards, assuring me that she loved me dearly and only wished for me to grow up to be honest and upright. On one occasion, I was given six sharp smacks upon my bottom, each one stinging and teaching me the importance of honesty and good behaviour. The lesson was always clear: in our home, wrongdoing was met with firm correction, but always within a loving family.
The occasion which I want to tell you about, however, occurred when I was about nine or ten. It was a bright Saturday morning, and Mother and I were out shopping together. The market was bustling with people, and the air was filled with the scent of fresh bread and flowers. As we passed the sweet shop, my eyes were drawn to the colourful jars of toffees and boiled sweets. I tried to persuade Mother to buy me some, pleading with her and promising to be good, but she remained unmoved.
Her view was always the same: I was given a modest amount of pocket money each week, and it was my responsibility to manage it wisely. If I wished to buy sweets or toys, I had to fund such purchases myself out of this allowance. More often than not, my money was spent within an hour of receiving it, leaving me with nothing for the rest of the week. On this particular day, I felt a pang of disappointment and frustration, knowing that my wish for sweets would go unfulfilled.
Despite my pleadings, Mother remained resolute in her determination. She insisted that I must learn to save my money or at least keep some back for the remainder of the week, rather than spending it all in one go. My desire for the chocolate bar grew stronger, and I found myself glancing around the shop, my heart pounding with guilt and excitement. In a moment of weakness, I surreptitiously slipped a bar of chocolate into my pocket, hoping desperately that Mother would not notice.
My ruse was quickly discovered—Mother seemed to have eyes in the back of her head! She was understandably both very embarrassed and extremely angry. Her face grew stern, and with the dreaded words, ‘Just you wait until I get you home,’ ringing in my ears, the shopping expedition was abandoned. I was marched home in silence, my mind racing with fear and regret, dreading what awaited me.
Once home, I was taken straight through into the kitchen, where Mother went directly to the under-stairs cupboard and took out her cane. This was something of a family heirloom, about three feet in length, very flexible, with a crooked handle polished smooth by years of use. The sight of it alone was enough to make my knees tremble. Mother placed it on the table with deliberate care, her expression grave and determined.
Mother had often threatened both my elder sister and me with the cane, but up to this point, these had always proved to be empty promises. On this occasion, however, it was clear that she meant every word. The kitchen seemed to grow colder and quieter, and I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall as I waited, my heart thumping in my chest.
I was instructed to prepare myself, and as I did so, I remember Mother tapping the stick against her boot impatiently. My hands shook as I undid my buttons, and my other clear memory is one of feeling absolutely petrified—indeed, I recall being very close to wetting myself, I was so terrified. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself, and I wished with all my heart that I could turn back time and undo my foolish mistake.
I was then told to bend over. At this point, Mother decided it was time to deliver a short but stern lecture. Whilst I remained in position, literally quaking in my shoes, she told me precisely how she intended to deal with ‘wicked little boys who steal.’ Her words were sharp and clear, and the phrase has stuck in my mind to this day. I felt a deep sense of shame and remorse, knowing that I had disappointed her.
I cannot recall exactly how many strokes I was given—probably five or six at a guess—but I do remember that the first one was delivered with such velocity that I very nearly fell forward. The pain was sharp and immediate, and I cried out despite my efforts to be brave. Each stroke stung fiercely, and by the end, my eyes were streaming with tears and my resolve utterly broken. Mother delivered six firm strokes with the cane, each one a clear message that stealing would not be tolerated in our household. The punishment was severe, but it was always followed by a gentle word and a loving embrace, so that I knew I was forgiven.
Without another word, Mother stood tall and beckoned me to her side. My heart fluttered with dread, but I knew better than to protest. With a firm but fair hand, she guided me gently over her lap, her floral dress rustling softly. I felt the cool air on the back of my legs as she raised her hand. The first smack landed with a sharp sound, stinging but not cruel. She delivered four more firm smacks, each one a clear message that disobedience and deceit would not be tolerated. My eyes filled with tears, my cheeks flushed with shame and regret. When it was over, Mother helped me to my feet, her voice gentle but resolute: ‘Let this be a lesson, my dear. In this house, we are honest and we do not waste.’ I nodded, rubbing my sore bottom, and promised to do better.
After Mother had finished, I was told to stand up while she returned the cane to the cupboard. I was then sent, still in tears, to bed and made to stay there for the rest of the day. As I lay in my room, I reflected on what had happened, feeling a mixture of pain, shame, and a strange sense of relief that the ordeal was over.
It was a very painful lesson, but one which worked—I never stole anything ever again. As for the cane, now that Mother had used it for the first time, it became the regular instrument of correction for both my sister and me, though I should add that the occasions when its use was called for were few and far between. The memory of that day stayed with me, shaping my understanding of right and wrong, and teaching me the value of honesty and self-control. Mother always made it clear that punishment was given out of love, to help us grow into good and upright children.
