This happened back in the mid-60s. The world then seemed both vast and contained, my universe stretching only as far as the end of our street, yet filled with the endless possibilities of childhood. By this time in my life, I suppose I was starting to assert my individuality—a quiet rebellion, really, in a house where order and routine reigned. My parents were a bit staid, their expectations clear but not suffocating, and yet there was always an unspoken line you simply did not cross.
The walls of my bedroom were plain white, as were all the others in the house—a blankness that felt almost oppressive to my young, restless mind. I remember the way the afternoon sun would slant through the window, making the white seem even starker, almost clinical. I decided that was boring and that my room needed brightening up, a splash of color to make it truly mine. By an unhappy coincidence, I found a load of old crayons in the bottom drawer of my homework desk, their waxy smell instantly conjuring memories of happier, messier days.
So I went to work, the thrill of secrecy making my heart race. I used a few old stencils I also found and created a wall full of geometric shapes, with the words ‘Caroline’s Room’ surmounting the lot in bold, uneven letters. The colors bled into each other, vivid against the white, and I felt a surge of pride at my handiwork. It never occurred to me that I was doing something of which my parents might not approve. Drawing on walls was a misdemeanour I’d never committed as a toddler, so I had no inkling that what I was doing might be thought of as ‘naughty’. In that moment, I was simply a child lost in the joy of creation, the world outside my door forgotten.
Needless to say, when she saw it, my mother hit the roof. I can still recall the sharp intake of her breath, the way her footsteps echoed down the hallway—each one a drumbeat of impending doom. She stormed into the lounge, where I was watching ‘Blue Peter’ (a long-running UK children’s TV programme), the familiar jingle suddenly sounding distant and tinny. She asked me in no uncertain terms ‘what the hell’ that mess was on my wall, her voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and anger.
Unfortunately, I took a rather high-handed attitude in the way I responded to her—defiance born of pride and a child’s sense of injustice. I thought it looked great, and felt aggrieved that my artistic endeavours were being called into question. That attitude probably sealed my fate, flipping what might have been a good telling off (and stopped pocket money, I guess) into something altogether more serious. Even as I spoke, I could feel the atmosphere in the room shift, the air growing heavy with tension.
Mother told me: “I’m sick of your backchat. Go to your room – I’ll be in to deal with you in a minute.” Her words were clipped, final, and I knew better than to argue further. There was a coldness in her tone that I rarely heard, and it sent a shiver down my spine.
I scurried off and surveyed my handiwork with new misgivings while I waited for her to come to me. The colors that had seemed so bright and cheerful now looked garish and out of place, a glaring testament to my disobedience. The silence in my room was thick, broken only by the distant sounds of the television and the faint creak of floorboards as my mother moved about the house. It suddenly didn’t look quite as good as I’d imagined it at first blush. My stomach twisted with anxiety, and I felt the first sting of regret.
Suddenly, I heard Mother coming up the stairs—her footsteps slow, deliberate, each one making my heart pound faster. When she entered my room, to my horror she was holding the slipper with which she had regularly chastised me with. The sight of it brought back a flood of memories: the sting, the shame, the tears. It had been several years since she had smacked my bottom and I had presumed I was now ‘too grown up’ for it—how wrong can you be? In that moment, I felt both very small and very exposed, the weight of my actions pressing down on me.
“Mother…” I began, my voice trembling, but she cut me short. “Be quiet – it’s quite clear you need your bottom smacked, and you’re far from being too big for the slipper.” There was a finality in her words, a sense that this was not just about the wall, but about boundaries and respect and the lessons a mother feels compelled to teach.
Without wasting any more words, she drew the chair out from my homework desk, the scrape of its legs on the floor sounding impossibly loud. She sat down on it and beckoned me to come to her. I hesitated, but she grabbed my closest wrist and pulled me over her knee in the traditional position for spanking. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of us, the room heavy with anticipation and dread.
I had remembered slipperings as being painful, and this was no less so a few years on from the last time I had been over Mother’s knee. She was an experienced spanker and she brought the slipper down time and again across my bare buttocks with some force and precision. Each smack was a jolt, sharp and hot, and I felt the tears prick at my eyes almost immediately. On reflection, I probably got a worse tanning than when I was smaller, which I guess was necessary and deserved. I was in tears quite quickly, but my weeping didn’t stop mother from giving me a thoroughly smacked bottom. The slipper did exactly what she kept it for. The pain was real, but so was the sense of humiliation, the knowledge that I had disappointed her.
I was eventually allowed to stand up, my face streaked with tears, my pride in tatters. She looked me straight in the eye, her own expression stern but not unkind. “Tomorrow, you will help your father to paint this wall white again and cover up your disgrace. And there will be no more pocket money until the paint is paid for. Do you understand?” I could only nod meekly through a stream of tears, the enormity of my punishment settling over me like a heavy blanket.
As I had pretty much expected, bed with no supper was the other part of my punishment. I lay in the darkness, my bottom still throbbing, the taste of salt on my lips. The house was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of settling wood. I felt a strange mixture of shame, anger, and—somewhere deep down—a grudging understanding.
Looking back now, I realize that moment marked a turning point in my childhood. It was the day I learned that actions have consequences, that innocence is not a shield against the rules of the adult world. My relationship with my mother changed subtly after that—there was a new respect, perhaps, but also a wariness, a sense that love and discipline could exist side by side. The memory of that day has stayed with me, not just as a tale of punishment, but as a lesson in boundaries, forgiveness, and the bittersweet loss of innocence.
