A Lesson none of us would soon forget

(gap: 2s) Growing up in the late 1960s on the Westfield Estate in Surrey, we were what you’d call “the poorer side of Surrey.” The estate was a patchwork of tired terraced houses, their slate roofs streaked with moss, and the air always seemed tinged with the scent of coal smoke and damp earth. Children in hand-me-down jumpers darted between puddles, their laughter echoing off the cracked pavements, while mothers gathered by battered wire fences, their voices a constant, comforting hum. Even in the grey drizzle, there was a sense of community—a pride that clung to us like the ever-present mist. Just because you lived on a council estate didn’t mean you didn’t have ideas above your station. Most families—including ours—carried themselves with a certain dignity, as if we were only a step away from the leafy lanes and grand houses a few miles over. No one embodied this more than my grandmother, who fancied herself the matriarch of the family, though in truth she was more of a busybody than a lady of the manor.

Our flat was small and always a little chilly, the faded curtains never quite keeping out the draft. The electric heater in the parlour buzzed and clicked, its orange glow flickering against the threadbare blankets draped over the sofa. The wallpaper, a once-cheerful floral, peeled at the corners, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of tea, boiled cabbage, and the faint tang of polish from the sideboard. My mother, in her simple house dress and imitation pearls, would bustle about, pouring tea from a chipped pot, her movements brisk but careful, as if she were hosting a tea party for the Queen herself.

My mother would spank me and my younger sister when we were growing up. The punishments stung, but they weren’t especially painful—just a few swats over our knickers, and sometimes, if we’d been especially naughty, on the bare. I remember the sharp sound of her hand, the quick intake of breath, and the way my sister and I would wail, more out of indignation than pain. “There now, that’s enough,” Mum would say, her voice trembling between sternness and regret. We’d cry crocodile tears, but it was all over quickly, and life went on. The next morning, we’d be back at the breakfast table, shifting uncomfortably on the hard chairs, the taste of lumpy porridge and burnt toast lingering as much as the memory of the spanking.

As we got older, though, those spankings lost their effect. Our mischief grew bolder—sneaking biscuits, muddying the hallway, talking back. My mother, never one to be outdone by the neighbours, finally had enough. One afternoon, as rain tapped against the window and the television flickered in the corner, she confided in my grandmother. “I don’t know what to do with them, Mum,” she sighed, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. “They just don’t listen anymore.” My grandmother, perched on the edge of her chair in her faded gingham blouse, looked scandalised. “Soft, that’s what you are,” she declared, her voice sharp as the snap of a laundry peg. “In my day, children knew their place. Leniency only breeds cheek.”

The tension in the flat thickened, the air heavy with anticipation. That evening, my grandmother summoned me and my sister to the living room. The electric fire cast long shadows on the walls, and the only sound was the distant drip of rain from the gutter. My mother sat on the sofa, her hands twisting in her lap, eyes darting between us and her own mother. My sister clung to my hand, her knuckles white. “Come here, both of you,” my grandmother commanded, her voice brooking no argument. “It’s time you learned what a proper spanking is.” My heart thudded in my chest, and I could feel my sister trembling beside me.

“Mum, is this really necessary?” my mother asked, her voice barely above a whisper. My grandmother shot her a look. “If you won’t do it, I will. Someone has to teach them respect.” She turned to us, her eyes narrowing. “Hands behind your backs. Stand up straight. You’re not in a barn.” The humiliation burned hotter than the heater’s glow. She yanked our nightgowns off, leaving us bare and shivering, the cold air prickling our skin. I stared at the faded print of the Surrey countryside on the wall, wishing I could disappear into it.

My grandmother picked up a heavy wooden hairbrush from the sideboard, tapping it against her palm with a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Hand spankings are useless,” she announced, her voice echoing in the cramped room. “A proper hairbrush is the only way to make an impression.” She looked at my mother, who flinched and looked away. “Watch and learn, dear. This is how it’s done.” The authority in her words was almost theatrical, as if she were addressing an audience beyond the faded walls.

My sister began to sob, her shoulders shaking. “Please, Gran, I’ll be good, I promise!” she pleaded, her voice high and desperate. I felt my own eyes sting with tears, but my grandmother was unmoved. “No more nonsense,” she said, her tone final. “Crying and pleading won’t help you now.” She grabbed my sister’s arm and pulled her over to the couch, her movements brisk and businesslike. My sister’s feet barely touched the floor as she was hauled over my grandmother’s lap, her small body tense with fear.

My grandmother tapped my sister’s bottom a couple of times, then paused, looking at my mother. “You see? This is how you do it.” She raised the hairbrush and brought it down hard, the sharp crack echoing through the flat. My sister screamed, her legs kicking helplessly. “Stop! Please, Gran, it hurts!” she wailed, but my grandmother didn’t let up. The sound of the hairbrush striking flesh was relentless, each smack punctuated by my sister’s cries and the creak of the old sofa.

My sister looked up at our mother, her face streaked with tears. “Mum, please, make her stop!” she sobbed. My mother’s face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s only just beginning,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “You’ll learn a good lesson tonight.” Even in the midst of pain, it felt as if we were all playing our parts in some strange family drama, with my grandmother directing the show and my mother watching, torn between guilt and resignation.

At last, my grandmother stopped and made my sister stand up. “That’s what a proper spanking looks like!” she declared, her voice triumphant. My sister wailed, hopping from foot to foot, her hands clutching her sore bottom. The room was thick with the smell of fear and the faint scent of lavender from the old cushions. My grandmother looked at me, her eyes cold and determined. “Your turn,” she said.

I backed away, shaking my head. “Please, Gran, I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!” I begged, my voice cracking. My mother looked away, unable to meet my eyes. “You’ve had this coming for a long time,” my grandmother said, her grip like iron as she pulled me forward. There was no escaping her sense of duty—or her need to prove herself the matriarch, even if it was only in our little flat.

I felt the taps of the brush on my own bottom, then the searing pain as the spanking began in earnest. The sound was deafening, each smack ringing in my ears. I screamed and cried, my legs kicking, my hands gripping the worn fabric of the sofa. “Please, Gran, stop! I’m sorry!” I sobbed, but my grandmother was relentless, her arm rising and falling with mechanical precision. The pain was blinding, a hot, sharp ache that seemed to fill the whole world.

My eyes blurred with tears, and I started to hiccup as I sobbed, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The room spun around me—the faded wallpaper, the flickering fire, my mother’s averted face, my sister’s muffled sobs. Finally, it stopped. My grandmother let me go, and I stumbled to my feet, bawling, my hands pressed to my burning skin. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of my sister’s sniffling and the distant clatter of rain against the window. My grandmother stood tall, satisfied that she’d restored order to her “domain,” while my mother quietly gathered us in her arms, her own eyes shining with unshed tears. The flat felt smaller than ever, the air thick with the memory of what had just happened—a lesson none of us would soon forget.