My mother, Agnes, was a schoolmistress in a small village primary school in Scotland in the 1950s, when the tawse was considered as necessary as chalk and blackboard. She was a lady of upright character, her manner brisk but never unkind, and she believed that discipline, both in school and at home, was the foundation of good conduct. It was, therefore, not at all surprising that she regarded the tawse as an instrument of moral instruction, wielded with a sense of duty rather than malice.
At school, although Agnes did not teach me herself, I was always aware that any serious misbehaviour would soon reach her ears. Only on rare occasions did I earn the strap, usually for inattentiveness or poorly completed homework. The correction, though never excessive, was always effective, and I soon learned to respect my teachers. A single stroke of the tawse upon the palm was enough to sharpen my wits and remind me of my responsibilities.
At home, however, the punishments were more memorable and, I daresay, more severe. My mother would instruct me to stand before her, my heart thumping with anticipation, as she prepared the tawse. Unlike at school, she insisted that I present my bottom, and the ritual was always conducted with solemnity. I would bend over the arm of a sturdy chair, my kilt lifted and my bottle green knickers exposed. The air would be thick with expectation as she measured out the strokes—never fewer than two, and sometimes as many as six. Each smack of the tawse landed with a sharp, stinging crack, the pain blossoming across my skin and leaving red marks that throbbed long after the punishment ended. The sound echoed through the room, and I would clench my fists, determined not to cry, as the lesson was delivered with unwavering care.
Over-the-knee spankings were a regular occurrence, especially on Sundays. My mother would sit on a straight-backed chair, beckoning me to her side. With practiced hands, she would upturn my kilt, exposing my knickers, and pull me firmly across her lap. Her palm would rise and fall in a steady rhythm, each smack landing squarely on my bottom with a resounding slap. The sting would build with every strike, my legs kicking involuntarily as the heat and pain intensified. She believed in making each spanking a memorable lesson, and I would be left sniffling, my bottom burning, and my dignity in tatters, but always with the knowledge that I was loved and that the lesson was for my own good.
The most memorable leathering came when I was in the last year of primary school. After a playground incident, my mother decided a harsh lesson was needed. She fetched the tawse, her face set with determination. I was made to bend over, my kilt lifted high, and my knickers stretched tight across my bottom. She delivered six punishing strokes, each one more ferocious than the last. The tawse cracked against my skin, leaving vivid welts that burned and ached. I howled with each blow, the pain overwhelming, and tears streamed down my face. The punishment was relentless, but when it was over, my mother hugged me tightly, reminding me that discipline, though stern, was always given with love.
The incident passed over as Morag threatened to get her revenge next time I was wearing my kilt (she knew about the bottle green knickers), but, unknown to the pair of us, Agnes had witnessed the escapade from her classroom window.
When I got home from school that day, Agnes questioned me about the matter and it did not take long for her to obtain a confession to, in her opinion, a misdemeanour worthy of ‘six of the very best!’
As she fetched the tawse from its place in a kitchen cabinet drawer, I bent over the arm of a chair. On her return Agnes tapped the seat with the strap. Any protest would have been pointless.
Soon she had me howling as six times she hoisted the three-tailed tawse high into the air and then brought it down with deadly accuracy on my bottom. Each stroke landed with a sickening smack, the leather biting into my flesh and sending waves of pain through my body. I could feel the heat rising, the skin swelling beneath the relentless assault, and my cries filled the room as the lesson was driven home with merciful efficiency. Yet, even in the midst of my distress, I knew my mother’s actions were guided by a sense of duty and care.
After the chastisement, my mother made me stand in the corner for half an hour, my hands on my head and my sore, welted bottom on display. The pain was sharp and constant, and I longed to rub away the sting, but I dared not—any attempt would earn me another resounding smack. The humiliation was complete, and I stood there, tears drying on my cheeks, the lesson of obedience seared into my memory.
That evening, Agnes sat me down at the kitchen table and I had to write a letter of apology to Morag, to include a full description of the leathering I had received as a ‘reward’ for my misconduct. The task completed to Agnes’s satisfaction, I was then sent to bed early. I was not looking forward to tomorrow!
The next morning was a Saturday but I found my ‘Sunday best’ kilt laid out and reluctantly got dressed in the outfit as I did not wish to risk a spanking with my bottom still smarting from the previous evening.
After breakfast, my mother marched me to Shona’s house. With Shona’s mother present, I was made to read out my apology, my voice trembling. As soon as I finished, my mother spun me around, lifted my kilt, and exposed my still-marked bottom for all to see. ‘I do not think this naughty little boy will find sitting down a comfortable experience for the rest of the weekend!’ she declared. My face burned with shame, and the throbbing pain in my bottom was a constant reminder of my punishment.
Needless to say my face was, if possible, even redder than my bottom as Agnes ordered me to get back home, where she had plenty of things for me to do to keep me out of further mischief.
I rued the day when a brief glimpse of Morag’s school clothing had resulted in such disastrous consequences.
However, when we got a chance to discuss the matter, Morag was very sympathetic and said that her mother could be very strict and sometimes she got spanked across the seat of her knickers with a hairbrush. ‘It may not be as bad as the strap,’ she said, ‘but it is jolly sore and I hate it when I get spanked.’”
