As Red as a Stick of Skegness Rock

(gap: 2s) Once upon a time, in the bracing days of a 1960s summer, our family set off for the seaside town of Skegness, where the air was always tinged with salt and the promise of adventure. The train journey was a jolly affair, with windows misted by sea spray and the gentle rattle of carriages, while Mother handed out barley sugars and peppermints to keep us cheerful. As we arrived, the promenade bustled with families in their Sunday best, and the Seaview Boarding House stood ready to welcome us, its sign swinging in the breeze and buckets and spades stacked by the door.

My bed was a humble fold-out in the lounge, its springs creaking with every turn. Mother, ever wise and proper, insisted on pyjamas, for she believed that a well-dressed child was a well-behaved child. But, as boys sometimes do, I longed for the cool freedom of sleeping as nature intended, and one night, I slipped out of my pyjamas, thinking no one would be the wiser.

My sister, three years my senior and always neat as a pin, had her own room, her hair ribbons lined up like soldiers on parade. Next door, Auntie Joan and cousin Linda, who was as bold as brass and quick with a laugh, shared the room with the best view of the pier. One golden morning, with sunlight streaming through the lace curtains and the distant cries of gulls, Linda came to fetch my sister for a paddle in the sea.

Downstairs, Mother was already busy in the breakfast room, the comforting clatter of crockery and the smell of toast and eggs filling the air. “Go and wake your cousin, love, or he’ll miss the tide!” she called. Linda tiptoed into the lounge and found me sprawled on my stomach, the blanket tangled about my legs, my bare bottom catching the morning sun. She stifled a giggle, for she knew well the rules of the house.

With a mischievous twinkle, Linda gently pulled the sheet over me, but, torn between kindness and duty, she hurried off to fetch Mother. In swept Mother, her footsteps brisk and her face set with purpose. With a practiced hand, she lifted the sheet, and there I was, caught in the act. I woke to the sharp sting of a smack and the stern faces of Mother, Auntie Joan, Auntie Mabel, my sister, and Linda, all gathered round, their expressions a mixture of shock, amusement, and disapproval.

Mother pressed her hand firmly on my back and, in a voice as steady as the tide, explained to all present the importance of modesty and obedience. My cheeks burned with shame, and I promised, as earnestly as any boy could, never to sleep in the altogether again. Mother pursed her lips and declared that a lesson must be learned, but if I behaved, perhaps the slipper would not be needed—at least, not yet.

I was ordered up, my legs still wobbly with sleep, and told to make my bed. That meant folding the creaky contraption back into a settee, smoothing the eiderdown, and tucking the corners just so. The scent of the sea lingered in the sheets, and I worked under the watchful eyes of my family, determined to do my best.

When the lounge was tidy, my two aunts settled themselves on the settee, with Linda squeezed in the middle, her eyes bright with anticipation. Mother and my sister took the upright chairs by the window, the morning light glinting off their teacups. The room grew quiet, save for the distant call of a donkey on the beach.

Then came the order, crisp and clear: “Over your Auntie’s lap, young man.” My heart thudded in my chest. Linda sat in the centre, Auntie Joan at one end, Auntie Mabel at the other, each with a determined look. Auntie Joan gently took my feet, Auntie Mabel my head, and Linda placed her small but steady hand on my back to keep me still. The world seemed to shrink to the circle of women and the faded carpet beneath my nose.

Linda began the spanking, her hand landing with a brisk snap that echoed in the small room. My skin tingled with each smack, and I bit my lip, determined not to cry out. Auntie Joan’s smacks were gentle, almost kind, but Auntie Mabel, who believed in “firm discipline,” made sure I felt every one, her palm leaving a hot, tingling trail. The routine went round: Linda, then Auntie Joan, then Auntie Mabel, each with her own rhythm, the sound of their hands punctuating the quiet.

I wriggled and yelped, my pride stinging as much as my backside, but Linda only laughed and teased, “I’ve got the best view in Skegness!” The whole affair seemed to last an age, though it was likely only twenty minutes, the sound of the sea and the distant bray of donkeys drifting in through the open window, mingling with the sharp, rhythmic smacks and the occasional giggle from my sister.

At last, I was sent over to Mother’s lap, my bottom now as red as a stick of Skegness rock. My sister stood by, her eyes wide with a mixture of sympathy and satisfaction, and together they finished the job—Mother with her no-nonsense approach, her hand firm and unyielding, and my sister with surprising determination. They only stopped when Auntie Joan, ever the peacemaker, reminded them that the tea was getting cold.

My ordeal over, I was made to stand in the corner, my face burning with shame, while the grown-ups enjoyed their tea and toasted teacakes, the clink of china and the low murmur of conversation filling the room. Their talk soon turned to how much fun it would be to see if I’d learned my lesson by the end of the week, their laughter mingling with the distant sound of the waves. When breakfast was done, a chair was placed in the centre of the lounge, a silent warning that another lesson could be given at any time before our holiday was through.

And so, dear listeners, I learned that summer the value of modesty, obedience, and the wisdom of listening to one’s elders. Though my pride and my bottom were sore, I knew that Mother’s rules were meant to keep us safe and proper, and that a lesson learned in childhood is a lesson remembered for life. The rest of the day stretched ahead, full of sand, sea, and the hope that, if I minded my manners, I might avoid further trouble—and perhaps even earn a stick of rock as a reward.