(gap: 2s) The summer arrived with the sort of promise that only a child can truly feel—a heady mixture of freedom, mischief, and the faintest whiff of impending trouble. My parents, ever practical, had arranged for me to spend the holidays with my Aunt Margaret in the sleepy Sussex village of Chailey, while they set off to tend to a distant, ailing relative. I was to be deposited, like a parcel, into the care of my aunt, who was known for her brisk, no-nonsense manner and her uncanny ability to spot muddy shoes at twenty paces.
Aunt Margaret’s house was a world away from the familiar chaos of our Surrey estate. It was a neat, red-brick semi with a garden full of hollyhocks and a gate that squeaked in protest every time it was opened. Inside, the air always seemed to carry the faint scent of lavender polish and boiled cabbage. My cousins, Ben and Alice, were already waiting for me on the front step—Ben with a mischievous glint in his eye, Alice clutching a battered copy of “The Secret Seven” and looking as though she’d rather be anywhere else.
My mother, before she left, had knelt down and fixed me with her most serious look—the one that made you stand up straight and check your socks for holes. “You mind your aunt, love,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “She’s in charge, and I expect you to behave. If you don’t, she’s got my full permission to deal with you as she sees fit.” Her hand rested on the old wooden hairbrush that had, on more than one occasion, been applied to my backside in the name of discipline. I nodded, feeling a curious mixture of dread and resolve.
The first days in Chailey passed in a blur of new routines and old-fashioned rules. Aunt Margaret believed in early mornings, tidy rooms, and the salutary effects of a brisk walk before breakfast. Ben and I, naturally, did our best to subvert these expectations, while Alice—ever the worrier—hovered on the edge of our escapades, torn between loyalty and the fear of being caught. The village itself seemed to slumber in the summer heat, its lanes lined with privet hedges and the distant clatter of the milk float echoing through the stillness.
It was on a particularly golden afternoon, about a fortnight into my stay, that the fateful incident occurred. The three of us had set off after lunch, pockets stuffed with jam sandwiches and a vague plan to build a den in the woods beyond the cricket pitch. Time, as it does when you’re young and the sun is shining, slipped away from us entirely. We lost ourselves in the thrill of adventure—scrambling over stiles, daring each other to climb the tallest trees, and inventing elaborate stories about pirates and buried treasure.
By the time we trudged back up the lane, the shadows were long and the air had taken on that cool, expectant hush that signals the end of the day. Aunt Margaret was waiting at the door, arms folded and lips pressed into a thin line. The kitchen clock ticked accusingly as we shuffled inside, our shoes caked with mud and our hearts thumping with the knowledge that we were in for it.
“Into the rumpus room, all of you,” she said, her voice as crisp as the starched apron she wore. We obeyed, exchanging nervous glances. The rumpus room was a small, chilly space at the back of the house, lined with faded board games and the faint smell of damp. Alice’s lower lip trembled, and she clutched my hand tightly. “We’re for it now,” she whispered, her eyes wide with dread. “She’ll fetch the cane, I know she will.”
Aunt Margaret’s office adjoined the rumpus room, and the door stood slightly ajar. We could hear her moving about—opening a drawer, the faint clink of glass as she poured herself a sherry. Ben, who had been putting on a brave face, suddenly looked very pale. “She always gives Ben the cane first,” Alice confided, her voice barely above a whisper. “He says it stings like blazes.”
Presently, Aunt Margaret called Ben in. He squared his shoulders and marched in, but I could see his hands shaking. The rest of us sat in silence, listening to the muffled sounds from the other room—the scrape of a chair, the low murmur of Aunt Margaret’s voice. Then, suddenly, the unmistakable swish of the cane, followed by a sharp crack and Ben’s stifled groan. Alice burst into tears, burying her face in her hands.
The caning continued, each stroke punctuated by Ben’s increasingly desperate cries. Alice, sobbing, explained that Aunt Margaret kept two canes—one thin and whippy, the other thick and heavy. “She uses the heavy one for serious offences,” she said, her voice quavering. “We’ll all get it, you’ll see.” I tried to sound brave, but my insides felt like cold porridge.
After what felt like an eternity, Ben emerged, his face blotchy and his eyes shining with tears. He stood against the wall, as instructed, hands by his sides and a look of wounded pride on his face. Aunt Margaret called for Alice next. She went in, trembling, and I could hear her pleading softly. Aunt Margaret’s voice was gentle but unyielding. “Bend over, Alice. Hands flat on the desk. You know the rules.”
The first stroke landed with a sharp report, and Alice cried out. The next two brought forth promises of better behaviour, but Aunt Margaret was resolute. “Stay in position, Alice, or we’ll have to start again.” By the sixth stroke, Alice’s sobs were so loud I had to cover my ears. The seventh and eighth seemed to echo through the house, and when she finally emerged, she could barely stand.
At last, it was my turn. My legs felt like jelly as I entered the office. The room was cool and smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. Ben and Alice stood against the wall, their faces streaked with tears, and I caught a glimpse of the angry red lines across their thighs—a sight that made my heart hammer in my chest. Aunt Margaret looked at me with a mixture of sternness and something softer—perhaps regret, or perhaps just the weight of duty.
“Trousers and pants down, please,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. I hesitated, cheeks burning, but did as I was told. The desk was cold beneath my hands as I bent over, feet apart, trying not to think about what was coming. Aunt Margaret tapped my bottom lightly with the cane, as if measuring her aim, and then—without warning—brought it down with a swift, practiced motion.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then a line of fire blazed across my skin, and I gasped, biting my lip to keep from crying out. The second stroke came after what felt like an age, and this time I couldn’t help myself—I leapt up, clutching my burning backside. Aunt Margaret’s voice was calm but firm. “Back in position, please. If you move again, we’ll have to repeat the stroke.” I nodded, tears pricking my eyes, and bent over once more.
The next two strokes landed lower, each one building on the pain of the last. By the fourth, I was sobbing openly, my dignity forgotten. Aunt Margaret paused, resting the cane gently against my legs. “Discipline is meant to teach, not to harm,” she said quietly. “You’ll remember this lesson, I think.” Her words, though stern, were not unkind, and I felt a strange sense of comfort even as the pain throbbed through me.
The fifth stroke was the worst yet, landing low on my buttocks and sending a fresh wave of agony through my body. I could barely breathe, my whole body shaking. The sixth landed at the very base, and I cried out, desperate for it to be over. The seventh, across my upper thighs, made me howl, and I clung to the desk as though it were the only thing keeping me upright.
The eighth and final stroke fell on a spot already marked, and I screamed, certain I could not endure another. But at last, it was done. Aunt Margaret helped me to my feet, her hand gentle on my shoulder. “Stand with your cousins,” she said, and I joined Ben and Alice, our faces flushed and our eyes shining with tears
