My childhood, set in the gentle embrace of a small English town in the 1950s, was a tapestry woven with laughter, mischief, and the ever-present spectre of discipline. In those days, the rod was not spared, and my siblings and I were well acquainted with the consequences of disobedience. There is one particular incident, involving my brother Matthew and myself, which remains vivid in my memory, as clear as the chime of the brass bell above the sweet shop door.
Matthew and I, being the eldest, shared a special camaraderie, a bond forged in the crucible of shared responsibility. Our younger siblings—Rebecka, Megan, little Ben, Mary, and baby Heather—completed the household. Heather, being but a baby of twelve months, had her own nursery, whilst Matthew, Rebecka, and I occupied one room, and Megan, Ben, and Mary another.
Our evenings followed a strict routine. After supper, we waited patiently until Father excused us from the table. Thereafter, we retired to our respective rooms. It was the duty of us elder children to ensure the younger ones were in bed half an hour later, for if they were not, the entire group would be subject to a sound spanking. The older children were permitted to retire fifteen minutes after the younger ones, at precisely half past eight. I myself kept this bedtime faithfully until I reached eighteen, at which point I was allowed to remain awake until eleven o’clock.
Silence was the golden rule after lights out. Father, whose hearing was not what it once had been, relied upon Mother to maintain order. Should any sound reach her ears, she would ascend the stairs and issue a stern warning: “If I hear another sound, there shall be sound spankings all round. Is that understood?” Our response was always a respectful, “Yes, Mother.” Any deviation from this would result in immediate chastisement.
Generally, this warning sufficed. Yet, on one memorable night, Matthew and I, emboldened by the darkness, allowed our conversation to grow too lively. Mother had already cautioned us once. The house was meant to be asleep, but Matthew and I, ensconced in our bunk beds, continued our whispered exchange.
We did not hear Mother’s approach, but the sudden opening of the door was as dramatic as any thunderclap. She entered with quiet authority and requested that Rebecka remove herself to the other room.
Once the door had closed behind Rebecka, Mother fixed us with a steely gaze. “What do you mean by talking at this hour?” she demanded. “It is eleven o’clock.”
We both stared at the floor, chastened. “Stand up,” she commanded. We obeyed at once. “I shall fetch the belt. When I return, you know what is expected.” With that, she departed, leaving us to contemplate our fate.
“I am sorry, Samantha,” Matthew whispered, his voice trembling. “It is as much my fault as yours,” I replied, my heart full of affection for my brother. He placed his hand upon mine, a gesture of solidarity. We both knew that the punishment was just, for we had both transgressed.
Mother believed in the value of anticipation, and so she left us to wait for what felt like an eternity. At last, she returned, the belt in her hand, her expression grave but not unkind.
“You two have behaved most naughtily. As the eldest, you ought to know the rules best, and yet here I am, obliged to administer a lesson. Have you anything to say for yourselves?” We shook our heads in silence.
Mother placed the belt upon the bed and, as was her custom, pressed her hands gently upon our backsides, as if to gauge the task ahead. This ritual, though brief, always filled me with dread. I glanced at Matthew, who met my gaze with stoic resolve.
The punishment commenced. Matthew was first. Mother wielded the belt with measured firmness, each stroke deliberate and unaccompanied by scolding. It was a harsh lesson, for she believed that discipline, to be effective, must be memorable. Matthew bit down upon the coverlet, his knuckles white, determined not to cry. Twelve strokes fell, each one echoing in the silent room.
“To the corner, Matthew! Do not touch your bottom, and remain perfectly still. No tears!” Mother’s voice was stern, but not without a trace of compassion.
Then it was my turn. The belt descended with a sharp, stinging precision—slap, slap, slap—until I thought I could bear no more. Twelve strokes, as with Matthew, each one a reminder of the importance of obedience. “To the corner, Samantha,” Mother instructed, punctuating her command with an extra, resounding smack.
We stood facing the wall for ten minutes. At last, Mother summoned us to stand before her.
“I do not relish this task,” she said, her voice softening. “I love you all dearly, but with seven children, discipline is essential. You two, as the eldest, must set an example. The younger ones must know that I shall treat them as I do you, should the need arise.”
“Rebecka shall sleep in the other room tonight, so that you may have some peace. Good night.” She kissed us both upon the forehead and departed, leaving us to our thoughts.
Matthew and I dressed quietly and, as was our custom after such events, climbed into his bed together. He turned to me and embraced me, offering comfort in the darkness.
“Are you all right, Sam?” he asked, using the familiar diminutive that only he dared employ. “I am well enough. And you?” “I shall survive, though it was most painful.”
“Matthew, you must not use such language,” I admonished gently, though a smile played at my lips. He knew I disliked any hint of impropriety, but he also knew I would never truly be cross with him.
“I am sorry,” he replied. “Apology accepted,” I said. “Mother was quite right to punish us. We were not supposed to be talking.” “It was my fault you were punished,” he insisted. “It takes two to converse, Matthew. I deserved it as much as you.” He nodded. “We had best be quiet now, lest we receive another lesson.” “Indeed. Good night.”
I turned away, but then looked back. “Matthew?” “Yes?” “I love you,” I said softly. “I know. I love you too. Now, do try to sleep.”
The following morning, our siblings were full of curiosity. “Did it hurt?” Megan inquired. “Indeed it did,” I replied. “That is why you must behave, or you shall receive the same.”
Matthew added, “It hurt because it was meant to. When one is naughty, as we were last night, one must be punished so as to remember not to repeat the offence. The pain lingered all night and into the day.”
“Mother and Father do not punish us out of malice, but out of love. They dislike chastising us, but it is necessary that we learn right from wrong, and grow into good citizens.”
“So, if we are good, we shall not be spanked?” Mary asked, her eyes wide. “Precisely,” I replied. “Last night, Matthew and I were disobedient, and we received our just deserts.”
“Children! Breakfast is ready!” Mother’s voice rang from the kitchen. “Come along,” said Matthew.
We made our way to the table, shifting uncomfortably upon the hard chairs, our tender posteriors a reminder of the previous night’s lesson. Mother and Father regarded us with stern expressions, warning us to sit still or risk a repeat performance.
There were, of course, many more such occasions—sometimes together, sometimes alone—but always, after the tears and the pain, there was comfort, forgiveness, and the unspoken understanding that discipline, though harsh, was always administered with love and the hope of making us better people.
