I wanted to tell you a little bit about my Mother’s use of the cane, but to understand it, you have to know a bit about our family.
I am the younger of two boys. Our father worked long hours at the shipyards, often coming home late and exhausted, so it was Mother who ran the household and set the tone for discipline. She was a woman of strong convictions, believing that children needed clear boundaries and consequences.
Mother always believed in corporal punishment, and we got the traditional ‘smacked bottom’ (we never talked about it as ‘spanking’) when we were naughty. She provided all the discipline in our home for the children, including a sore bottom when needed. But it wasn’t just about punishment—she also made sure we knew we were loved, tucking us in at night and making our favourite mince and tatties for tea.
When we were young boys, this consisted of being put across her knee in the traditional manner. Mother smacked quite hard and these were certainly punishments you went out of your way to avoid. I remember once, after I’d drawn on the living room wallpaper with a crayon, she sat me down and explained why it was wrong before the inevitable smacked bottom. I cried more from the shame than the sting.
However, eventually, Mother must have decided that something a little more salutary was needed for when we were naughty boys, and she acquired a proper school cane. In fact, she told us, when we were young men, that she bought two, just in case we decided to hide or break the ‘official’ implement – we never did, by the way! I remember the day she brought it home, wrapped in brown paper, and the look of dread that passed between my brother and me.
From then on, the system of discipline was the same – Mother would tolerate behaviour up to a certain point with fairly gentle correction, then there was a warning that if we didn’t come back in line, we would be caned. There wasn’t a second warning – the boy in question was simply marched up to Mother’s room, where the cane was kept in her wardrobe. The walk up the stairs was the worst part, the silence heavy with anticipation.
Mother had a small, low backed chair in the room which she generally kept for putting her clothes on at night. This was drawn out from the wall and you were instructed to bend over to be caned. I can still remember the pattern of the carpet beneath my shoes, and the way my heart pounded in my chest.
Six of the best was Mother’s usual prescription for naughty boys and it hurt very much. We would have tram lines across our buttocks afterwards, which would fade after a few days but were a bit embarrassing if other boys saw them in the changing room for PE. My brother and I would sometimes compare marks, half in misery, half in camaraderie, and promise each other to behave better next time.
On the other hand, many of our friends were in awe of Mother – she was certainly viewed as one of the strictest parents, possibly the strictest, in our little circle because she had actually gone to the trouble of buying a proper school cane (it had the familiar crook handle) and keeping it for her boys’ bottoms. Most of our friends got more homely, makeshift items such as the slipper and wooden spoon from their parents when they misbehaved. I remember one friend, Billy, who confessed he was terrified of even coming to our house, lest he get caught up in one of Mother’s disciplinary sessions.
The cane didn’t need to be used often and indeed corporal punishment eventually stopped altogether as we got older, but every time we were taken to Mother’s room, we were taught a valuable lesson by that deceptively innocuous length of rattan. Looking back, I realise the discipline was her way of preparing us for a world that could be just as unforgiving. Yet, despite the fear and the pain, there was always a sense of security in knowing exactly where the boundaries lay.
