(short pause) My siblings and I grew up in a world of grey tenements and sharp North Sea winds, where the clang of shipyard horns marked the rhythm of our days. Our council flat was small but warm, the coal fire crackling in the grate and the scent of supper lingering in the air. (pause) Yet, discipline was a constant presence, as familiar as the thistle-patterned wallpaper.
(pause) When we misbehaved, Mama’s footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway, and we were sent to our parents’ bedroom to wait. The room felt colder and larger in those moments, shadows stretching across the bedspread as we sat in anxious silence, listening for the sound of her in the garden, searching for a fresh switch. The air would be thick with anticipation, our hearts thudding in our chests. My brother would pick at the frayed edge of the blanket, my sister’s lips pressed into a thin line, and I would stare at the wallpaper, counting the thistles to distract myself from the dread. The only sound was the distant tick of the clock and the occasional creak of the floorboards as we shifted nervously.
(pause) The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself. My younger brother would fidget, eyes wide and fearful, while my older sister tried to look brave, jaw set and hands clenched in her lap. I remember the way our hearts pounded, the way we glanced at each other, searching for comfort in shared dread. When Mama finally returned, the switch—a thin, whippy branch, stripped of leaves—would be in her hand. She would close the door with a soft click, and the room would seem to shrink around us. One by one, she would call us forward. My brother would go first, trembling as he lay across the bed, face buried in his arms. Mama would deliver five sharp smacks, each one landing with a crisp, swishing sound, followed by a sharp crack as it met his bottom. He would gasp and squirm, his knuckles white as he gripped the bedspread, tears pricking his eyes but never quite falling. My sister would go next, her face pale but determined. She would take her five strokes in silence, only a slight flinch betraying the sting. When it was my turn, I would feel the roughness of the bedspread against my cheek, the cool air on my legs, and the sudden, burning bite of each smack. The pain would bloom and fade, leaving a tingling warmth behind. After each round, Mama would rest her hand gently on our backs, her touch steadying, her eyes searching ours for understanding.
(pause) When Mama finally entered, switch in hand, her face was stern but not unkind. She would sit on the edge of the bed and ask us, one by one, if we understood why we were being punished. Her voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in her eyes. She would explain the lesson, her words measured and clear, and wait for our nods of acknowledgement. The room would be silent except for the crackle of the fire in the next room and the soft rustle of clothing as we shifted nervously. The switch would be laid across her lap, a silent promise of what was to come.
(pause) Then came the instruction: “Take the position.” We would lie face down across the bed, hands tucked beneath us, the old bedspread rough against our cheeks. Mama would raise the switch, and with each stroke—five for my brother, five for my sister, and five for me—the room would fill with the sharp whistle of the branch and the quick, stinging crack as it landed. We would twist and whimper, the sting building with each lash, our legs kicking involuntarily. Sometimes, a muffled sob would escape, but we tried to be brave, biting our lips and squeezing our eyes shut. After the last smack, Mama’s hand would rest briefly on our backs, steadying us, a silent reminder that this was for our own good. The pain would linger, a hot, prickling sensation that slowly faded to a dull ache. We would sit up, rubbing our bottoms, eyes shining with unshed tears, and Mama would gather us close, her arms warm and strong, her voice soft as she reminded us that we were loved, even in discipline.
(pause) As we grew older, the rituals changed but the lessons remained. Mother now chose the belt, its leather cold and heavy in her hand. Punishments usually took place in the evening, after supper, when the flat was quiet and the fire burned low. We were told to put on our pyjamas, the soft flannel offering little protection. The belt would be folded in her hand, and she would call us, one at a time, to stand at the foot of the bed. Each of us would receive six firm smacks, the leather landing with a deep, resonant thwack.
