My next door neighbour Linda was a single woman with two teenage daughters, and she always seemed to carry herself with a kind of quiet dignity that set her apart from the other mothers in our estate. She was old-fashioned in her outlook, lady-like and proper in her manner, and there was something almost regal about the way she moved through her flat. Linda always wore beautiful house dresses with full, swirling skirts and crisp petticoats underneath, the fabric rustling softly as she walked. Over her dress, she tied a spotless apron, its white cotton always perfectly pressed, and she wore it as she bustled about her kitchen, baking or scrubbing or tending to her daughters.
I remember the sound of Linda’s skirts as she passed by—an unmistakable swish, like the whisper of silk, that seemed to echo down the narrow hallway. I was fascinated by that sound, by the way her skirts flared and floated around her legs, so pretty and feminine, so different from the plain, practical clothes my own mother wore. Sometimes, when Linda was standing at her window, sunlight would catch the fabric and make it shimmer, and I would find myself staring, lost in the gentle rhythm of her movements.
Linda’s flat always smelled of something warm and comforting—freshly baked bread, or the sweet tang of stewed apples, or the faint, lingering scent of lavender polish on the old wooden furniture. Her daughters, Anne and Susan, were quiet and polite, always neatly dressed, their hair brushed and tied back with ribbons. The whole place felt like a world apart from the noisy chaos of the estate outside, a little island of order and gentleness.
One rainy Sunday afternoon, I found myself at Linda’s, helping her sift flour for a batch of scones. The kitchen was small and bright, with patterned wallpaper and a row of gleaming copper pans hanging above the stove. I was perched on a wooden stool, watching as Linda worked, her hands deft and sure, when the phone rang—a shrill, old-fashioned ring that seemed to cut through the soft hum of the radio.
Linda wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the receiver, her voice warm and cheerful. “Hello, Mary! Oh, I’m just in the middle of baking. Let me put you on speaker.” She pressed a button, and suddenly Mary’s voice filled the kitchen, crackling and distant but unmistakably animated. Linda continued to tidy up, her skirts swishing as she moved, and I tried to focus on my task, but my curiosity got the better of me.
I had always been drawn to stories of discipline and punishment, even as a child, and when I realized that Mary was recounting an incident with her own daughter, I felt a strange, electric thrill run through me. I knew I shouldn’t listen, that it was private, but I couldn’t help myself. I edged closer to the doorway, heart pounding, and listened as Mary’s voice grew more intense.
“You wouldn’t believe the scene she made, Linda,” Mary was saying. “We were in the dress shop, and Dawn just started carrying on—complaining about the dress, saying it was too frilly, too pink. She was running around, crawling on the floor, making a right spectacle of herself. I was mortified.”
Linda clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Oh, Mary, I can just imagine. Girls these days have no sense of decorum.” I could hear the gentle clatter of dishes as Linda worked, her voice calm and understanding.
Mary continued, her tone growing firmer. “Well, I wasn’t having any of it. I turned her around, gave her a few good smacks right there in the shop. She howled, of course, but I told her if she didn’t behave, she’d get a proper spanking when we got home.”
I felt my cheeks flush as I listened, a mix of embarrassment and excitement swirling in my stomach. The idea of a mother so calmly describing such strict discipline was both shocking and strangely fascinating to me. I imagined Dawn’s face, red and tear-streaked, and Mary’s stern expression as she delivered her warning.
“And did you?” Linda asked, her voice low and conspiratorial, as if she were sharing a secret.
“Oh, I did,” Mary replied. “As soon as we got home, I made her stand in the corner, facing the wall, to think about what she’d done. I could see her fidgeting, glancing over her shoulder, but I told her not to move an inch. After I’d put her new dress away, I went to the dresser, took out the hairbrush, and called her over. She knew what was coming.”
I could almost picture the scene: the quiet tension in the room, the heavy silence broken only by the ticking of the clock, Dawn’s nervous shuffling as she waited for her mother’s command. My heart was racing, and I pressed myself against the wall, barely daring to breathe.
“I sat down on the chair, pulled her across my lap, and gave her a good, sound spanking with the hairbrush,” Mary said, her voice matter-of-fact. “She screamed and kicked, but I didn’t stop until I was sure she’d learned her lesson. Afterwards, she was sobbing, but she apologized, and I hugged her and told her I loved her. Sometimes, Linda, it’s the only way.”
Linda sighed, her voice soft and full of understanding. “You did the right thing, Mary. If my girls had ever behaved like that, I’d have done exactly the same. Children need to know there are consequences.”
The conversation ended with a few more words of sympathy and support, and then I heard the click of the receiver as Linda hung up. I stood frozen in the hallway, my mind whirling with images and emotions. I felt a strange sense of excitement, my face burning, and I realized I was holding my breath.
I tried to make sense of my feelings—part shame, part curiosity, part something deeper and harder to name. The story had stirred something inside me, a fascination with the idea of strict discipline, of order and consequence, of the mysterious world of grown-up rules and punishments.
Suddenly, Linda appeared in the doorway, her eyes sharp and knowing. “Were you listening to my conversation, young man?” she asked, her voice gentle but firm. I hesitated, then nodded, unable to meet her gaze.
“That was very naughty of you,” she said, folding her arms across her apron. I felt my cheeks burn even hotter, and I stammered, “I’m sorry, Linda. I didn’t mean to—”
For a moment, I thought she might scold me further, or even reach for her own hairbrush, but instead she just shook her head and said, “I should think so, too. Off you go, now.” I mumbled another apology and hurried out, my heart still pounding.
As I walked home through the rain, the sound of Linda’s skirts and the echo of Mary’s story lingered in my mind. In the years that followed, I often found myself thinking back to that afternoon—the warmth of Linda’s kitchen, the swish of her dress, the sternness in her voice—and wondering what it would have been like to be put over her ample, aproned lap for a good, old-fashioned spanking. The memory stayed with me, vivid and strangely comforting, a reminder of a world where rules were clear, and consequences always followed.
