(gap: 2s) When I was a child, many years ago, I once took a yo-yo from the village shop without paying for it, and then I told my mother an untruth. For this, I received a most thorough and memorable punishment, one that I have never forgotten, for it taught me a lesson about honesty and the consequences of wrongdoing.
Yo-yos were all the rage, and I dearly wished for a splendid Duncan yo-yo. However, times were difficult, and money was precious. Father worked long hours, and Mother managed our large family with care and discipline. There were four sisters and two brothers, and Mother was in charge of keeping us all in order. Most of the time, if we were naughty, the punishment was private, but if the misdeed was serious, the punishment was given before the whole family.
Near my school stood a small row of shops, and I would often gaze longingly at the yo-yos displayed in the window. I asked Mother if we might buy one, but she always replied, “No, we must not spend money unwisely. You already have a yo-yo.” Yet my own was old and worn.
After some weeks, temptation overcame me. One day, finding myself alone in the shop and seeing no one about, I quietly slipped the Duncan yo-yo into my pocket. I lingered a little longer, then returned to school.
There was still time left in the lunch break, so I took out my new yo-yo and began to play. I was rather good at it, and soon my friends gathered round. My best friend, Carl, asked when I had got it. “Today,” I replied. “Did your mother buy it for you at last?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, not thinking of the consequences.
After school, I spent half an hour more with my friends, playing with my new yo-yo before I went home.
What I did not know was that Carl had told his mother about my new yo-yo, and she, being a good friend of my mother’s, telephoned her to ask why she had bought one when she had said she could not afford it. My mother replied that she had not bought me a yo-yo. Carl’s mother explained that I had told Carl otherwise. My mother said she would discover the truth.
When I arrived home, Mother asked me where I had got the yo-yo. Without thinking, I told her that Carl had given it to me. “That is not what I heard from Carl and his mother,” she replied.
By now, I realised my story was unravelling. Mother said, “Where did you get this yo-yo? You had better tell me the truth, for you have already told me a lie.” At last, I confessed that I had taken it from the shop near the school.
Mother took me firmly by the hand and marched me to the shop, sometimes giving my ear a sharp tug if I dawdled. When we arrived, she asked for the manager and explained what I had done. She paid for the yo-yo, then made me return it to the manager, asking him to give it to a child in need, which he kindly agreed to do.
Mother then told the manager that she wished him to witness my punishment for stealing. She took her hairbrush from her handbag. (short pause) The shop seemed to grow very quiet, every sound suddenly clear—the bell above the door tinkling, the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the wooden floor. My cheeks burned as Mother sat on a chair, her face set with resolve. I could feel the eyes of the manager and a few customers upon me, their conversations falling silent. (pause) Mother drew me over her knee, and I glimpsed the hairbrush shining in the light. The first smack landed with a loud, echoing crack, the sting sharp and immediate. I gasped, the pain fierce, and the embarrassment even greater. Each smack of the hairbrush rang out, the sound bouncing off the jars of sweets and the glass counter. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to cry, but the pain grew with every blow. I could hear the manager clear his throat, and a lady by the door gave a soft gasp. My ears burned as much as my bottom, and I wished I could vanish. (pause) Mother gave me six hard smacks with the hairbrush, each one a lesson in honesty and shame. By the fifth, my legs were kicking, and tears pricked my eyes. The hairbrush was relentless, each smack a reminder of my guilt. The customers looked away, but no one spoke. The sixth and final smack landed, and I let out a shaky breath, my face wet with tears. Mother stood me up, her face stern but not unkind. The manager nodded gravely, and a customer gave me a look of both pity and approval. My bottom throbbed, and my pride was sorely wounded. I wanted to run from the shop, but I stood there, sniffling, as Mother thanked the manager and we left. The lesson was impressed upon me as surely as the sting that lingered long after we had gone.
After supper and when all the chores were finished, I was sent to my room and told to prepare for bed. I protested, saying it was too early.
Mother said, “You are to receive a family punishment tonight. Would you prefer your father’s razor strop or my hairbrush?” Then I understood that another spanking awaited me. Mother added, “You have thirty minutes to get ready.”
I hurried to wash and put on my pyjamas, then came downstairs. The whole family was assembled in the sitting room, waiting for me. Mother explained to everyone what I had done and why I was to be punished.
She told me to fetch a dining chair and place it in the centre of the room. Then she sat down and I stood beside her. She gave me a long, stern lecture and told me how I must earn back the money she had spent on the yo-yo.
My heart thudded as I dragged the heavy chair to the centre, its legs scraping on the floor. The air was thick with anticipation; my brothers and sisters sat in a silent semicircle, their eyes wide. Mother’s face was set, her lips pressed together, the hairbrush gleaming in her hand. (short pause) She patted her lap, and I stepped forward, my legs trembling. The room seemed to close in, the ticking of the clock suddenly very loud. As I bent over her knee, my pyjamas bunched up, and I felt the cool air on my skin. (pause) The first smack landed with a sharp, wooden crack, the sting spreading through my thin pyjamas. I gripped the chair leg tightly. Each smack was deliberate, the hairbrush biting into the same spot, the pain building in hot, overlapping waves. I could hear my siblings shifting, the rustle of their clothes and the faint sound of someone sniffling. (pause) Mother gave me twelve hard smacks with the hairbrush, each one a lesson in honesty and obedience. By the fourth or fifth, my resolve began to crumble. My eyes stung with tears, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The hairbrush felt impossibly heavy, each swat echoing in my ears and sending a jolt through my body. My bottom burned, the heat spreading and intensifying with every blow. (pause) Mother’s voice was steady as she scolded me between smacks, her words sinking in deeper than the pain: “We do not steal. We do not tell lies.” The humiliation of being punished before my family was almost worse than the sting itself. My face burned, my breath coming in ragged gasps. (pause) By the time the twelfth and final smack landed, I was sobbing openly, my pride gone and my bottom throbbing. Mother let me up, and I stumbled to the wall, tears streaming down my cheeks, my hands trembling as I placed them on my head. The wall felt cool against my forehead as I stood there, my bottom pulsing with pain, the lesson seared into me as surely as the heat that lingered long after the hairbrush was put away. (pause) Twenty minutes felt like an eternity, the muffled sounds of my family behind me a reminder of my shame. When I was finally excused, I crept off to bed, lying on my stomach, the ache a constant reminder of what I had done.
At last, I was excused and went to bed. I slept on my stomach that night. I learned a lesson that day—one I have never forgotten: honesty is always best, and wrongdoing brings its own just reward.
