(gap: 1s) Growing up on the estate in the north of England, our world was a patchwork of red-brick terraces, the air always tinged with the scent of coal smoke and the distant clatter of children’s laughter. Our house was small but warm, the living room always glowing with the orange light of the coal fire, and Mam’s presence filled every corner—her voice, her rules, her love, and her discipline. She was the backbone of our family, a typical northern woman of her time: tough as old boots, fiercely proud, and determined to keep us on the straight and narrow. She worked her fingers to the bone, scrubbing, cooking, and keeping us all in line.
(short pause) In the cupboard, always within reach but never in plain sight, hung Mam’s belt—the one she kept for all of us children. It was a thick, heavy strip of dark brown leather, the kind that looked like it could last a lifetime. The surface was worn smooth from years of use, the edges slightly frayed, and the brass buckle dulled with age. When the cupboard door creaked open and Mam’s hand reached for it, a hush would fall over the house. Just the sight of that belt, coiled and waiting, was enough to make our hearts race and our stomachs twist with anticipation and fear. It was a symbol of her authority, a warning that she meant what she said, and a promise that mischief would not go unpunished.
(short pause) I’d had my share of hidings, as had my brothers and sisters, but there’s one memory that stands out, as sharp and vivid as if it happened yesterday. It was the day I learned just how far a bit of childish mischief could go—and how quickly innocence could turn to regret.
(pause) It all began on a drizzly Saturday afternoon, the kind where the sky hung low and the pavements glistened with rain. My friend Susan and I, bored and restless, found ourselves poking around her parents’ pantry. The shelves were lined with bottles—her dad’s homebrew stout, cloudy homemade wine, and the odd bottle of something mysterious. The grown-ups were out, and the temptation was too much. We dared each other, giggling, to take a sip. The first taste was bitter and strange, burning my throat and making my eyes water, but the thrill of doing something forbidden was intoxicating in itself. We tried another, and another, each one sending us into fits of laughter, our voices echoing off the cold stone walls.
(pause) Soon, the world began to tilt. My head felt light, my tongue heavy, and the room spun in slow circles. I remember Susan’s face, flushed and wide-eyed, as we tried to steady ourselves, clutching the pantry shelves for support. The sound of the front door slamming jolted us to attention—her mam and dad were home. We scrambled to act normal, but our giggles gave us away, and the smell of the homebrew lingered in the air like a guilty secret.
(short pause) Susan’s mam’s face turned thunderous as she took in the scene. Her voice was sharp, slicing through our haze, and the shame hit me harder than any belt ever could. Susan was sent upstairs in tears, and Mrs. Taylor fixed me with a look that made my stomach twist. “I don’t know what your mam will say about this, Laura, but I know Susan’s in for a good hiding when I get back.” Her words rang in my ears as she marched me out into the rain, her grip firm on my shoulder, my heart pounding with dread.
(pause) The walk home felt endless, every step heavy with fear and embarrassment. When we reached our front door, Mrs. Taylor explained everything to Mam, her voice low and serious. I watched the two women’s faces—Mam’s jaw set, her eyes cold and disappointed. I knew then that there would be no escape, no pleading my way out of this one.
(pause) That night, Mam sent me straight to my room. “You can think about what you’ve done,” she said, her voice flat and final. “We’ll deal with you in the morning, when you’ve sobered up.” I lay on my narrow bed, the familiar pattern of the wallpaper blurring through my tears, my stomach churning with guilt and fear. The house was quiet except for the ticking of the clock and the occasional crackle from the fire downstairs. I imagined Susan in her own room, dreading what was to come, and felt a pang of regret so deep it made my chest ache.
(pause) The next morning dawned grey and cold. Mam went about her usual business—nipping to the shops, hanging out the washing, chatting with neighbours over the garden fence. I watched her from my window, the knot in my stomach tightening with every passing hour. The waiting was the worst part, the anticipation stretching out the punishment until it felt unbearable. I replayed the events in my mind, wishing I could turn back time, wishing I’d never touched that bottle.
(pause) Finally, as the afternoon sun slanted through the curtains, Mam called me into her bedroom. The room smelled of lavender and starch, the old wooden chair pulled out from the wall. She sat me down and gave me a long, stern lecture about the dangers of drink, her voice trembling with anger and worry. Then she opened the wardrobe and took out the leather belt, its surface worn smooth from years of use, the dark brown leather heavy in her hands, the brass buckle glinting in the dim light. My heart hammered in my chest as she told me to bend over the chair, her hands steady and unyielding.
(pause) I gripped the seat, my knuckles white, my breath coming in shallow bursts. The room was silent except for the faint ticking of the clock and the rustle of Mam’s skirt as she moved behind me. Then, with a sharp crack, the first stroke landed. The pain was immediate—a hot, stinging line across my backside, making me gasp. The second stroke followed, lower this time, the leather biting through my thin skirt and burning my skin. I clenched my teeth, determined not to cry, but the third stroke caught me by surprise, the sound echoing off the walls, the pain blooming in a fresh wave. The fourth and fifth came in quick succession, each one building on the last, the ache deepening, my resolve beginning to crumble. By the sixth, my eyes were brimming with tears, the sensation a mix of fire and shame, my body tensing with each blow. The seventh stroke landed higher, catching the edge of my hip, and I let out a small, involuntary sob. The eighth was slower, more deliberate, the leather dragging slightly before snapping down, leaving a welt that throbbed with every heartbeat. The ninth and tenth were a blur of sound and sensation—my breath hitching, my hands gripping the chair so tightly my fingers ached. The eleventh stroke was the hardest yet, the pain sharp and clean, cutting through any last shred of defiance. And then the twelfth—final, heavy, and lingering—seemed
