My mother was a formidable woman—tall, upright, and always impeccably dressed, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, her eyes sharp and unwavering. She moved through our modest Liverpool flat with a purposeful stride, her heels clicking on the linoleum, her presence filling every room with an air of authority. Even the wallpaper seemed to stand to attention when she entered.
She was the very embodiment of stern, devout Christian discipline, her faith woven into every aspect of our lives. Her Presbyterian beliefs were not just a matter of Sunday ritual, but the foundation of her character and the guiding force behind every decision she made. The Bible, with its gold-edged pages and worn leather cover, sat on the sideboard like a silent judge, and its words echoed in her every command.
Her only ambition for me, her son, was that I should not become like the unruly children who roamed our estate—those wild, noisy boys and girls whose parents, she often said, had clearly abandoned all sense of order and decency. She saw it as her sacred duty to keep me from their influence, to ensure I grew up upright, respectful, and God-fearing. I remember her standing at the window, arms folded, watching the children below as they shrieked and tumbled, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.
Because of this, I was rarely allowed out to play. If I did, it was always under her watchful eye, her presence a constant reminder that mischief would not be tolerated. The other children would run wild in the streets, their laughter echoing up to our flat, but I was kept close, my world bounded by her rules and her unwavering sense of right and wrong. I would press my nose to the cold glass, longing to join them, but knowing better than to ask.
Every Sunday, without fail, I was made to attend church—rain or shine, sniffles or no. My mother’s deep religious convictions meant that missing a service was unthinkable. The church was not just a place of worship, but a weekly lesson in humility, obedience, and the fear of God. I sat beside her in the pew, my hands folded, my eyes lowered, absorbing the sermons and hymns that shaped her world and, by extension, mine. The scent of old wood and candle wax, the drone of the organ, the scratchy wool of my best jumper—all of it is etched into my memory.
I don’t believe I was especially naughty as a child – at least, no more than many other of my acquaintance. I remember once, in a moment of daring, sneaking a biscuit from the tin before tea. The thrill of rebellion was quickly replaced by dread as I heard her footsteps in the hallway. She always seemed to know.
Unfortunately my mother – of stern, unyielding Presbyterian stock – disagreed. In her sincere and honest belief that to spare the rod was to spoil the child, she ensured that anything other than the mildest of infractions were dealt with swiftly and sharply. Her discipline was as much a part of the household as the ticking of the clock or the smell of coal smoke.
More often than not, that meant applying her hand firmly to her son’s backside – vigorously and enthusiastically. The ritual was always the same: a stern lecture, a moment of silence, and then the inevitable. I can still recall the sting, the heat, the embarrassment of it all, and the way I would try to blink back tears, determined not to give her the satisfaction.
“I take no pleasure in this, Mark,” she would observe as I balanced over her knee, but it did me no harm when I was your age and I’ll not have you turning into a hooligan, even if I have to tan your backside every night for a year.”
‘Tan your backside’ or not infrequently ‘your backside’ was a phrase she was very fond of. Often, it was posed as a question, as in: “Would you like me to tan your backside?”
Other rhetorical questions included ‘do you want a spanking?’ and (more rarely but more ominously) ‘shall I give you a good hiding?’
In my experience, by the time these sort of questions were asked, it was too late; my fate had been sealed. Answering ‘no, Mother’ or ‘please no, Mother’ would not be sufficient to avoid what would follow.
Then would follow: “Go to your bedroom – you know what to do. I’ll be up when I’ve washed the floor/done the washing up/peeled the potatoes”, or whatever other job she had to do. Arguing or pleading at this point was futile. All there was for it was to do as I was told and go upstairs.
Once in my room, I did indeed know what I had to do , just sit on the edge of the bed and ponder my fate. That corporal punishment would be administered was a given; it was simply a question of what implement would be employed .
That would depend upon how severe she deemed my misdemeanour to be, of course. From my first spanking at the age of five, the routine was always the same. Mother would scold me, explain why she was punishing me and remind me that the purpose of the spanking was to teach me a lesson.
Consequently, she intended that what was to follow was going to hurt, but that again was a given. She had a horror of me turning out like the Matthews children from down the road – they were out of control and Mother often said she knew what she would do to them if they were hers.
Once the scolding was down with, I would be pulled straight off my feet and over her knee.
Then the spanking would then start – hard and fast smacks to both cheeks. Mother’s hand was like iron and thanks to her days of playing tennis she hit with force, her right hand in the middle of my back holding me down while her left mercilessly hit my increasingly sore and tender backside. The tears would flow and the only comfort she would give me was that I grateful one day and she was doing this for my own good.
I only knew the punishment was reaching its end when the smacks started landing on my upper thighs – Mother saved the worst until last to make sure I’d remember the lesson every time I sat down for a while afterwards. If I cried too much, I was offered my father’s belt instead. Biting back my tears and knowing better than to protest, all I could do was grit my teeth and pray for the end.
When it was finally over, Mother would hug me and repeat that the punishment was for my own good, and that she hoped she would not have to do it again. Even as she was saying those words, I’m sure she thought that unlikely.
Mother would then go back to her housework and I would get dressed again, before going back downstairs feeling thoroughly sore and chastised.
And that’s how it went on, frequently and regularly until my I got a little older. On my first day at grammar school, resplendent in my new school uniform, Mother gave me a kiss and wished me good luck, but added: “You’re a big boy at big school now. Big boys don’t get spanked over Mother’s knee anymore, do they?” I was happy to agree and assumed that the pain and embarrassment of sore bottoms was now a thing of the past. How wrong and naive could I have been?
I was disabused of this ridiculous notion about two weeks later. I was late back from school and covered in mud – having taken a short cut through the woods with friends and having an impromptu game of football.
Mother met me on the doorstep in a fine fury. The predictable questions were asked: “What time do you call this? Didn’t I tell you not to go through those woods? Do you expect me to wash those clothes in that state?”
This barrage of questions was rounded off with the classic: “Did you want a spanking?” My stomach turned over but, perhaps because I considered myself a big boy or perhaps because of misplaced bravado, I shot back: “Of course I didn’t, Mother. I was just leaving playing with my friends. Anyway, I’m too old for a spanking now – you said so yourself.”
Mother looked momentarily puzzled and then an ominous grin of dawning amusement crossed her stern face. “You silly, stupid boy! That’s what you think I said, did you? Well, you’ve got a surprise coming – get upstairs this instant.”
My bravado vanished quicker than my mother’s smile. Years of training over her knee had taught me that arguing only made it more painful so I went upstairs like a little boy for his mummy to come and smack his bottom.
She hadn’t said how long she would be. Usually she left me to stew for 30 minutes. This time the clock ticked and there was no sign of her. I started to reflect on what she had said and what I thought she had meant. What did she mean? Obviously I was to be punished, but if she wasn’t going to spank me, then what? Then, the penny dropped.
In the spare room next door to my bedroom, reserved for occasional guests only was a wardrobe. It was used to store winter coats and other items not in daily use.
I also knew that stored in there – because I had been shown them – were my my dad’s old leather belt. Many times, indeed, I had been promised a ‘jolly good hiding’ with them. More ominously still, Mother hinted that she was keeping a cane for me, for when he was really bad.
Surely I hadn’t been that bad, had I? A bit late and a bit of mud? That would normally attract a spanked bottom, but Mother’s grin worried me. When she said that big boys didn’t get spanked over mummy’s knee anymore, I thought she meant they were too big for corporal punishment. What if she meant instead that big boys got bigger punishments? At school, the cane was available for misbehaved children – was that what she meant?
My knees went to jelly as I finally heard her steps coming up the stairs. I prayed she’d come straight into my room and put me over her knee, big as I was. It would hurt all right but it surely must be better than the belt – or, God forbid, the cane.
Even in my panic, I knew the decisive moment would be when Mother got to the top of the stairs. Would she come straight ahead into my room, or would she turn right and go into the spare? I imagined the familiar click of the wardrobe lock and the cane being brought out.
