The night air in our little Liverpool flat was thick with the hush of bedtime, the only sounds the distant hum of buses and the faint clink of pipes in the walls. My sister and I, tucked beneath our heavy woollen blankets, whispered secrets and giggles across the darkness, the thrill of breaking the rules making our hearts race. The glow from the streetlamp outside cast long, trembling shadows on the psychedelic wallpaper, and every creak of the floorboards made us freeze, half in fear, half in excitement.
(short pause) After the second warning from downstairs—my mother’s voice sharp and unmistakable—we tried to stifle our laughter, but the urge to talk was too strong. Suddenly, the familiar, heavy tread of her feet thundered up the narrow staircase, each step a drumbeat of dread. The door to my sister’s room burst open, and the light snapped on, harsh and blinding after the darkness. Through the connecting door, left ajar between our rooms, I watched, breathless and wide-eyed, as my mother swept back my sister’s coverlet with a swift, practiced motion.
(pause) My sister’s face crumpled, her eyes wide with fear and embarrassment as our mother sat on the edge of the bed, her silhouette framed by the yellow light. The room was suddenly charged with a tense, electric stillness, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel and the soft rustle of bedsheets. My mother’s hands, cool and steady, gripped my sister’s arm and gently but firmly guided her across her lap. The mattress dipped beneath their weight, and my sister’s small body tensed, her toes curling into the worn carpet. (short pause) My mother’s palm hovered for a moment, and in that suspended silence, I could almost hear my sister’s breath catch in her throat.
Then, with a swift, practiced motion, the first smack landed—a sharp, echoing sound that seemed to fill the room. My sister’s body jolted, her legs stiffening, and a high, involuntary whimper escaped her lips. The spanking began in earnest, each slap delivered with a crisp, unyielding rhythm. The sound was unmistakable: the flat, stinging crack of palm against skin, the creak and groan of the old bedsprings, the muffled sobs that grew louder with every blow. My mother’s hand rose and fell, each movement deliberate, her face set in a mask of stern resolve, her jaw clenched tight. The air was thick with the mingled scents of soap, coal fire, and the faint tang of tears.
My sister’s hands clutched the bedspread, knuckles white, her face pressed deep into the pillow to muffle her cries. Her small body writhed and tensed, her feet drumming helplessly against the side of the bed, the carpet muffling the frantic kicks. With every smack, her cries grew sharper, more desperate—raw, pleading sounds that seemed to vibrate in the very air. The rhythm of the spanking was relentless, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing off the walls, mingling with the ticking clock and the distant city noises outside. My mother’s breathing was measured, almost mechanical, but her eyes flickered with something softer—regret, perhaps, or exhaustion.
The room felt impossibly small, the tension so thick it was almost a physical presence.
Then our mother came through the doorway into my room. At that age, I thought I was too old to spank. Wrong! She sat down on the side of my bed, ordered me to turn on my tummy, then pulled down my pyjama bottoms and spanked me.
It did sting, but not enough to make me cry. I didn’t make a sound, actually. This was the only time I ever received a formal spanking from my mother which didn’t make me cry. At the time, I imagined this was because I was such a big kid. That was probably part of it. But looking back, I suspect her palm was already so tender from the major tanning she’d just given my sister that she couldn’t make herself spank me full on.
So although we were both equally misbehaved, my sister unfairly got the worst of it. That was my last spanking, but it wasn’t my sister’s.
