(gap: 2s) This is a story from my earliest childhood, set in the gentle days of the 1930s. I was a curious and adventurous little girl, always eager for excitement. One bright afternoon, I decided that I should try the adventure of ‘running away’, for I had heard other children speak of it, and it sounded most thrilling indeed.
I carefully packed a few treasured belongings, made two neat peanut butter sandwiches, and persuaded my younger brother, Jeff, to join me. He did not truly understand, but he trusted me, and so, hand in hand, we slipped quietly out of the side door, down the garden path, and around the block to the pond, where we made our little ‘camp’.
What I did not realise was that, by this time, worry had spread through our family and neighbours. We lived in a large, comfortable house in a pleasant suburb near Boston, and the fear of kidnapping was very real, especially after the dreadful Lindbergh baby incident. A search party was soon formed, with the police included, and soon voices were calling our names, echoing across the water.
I did not wish to be found, so I pulled Jeff into the bushes by the pond, hoping to hide from the searchers. Jeff, quite unaware of the seriousness of the situation, began to dig in the mud, becoming dirtier with every moment.
Unfortunately, I had left our things by the water’s edge, and when they were discovered, the adults’ fear turned to near-hysteria. My parents rushed down, terrified that we had drowned. I had never seen my mother cry before. The sight of her tears—her face twisted with fear and relief—shook me deeply. I stepped out of the bushes, my heart pounding, suddenly aware that I had done something very wrong.
It felt as if the world had ended. I did not understand why everyone was so upset. Someone reached in and pulled Jeff out, muddy and dazed, his thumb in his mouth as he curled up on Father’s shoulder. No one blamed him. Father said he would take Jeff home to clean him up, while a neighbour gathered our things, and my mother took my hand—her grip tight and trembling with emotion.
I could feel her tears turning to anger. Her hand squeezed mine so tightly it hurt, and when I tried to pull away, she only held on more firmly. At the gate, she set me down on the lawn and told me not to move. She thanked the neighbours for their help, her voice strained, and took our things from them.
The last police officer was finishing his report. He looked down at me, his eyes stern, and told my mother that I was going to be a very sorry little girl. I did not know what he meant, but a cold dread crept into my stomach.
When everyone had gone, my mother led me to a bench near the porch, hidden from the road by thick, flowering bushes. The air was heavy with the scent of blossoms and the fading warmth of the sun. She pulled my dirty dress over my head, leaving me in one shoe, my undershirt, and my knickers. I felt exposed, small, and very much alone.
(short pause) With a swift, practiced motion, she pulled me over her lap. My head was pushed down so far I felt I might tumble to the ground, the world tilting and spinning. The rough fabric of her skirt scratched my cheek. I could hear her breathing—shaky, angry, and hurt. Then, she raised her hand and delivered the first sharp smack to my bottom. The sting was immediate, hot and shocking. She continued, giving me twelve firm smacks, each one echoing in my ears and burning on my skin. The pain built with every strike, a fiery ache that made my legs kick and my hands clench. I was so stunned, I did not even cry at first—just gasped, the world narrowing to the rhythm of her hand and the heat spreading across my backside.
The spanking seemed endless. The sound of each slap mingled with the distant hum of cicadas and the rustle of leaves. My mother’s voice, tight with emotion, scolded me between blows—about running away, about frightening everyone, about the danger I had put Jeff in. Her words cut almost as much as her hand. I felt shame burning in my chest, tears finally spilling down my cheeks, my sobs growing louder with each smack. The world outside the bushes faded away; there was only pain, regret, and the overwhelming sense that I had broken something precious.
When it was finally over, my mother stood me up. My bottom throbbed, hot and sore, and I clutched it as I cried, my face streaked with tears and dirt. She led me inside, her grip still firm but now trembling, and handed me to my nanny, instructing her to bathe me and put me straight to bed.
Nanny, who had been just as frightened, bathed me in silence. The water stung my raw skin, and I whimpered as she washed away the mud and tears. When I was clean, she sat by the tub, towel in her lap, and pulled me across her knees. Her own spanking was brisk and business like. She gave me six sharp smacks, each one landing squarely on my already sore bottom. The pain was fresh, and I sobbed anew. She lectured me sternly about the fear I had caused, about the danger to my brother, her words heavy with disappointment and worry.
Afterward, she tucked me into bed, my body aching, my spirit crushed.
