I wonder, have you ever found yourself in trouble at a friend’s house, and received a stern word or even a punishment from their mother or father? In the days when I was a boy, it was quite usual for parents to correct any child who misbehaved, whether their own or not. I remember one such occasion most clearly, and I should like to tell you about it, for it taught me a very important lesson indeed.
Ben’s house was quite different from my own. As soon as you entered, you noticed the fresh scent of lemon polish and the gentle aroma of bread baking in the kitchen. The sitting room was always filled with golden sunlight, shining through lace curtains, and the floral wallpaper made everything look cheerful and bright. On the mantelpiece stood a row of porcelain figurines, each one carefully dusted and set in its place. It was a lovely room, but it made me feel that I must be on my very best behaviour.
Ben and I were the best of friends. We had known each other since we were very small, and I always enjoyed visiting his house, though I was a little in awe of his mother, Mrs. Carter. She was brisk and sensible, but there was a kindness in her eyes that made you want to do what was right. I always called her “Mrs. Carter,” for that was the proper thing to do.
One day in 1968, Ben and I spent a happy afternoon playing games on the living room rug. We played chess, checkers, and Scrabble, and we read our favourite comic books, laughing together at the funny stories. When Mrs. Carter called us for supper, her voice was firm but not unkind. She made us delicious hamburgers, and afterwards we watched a little television, eating biscuits and drinking milk. I thought to myself, “What a splendid day this is!”
At nine o’clock, Mrs. Carter came to the door with her hands on her hips. “Time for bed, boys. And remember—straight to sleep, no talking,” she said, her eyes twinkling, though her voice was serious. As we went upstairs, she called after us, “Do not make me come up with the slipper, boys!” I glanced at the hallway, where the slipper—a well-worn house shoe—hung on its hook. My heart fluttered, but I smiled at Ben. “She does not really mean it, does she?” I whispered. Ben only shrugged, a mischievous look in his eyes.
Of course, we did not heed her warning. Mrs. Carter was kinder than many mothers, but she did not allow any nonsense. She came up twice to hush us, each time a little more sternly. The second time, she said, “If I must come again, it will be with the slipper.” I remember how her shadow stretched across the hallway, and how Ben and I lay very still, hardly daring to breathe, as she closed the door.
Yet, as soon as the darkness settled, we began to whisper and giggle again, trying to muffle our laughter with our pillows. “We shall be quiet this time, just one more joke,” I thought. But before long, the door opened, and there stood Mrs. Carter, the slipper in her hand, her face quite serious.
“Out of bed, both of you,” she said, her voice calm but firm. My heart beat very fast. I looked at Ben, who seemed just as anxious as I was. We climbed out of bed, our bare feet cold on the floor, and stood before her, feeling very small indeed.
What surprised me most was how calm Mrs. Carter was. She was not angry, but she was very firm, as if this was simply something that must be done. I thought, “Perhaps if I look very sorry, she will not be too hard on me.” But I did not dare say a word.
Mrs. Carter sat on the edge of the bed and turned to Ben. “You first, Benjamin. Let us show your friend how things are done in this house.” Ben obediently bent over her knee, and she held him firmly. “One smack for every year, as always,” she said, looking at me. “So, Benjamin, you are nine years old, and you shall have nine smacks.” I swallowed, wishing I could be anywhere else.
Mrs. Carter raised the slipper and brought it down with a sharp smack on Ben’s pyjama-clad bottom. The sound was loud and clear. Ben gave a little cry, but Mrs. Carter continued, giving him a second, third, and fourth smack, each one just as firm as the last. Ben’s hands gripped the bedspread, and by the fifth and sixth smacks, he was wriggling and crying out. Mrs. Carter did not stop until she had given all nine smacks, each one a lesson in obedience. When she finished, Ben’s face was wet with tears, and his bottom was very sore indeed. He had learned that it is best to do as one is told.
Ben was sent to stand in the corner, sniffling, his hands pressed to his sore bottom. Then Mrs. Carter called me forward. My legs felt quite weak as I walked to her side. She guided me over her knee, holding me firmly so I could not wriggle away. “You are also nine years old, so you shall have nine smacks as well,” she said. I shut my eyes tightly, determined to be brave.
The first smack stung dreadfully, and I gasped. The second and third smacks made my eyes fill with tears, and by the fourth and fifth, I could not help but cry out. Mrs. Carter continued, giving each smack firmly and fairly, until all nine had been given. My bottom was very sore, and I was crying, but I knew I deserved my punishment. It was a lesson I would not soon forget.
When she had finished, Mrs. Carter stood me up and sent us both back to bed. That night, Ben and I lay on our stomachs, not even bothering with the blankets. Our bottoms were sore and hot, but as I listened to Ben’s quiet sniffles, I felt a strange comfort in knowing we had both learned a valuable lesson together.
To my great relief, Mrs. Carter did not tell my parents what had happened, so I was spared another punishment at home. The next morning, she smiled at me over breakfast, and I knew she would keep my secret.
I visited Ben’s house many times after that, but we never made the same mistake again. We always went straight to sleep when we were told. Looking back, I am grateful to Mrs. Carter—not only for her discipline, but for her kindness and fairness. Her house, filled with sunlight and good cheer, always felt like a second home to me, and I learned that it is always best to do as one is told.
