In my third year at the local council-run primary, tucked away on the rougher side of Surrey, I landed in Mrs Parker’s class. At our school, the teachers—especially the ones who weren’t nuns—were known for their quick tempers and even quicker hands. Mrs Parker, though, had a reputation that stretched from the playground to the corner shop. She kept a battered old slipper hanging from a hook by the classroom door, and to us kids, it looked as big as a dustbin lid.
The lay teachers at our school were always the strictest, never shy about handing out a smack or a slippering. The nuns might give you a sharp word or a glare, but the council teachers didn’t hesitate. That autumn, Mrs Parker wasted no time showing us she meant business—anyone caught mucking about would find themselves over her knee, slipper in hand, right in front of the whole class. It was mortifying, and more than a few of us ended up in tears.
For some reason, I always thought the other kids had it easier than me. I’d never been properly spanked at school, and at home, Mum only gave me the odd smack if I really pushed my luck. Even that was getting rarer as I got older.
I convinced myself that if you were used to a slippering, Mrs Parker wouldn’t seem so scary. But for me, who’d barely had a proper telling-off, it felt like the end of the world. Looking back, it was daft logic, but that’s how it seemed to a kid growing up on a council estate.
Of course, the day came when I slipped up. I’d left my workbook at home, and when Mrs Parker called for them, mine was nowhere to be seen. “Patricia,” she called out, sifting through the pile, “where’s your workbook?”
Here’s where I made things worse. I panicked, thinking I’d get in trouble for forgetting my homework, so I lied. “I think I left it in art, Miss.”
Art was in the prefab at the back of the playground, and I knew full well my book wasn’t there. My plan was to bring it in the next day and pretend I’d found it.
Mrs Parker fixed me with a look. She’d seen it all before, I’m sure. “So, if we go down to the art room together, we’ll find your workbook, will we?” she said, staring me down.
I was caught. My throat went dry and I couldn’t get a word out.
“Children,” Mrs Parker announced, her voice echoing off the peeling walls, “forgetting your homework and then lying about it is a serious offence. That calls for a proper slippering. Up you get, Patricia, and come to the front.”
My legs felt like jelly as I stood up, the scrape of my chair loud in the sudden hush. Every eye in the room was on me, the air thick with anticipation. My cheeks burned with shame as I shuffled to the front, the floorboards creaking under my shoes. I could hear the faint ticking of the classroom clock, the rustle of exercise books, and the nervous giggles and whispers of my classmates. My heart hammered in my chest, and my palms were slick with sweat.
Mrs Parker dragged her chair out, the legs screeching against the linoleum. She sat down, slipper in hand, and patted her lap. “Over my knee, Patricia,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. I hesitated, feeling the heat of a hundred stares, then bent awkwardly over her lap, my skirt riding up as she adjusted me. The smell of chalk dust and floor polish filled my nose. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself.
The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing crack, the sting blooming instantly across my backside. I gasped, the pain hot and shocking, and the room seemed to shrink around me. Each slap of the slipper was punctuated by the soft intake of breath from the class, the occasional stifled snicker, and the creak of Mrs Parker’s chair. The slipper came down again and again, each time sending a jolt through my body, the pain building until my eyes filled with tears. My face was pressed against the rough fabric of her skirt, and I could hear my own ragged breathing, the blood pounding in my ears.
By the time she finished, my bottom was throbbing and my pride was in tatters. I could barely see through the tears as I stood up, my hands trembling. The classroom was silent, save for the distant hum of traffic outside and the faint sniffles from a few sympathetic classmates. My face burned with humiliation as I made my way back to my seat, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. The wooden chair felt cold and hard beneath me, and I shifted uncomfortably, wincing at the lingering sting.
When the bell finally rang, my mates tried to cheer me up, nudging me and whispering that it wasn’t so bad, that everyone got it sooner or later. Most of them had been slippered before, so they knew the drill. But I felt exposed, raw, and utterly mortified.
It never crossed my mind that the school would ring home. But that evening, my stepmum called me into the kitchen. “Did you get in trouble at school today?” she asked. I nodded and told her about Mrs Parker and the slipper.
She gave me a look. “Didn’t I tell you, if you ever acted up at school, you’d get another hiding at home?” My stomach dropped. She’d threatened a proper, pants-down spanking for this sort of thing, though I’d never really believed she’d do it. “Upstairs, now.”
My legs felt heavy as I climbed the stairs, the old carpet muffling my footsteps. My bedroom was small and cluttered, the fading light casting long shadows across the mismatched blankets and the threadbare Paddington Bear on my pillow. I sat on the edge of my bed, heart thumping, the silence broken only by the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the muffled voices from the telly downstairs. I stared at the curling “Visit Surrey!” poster on the wall, my hands twisting in my lap, dread coiling in my stomach.
When my stepmum entered, she closed the door softly behind her. She sat on the bed, her face serious but not angry. “I promised you, and I have to keep my word,” she said quietly, patting her lap. “Come here, young lady.” My throat tightened as I stood and shuffled over, the floor cold beneath my bare feet. I could smell her perfume, a faint trace of lavender, and the starch of her blouse.
I went over her knee, my face pressed into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. She pulled my pyjama bottoms down, and I felt the cool air on my skin. The first smack landed, sharp and stinging, and I let out a sob. Each spank was firm and deliberate, the pain building with every blow, my legs kicking helplessly. I could hear my own crying, muffled by the pillow, and the steady rhythm of her hand. The room felt small and close, the wallpaper’s faded flowers blurring through my tears.
When it was over, she let me up and left me to calm down, the door clicking softly behind her. I lay on the bed, face hot and wet, my bottom throbbing, the ache settling deep into my bones. After a while, she came back, sat beside me, and pulled me into a hug. “Let’s hope that’s the last time, eh, Patricia?” she whispered, smoothing my hair. I nodded, still sniffling, but grateful for the comfort.
And it was—the last real spanking, anyway. But not the last lesson I’d learn growing up on Maple Crescent.
