In the heart of a small Irish town, where the hedgerows grew thick and the air was always tinged with the scent of peat, I found myself drawn into the curious world of the Murphy family. Their home, with its creaking floorboards and ticking clocks, was a place where laughter and discipline danced together like shadows at dusk.
Patrick, my steadfast companion, rarely spoke of the ways of discipline in his household, but I had gathered enough from the whispers and glances to know that the belt was a frequent visitor. His father, a stern man with a voice like thunder, had used it on Patrick a handful of times, while the task of correcting his younger sister, Sandra, fell to their mother.
One particular Saturday, the air was thick with anticipation as Patrick and I approached his house. The sun was setting, painting the sky with streaks of gold, but inside, a storm was brewing. Sandra had not returned home the previous night, and her mother’s worry had curdled into a fierce, unyielding anger.
Patrick attempted to soothe his mother’s temper, but Mrs Murphy was resolute. When Sandra finally appeared, her mother stood at the door, clutching a black leather belt—a belt so formidable it seemed to possess a life of its own. Its leather was cracked and shiny, the brass buckle dulled by countless years of use. It was the sort of belt that had seen many a misdeed corrected, and it glimmered with the promise of consequence.
Sandra’s face turned as pale as the moon. “Mother, I am sorry,” she pleaded, her voice trembling. “It became late. I did not intend—” “Not another word,” Mrs Murphy commanded, seizing Sandra’s arm and delivering a single, resounding smack to her bottom. “Inside, this instant.” Patrick sighed, his eyes wide with worry. “She is in for it now,” he whispered.
Mrs Murphy was always far stricter with Sandra than she had ever been with Patrick. Sandra, with her sharp wit and fiery temper, seemed to invite trouble wherever she went. Patrick, though occasionally mischievous, was a gentle soul by comparison.
Without delay, Mrs Murphy marched Sandra into the kitchen and placed a sturdy chair in the centre of the tiled floor. Sandra’s eyes grew wide with dread as her mother instructed, “Bend over that chair, young lady. You must learn the importance of coming home on time.”
(short pause) The kitchen, usually warm and inviting, now felt as cold as a winter’s night. The tiles echoed every sound, amplifying the tension that filled the room. Sandra’s hands shook as she gripped the back of the chair, her knuckles white as chalk. Her breath came in short, frightened gasps, and her eyes darted about, searching for mercy. But Mrs Murphy’s face was set, her jaw firm, the belt gripped tightly in her hand.
“Mother, please! I am truly sorry. It shall not happen again,” Sandra begged. But Mrs Murphy’s response was swift—a second smack, harder than the first. “Silence!” she barked. Tears welled in Sandra’s eyes, and she bent obediently over the chair.
(pause) Then, with a movement as precise as a clockwork toy, Mrs Murphy raised the belt high. The leather sliced through the air and landed with a sharp, thunderous smack across Sandra’s backside. The sound was so loud and final that it seemed to shake the very walls. Sandra jolted forward, her fingers digging into the wood, a strangled cry escaping her lips.
That was only the beginning. Mrs Murphy delivered the second smack, then the third, and the fourth, each one as fierce as the last. The kitchen filled with the harsh rhythm of leather meeting flesh, punctuated by Sandra’s yelps and sobs. Five, six, seven—each stroke left a vivid red stripe blooming across her skin, a testament to her mother’s anger and disappointment. Sandra’s legs kicked helplessly, her feet scraping against the cold tiles as she braced herself for the next blow.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming—a burning, stinging agony that radiated through Sandra’s entire body. Yet the shame was even greater. With every smack, her pride crumbled, replaced by humiliation. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gasped for breath between sobs. The kitchen, once filled with the aroma of baking, now reeked of punishment and sorrow.
Patrick stood frozen in the doorway, his face ashen. He flinched with every crack of the belt, his fists clenched at his sides. I kept my hand on his arm, feeling him tense with each of Sandra’s cries. The house seemed to hold its breath, the only sounds the relentless slap of leather and Sandra’s desperate pleas.
“Mother, please! Please, stop!” Sandra wailed, her voice hoarse and broken. But Mrs Murphy was relentless. The eighth, ninth, and tenth smacks landed, each one lower than the last, catching the tops of Sandra’s thighs. Sandra’s scream was piercing, a sound that would haunt me for years to come.
The atmosphere was suffocating. The air was thick with the smell of leather and fear, the tension so heavy it pressed down on my chest. The kitchen clock ticked on, indifferent to the suffering below. I wanted to look away, but I could not move. I was rooted to the spot, forced to witness every moment of Sandra’s ordeal.
At last, after ten smacks, Sandra’s strength gave out. She slumped over the chair, her sobs reduced to pitiful whimpers. Her bottom was a patchwork of red welts, already swelling and angry. Mrs Murphy paused, breathing heavily, her face flushed with exertion and emotion. For a moment, I thought it was over.
But then, through her tears, Sandra muttered something under her breath—a final act of defiance. Mrs Murphy’s eyes flashed with renewed fury. She seized Sandra’s hair, forced her back into position, and delivered two more smacks, each one harder than the last. The cracks echoed through the kitchen, louder than before, and Sandra’s whole body convulsed with pain.
Patrick could bear it no longer. He stepped forward, his voice trembling but resolute. “Mother, that is enough,” he pleaded. But Mrs Murphy only glared at him, pointing the belt in his direction. “Out, Patrick! You will only make it worse for Sandra.” Patrick hesitated, torn between fear and the desire to protect his sister.
Mrs Murphy’s anger was a force of nature, wild and unstoppable. She brought the belt down again and again—thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—each stroke a declaration of her authority, each cry from Sandra a reminder of the cost. The kitchen was filled with the sounds of discipline: leather on skin, sobs, the sharp intake of breath, the dull thud of feet against tile.
At last, Patrick found his courage. He lunged forward, grabbing for the belt just as his mother swung it down for the sixteenth time. The belt caught his palm with a loud crack, leaving a bright red stripe. He winced, but did not let go. With a determined tug, he wrenched the belt from his mother’s grasp. Mrs Murphy, furious, slapped at him, but he held the belt out of her reach, his voice trembling. “You are finished—Sandra has learned her lesson.”
Sandra lay draped over the chair, her body shaking with sobs, her face buried in her arms. Her hair clung to her damp cheeks, and her breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. The pain in her bottom was searing, a deep, throbbing ache that would linger for days. But worse than the pain was the humiliation—the knowledge that her brother and I had witnessed her punishment, that her cries had filled the house.
Mrs Murphy, still seething, snatched up a wooden spoon from the counter and delivered three sharp, stinging smacks to Sandra’s already battered backside. Sandra’s screams rose again, desperate and pleading, but there was no escape. The punishment continued until Mrs Murphy, at last, was satisfied that her daughter had learned her lesson.
When it was finally over, Sandra was marched to the corner, her undergarments still down, her hands on her head. Tears streamed down her face as she stood, trembling, her bottom burning and exposed. The kitchen was silent now, the storm of discipline spent, but the echoes of pain and shame lingered in the air.
Patrick left the room and came over to me. I had been waiting at the door, unable to imagine what it would be like to be Sandra. Patrick and I went upstairs. We had to pass through the kitchen on the way. Sandra stood facing the wall, trying to ease the heat in her bottom by shifting from foot to foot. Her sobs eventually turned to pitiful moans and whimpers.
“How can your mother do that?” I whispered once we were in Patrick’s room. Patrick sighed. “Sandra has always been a handful. I believe Mother simply lost her patience. But I do not think I ever received anything quite so severe.”
I had never been struck in my life. “Poor Sandra,” I said softly. Then I saw Patrick’s hand. It was still bright red and looked painful. “Oh, Patrick!” I cried. He jerked it away, looking embarrassed. “Does it hurt?” I asked. “Not as much as Sandra’s bottom, I would imagine,” he replied quietly.
An hour later, we went back downstairs. Mrs Murphy had just told Sandra she could pull her jeans back on and go to her room. Then she left to collect Jimmy, Patrick’s little seven-year-old brother.
“Are you all right?” Patrick asked Sandra as she struggled with her jeans. Sandra’s eyes were still red and puffy. “It hurts very much, Patrick.” Patrick gave his sister a hug and she collapsed into his arms, crying.
“I despise her, Patrick.” Patrick gave her a stern look. “Sandra,” he warned, “you brought this upon yourself. I know Mother went too far, but you had no business staying out all night. And if you ever call Mother a cow again, I shall hand her that belt myself—do you understand?” Sniffling, Sandra nodded.
“Good,” Patrick said sharply. “Now, off to your room.” Sandra scurried away.
Little did I know that only a few weeks later, I would be the next to encounter Mrs Murphy’s formidable Irish temper and her most memorable methods of discipline…
