(gap: 2s) In our cheerful little home, nestled amongst the neat rows of council houses, Mother was the one who kept us all in order. There were three of us children: my brother, who was three years older than I, and my sister, who was three years younger. Our house was always filled with the gentle hum of daily life—the clatter of dishes, the distant laughter of children playing on the green, and the comforting aroma of Sunday roast drifting from the kitchen.
Mother had a special paddle, made of sturdy plywood, which she kept in a drawer in the sideboard. It had once been part of a game called Bo-Lo Bouncer, a relic from happier, more innocent times, but now it served as a reminder to us all to behave properly. The paddle was quite firm, its surface smooth but for the faded remnants of the old game’s logo, and when used, it certainly made its presence felt. I remember the way it would catch the light as Mother held it, the handle worn from years of use, fitting perfectly in her hand.
Many of my friends knew of such paddles, for in those days, a sound spanking was considered a proper way to teach children right from wrong. It was not done in anger, but with a sense of duty and love. Although I received several spankings as a child, there is one particular occasion that stands out in my memory, as clear as if it happened only yesterday.
It was a bright summer’s day, the sort that seemed to stretch on forever, with sunlight glinting off the windows and the air alive with the buzz of bees and the distant shouts of children. My brother and I had been given passes to the community swimming pool, a rare treat, and we spent many happy hours there, splashing and playing with our cousin, who was a year younger than I. The water was cool and inviting, and we raced each other from one end of the pool to the other, our laughter echoing off the tiled walls.
The swimming pool was quite far from our house, and we usually walked, our towels slung over our shoulders, or sometimes tried to catch a lift if we were lucky. On this particular day, for reasons I cannot quite recall, we decided to visit our aunt and uncle, who lived in the next borough, even farther away. The journey took much longer than we expected, and we walked the whole way there and back, our feet growing sore and our spirits flagging as the afternoon wore on. The pavements shimmered in the heat, and we stopped now and then to rest beneath the shade of a tree or to buy a penny sweet from the corner shop.
When we finally arrived at our aunt’s house, we did not stay long. I remember the coolness of her hallway, the ticking of the grandfather clock, and the smell of lavender polish. My uncle, a tall man with a kindly face, looked at us over his spectacles and said, “You had best be getting home to face the music.” My brother and I felt a little uneasy, for we knew we had not asked Mother’s permission to go so far. Our cousin waved us off at the gate, and we set off on the long walk home, our hearts heavy with worry.
As we walked home, tired and footsore, we wondered what Mother would say. The sun was beginning to dip behind the rooftops, casting long shadows across the estate. We hoped, in our childish way, that perhaps our aunt had not telephoned Mother to tell her of our visit. We decided to say that we had only been swimming and nowhere else. This, as we soon learned, was a mistake—a childish fib born of fear, but a fib all the same.
It was late when we arrived home. The sky was tinged with pink and gold, and the familiar scent of dinner greeted us as we opened the door. Dinner was already on the table, and our cousin had gone on to his own house. My brother and I entered the kitchen, feeling rather nervous, our clothes damp and our hair still smelling faintly of chlorine. Mother stood at the stove, her back straight, her expression unreadable. She asked why we were so late, and we replied that we had stayed at the pool and it had taken a long time to walk home. She asked if we had gone anywhere else, and, hoping to avoid trouble, we said no, our voices barely above a whisper.
What we did not know was that our aunt had already telephoned Mother to tell her of our visit. Mother looked at us very seriously, her eyes searching our faces, and said she was disappointed that we had not told the truth. She explained, in her calm and measured way, that we would both be punished, not only for going to our aunt’s house without permission, but also for telling a lie. Her words stung more than any spanking could, and I felt a lump rise in my throat.
Mother went to the drawer and took out the paddle. It was a curious object, oval in shape, its surface smooth but marked with the faded remnants of the old game’s logo. The handle was worn from years of use, fitting perfectly in Mother’s hand. She led me quietly to her bedroom, while my brother waited in the kitchen for his turn. The room was cool and still, the curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun. I remember the hush that fell as we entered, the only sound the ticking of the alarm clock on the mantelpiece and the faint chirp of sparrows outside the window. Mother sat down on her vanity bench and, in a gentle but unwavering voice, asked me to remove my jeans and lower my underpants to my knees. My heart thudded in my chest as I did as I was told, feeling the cool air against my skin and the prickling anticipation of what was to come.
Mother guided me over her lap, my hands resting on the soft coverlet, my toes just brushing the carpet. I could see the pattern of faded roses on the wallpaper and smell the faint scent of lavender from her dressing table. The paddle felt heavy and ominous as she positioned it, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of the alarm clock on the mantelpiece and the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen.
Then, with a steady hand, Mother began. The first smack landed squarely across the centre of my bare bottom—a sharp, stinging jolt that made me gasp. The sound was crisp and unmistakable, echoing in the quiet room. The second followed swiftly, a little lower, and I felt the heat bloom across my skin. The third was placed with equal firmness, and by the fourth, my eyes were brimming with tears, though I tried my very best to be brave. Mother delivered six smacks in all that day
