(gap: 2s) Back in my formative years in the mid 1960s, the world seemed both vast and terribly small, especially in the council schemes at the edge of our Scottish town. My aunt, a formidable woman with a reputation for discipline, had just returned from London with her two sons. She had spent years working in the city, but now she was back, her flat perched on the top floor, battered by the wind that rattled the windows and sent the smell of coal smoke drifting through the thin walls. The neighbours’ voices carried easily, and every footstep on the landing echoed like a warning.
(short pause) My aunt was known throughout the family for her strictness. Hanging behind her kitchen door, always in plain sight, was a thick, timeworn leather strap, its edges darkened by years of use. She did not wield it often, but when she did, it was with the full, unyielding force of Scottish resolve. The mere mention of “the strap” was enough to silence even the rowdiest child. In those days, in the 1960s, such discipline was simply part of life.
(pause) Not long after she settled in, I was invited to stay with my aunt and cousins for a month. The flat was small but tidy, with net curtains and floral cushions, and the electric fire humming in the corner—a typical 1960s council flat. One afternoon, we lost ourselves in play—football on the green, hide-and-seek in the stairwells, and a daring raid on the biscuit tin. We forgot entirely about the chores we were meant to finish before my aunt returned from her shift at the biscuit factory. The kitchen was a mess of crumbs and spilled tea, and our shoes, caked in mud, left prints across the linoleum.
(pause) When my aunt arrived home, her face was set in a mask of disappointment. She stood in the doorway, surveying the chaos, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her book group was due that evening, and the flat was nowhere near presentable. The air seemed to grow colder as she took in the scene, and we knew at once that we were in for it. In the 1960s, a tidy home was a matter of pride, especially in the schemes.
(pause) We scrambled to tidy up, but it was hopeless. The clock ticked mercilessly as we swept, wiped, and stuffed toys under the settee. At tea, my cousins sat in silence, their eyes fixed on their plates. After her friends had left, my aunt gathered us in the living room. The black-and-white television flickered in the corner, casting ghostly shadows on the walls—a familiar sight in any 1960s home. She spoke with grave clarity, her voice low and steady: our behaviour was unacceptable, and in the morning, we would be punished.
(short pause) My cousins began to plead, their voices trembling, but my aunt silenced them with a single, icy glance. “Not another word,” she said, her tone as sharp as the wind outside. “Any further protest, and you’ll each get extra strokes.” The room fell silent, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the distant hum of the electric fire.
(pause) I had received a smack before—a slipper, a wooden spoon, the occasional sharp slap on the back of the legs—but never the strap. When I picked it up, it seemed ordinary enough, just a strip of leather with a brass buckle. But as I turned it over in my hands, I felt a chill run through me. I soon learned how wrong I was to underestimate it. In the 1960s, corporal punishment was a fact of life, both at home and at school.
(pause) The next morning, before breakfast, we were summoned to the kitchen. My aunt stood by the table, her arms folded, the strap hanging from her hand. “Fetch your straps,” she commanded. My cousins and I shuffled to the cupboard, each retrieving our own. My heart thudded in my chest as we followed her to the small box room she called the study—a cramped space with a tall stool in the centre and a single window looking out over the rooftops, all so typical of a 1960s Scottish flat.
(short pause) My cousins were already sniffling, their faces pale. My aunt fixed us with a stern look, and we fell silent. She took the strap from the youngest, her fingers curling around the handle. “Prepare yourself,” she said, her voice as cold and final as a winter’s night.
(pause) The youngest cousin, stepped forward. He bent over the tall stool, gripping the rung with both hands, his knuckles turning white. Tears streamed down his cheeks before the first blow had even landed. My aunt tapped his legs with the strap, instructing him to spread them wider. “No wriggling,” she warned. “If you move, you’ll get another.” In those days, such warnings were not empty threats.
(pause) She raised the strap high, her arm steady, and brought it down with a sharp, echoing crack. The first smack landed squarely across his backside, and he gasped, his whole body jolting. The sound seemed to fill the room, bouncing off the bare walls.
(pause) The second smack landed lower, the leather biting into tender skin. The boy let out a piercing cry, his legs trembling as the pain surged through him. My aunt paused only long enough for him to catch his breath, then delivered the third and fourth smacks, each one lower than the last. He begged her to stop, promising he had learned his lesson, but she delivered a fifth, the hardest of all, at the base of his backside. He howled, his legs kicking, his body shuddering with each sob.
(pause) She allowed him a moment to catch his breath, then announced the final, sixth smack would be a crossover. She positioned the strap at an angle and brought it down with a swift, practiced motion. The leather sliced diagonally across the earlier marks, and he let out a cry so sharp it seemed to hang in the air, echoing long after the blow had landed.
(pause) My aunt helped him up, his legs shaking so badly he could barely stand. “Don’t touch,” she instructed, her voice softer now. He hopped from foot to foot, tears streaming down his face, and she placed him facing the wall, still sniffling, his hands at his sides.
(pause) Her eldest son was next. He was taller, and tried to put on a brave face. He bent over the stool, gripping the rung tightly. My aunt raised the strap and brought it down with a force that made me flinch. The first smack landed square in the centre, and though he did not react at first, the pain soon caught up with him. He howled and kicked his legs, his face contorted in agony.
(pause) The second smack landed just below, a red welt rising to meet the first. He bit his lip, trying not to cry, but the third and fourth smacks were delivered with even greater force, each one lower, and he shook and sobbed, tears dripping onto the linoleum floor. My aunt’s face was set, her jaw clenched, but her hand never wavered.
(pause) He pleaded, “Mother, no more!” but she did not relent. The fifth smack landed right on his sit spot, and he kicked out, shouting in pain. The sixth and final smack was a crossover, delivered at an angle across the others. He cried out, his face flushed with pain, and my aunt guided him to the wall, where he stood, his cheeks burning, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
(pause) Then it was my turn. My legs felt like jelly as I stepped forward, the strap heavy in my hand. I was already crying before she even called my name. My aunt’s eyes softened for a moment, but her voice was calm and unwavering. “Get into position,” she said.
(pause) I bent over the stool, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it might burst. She announced I would receive three smacks, and if I ever required strapping again, it would be the full six. Her voice was calm, but there was no room for argument. I gripped the stool, bracing myself for what was to come. In the 1960s, children knew better than to protest.
(pause) The first smack landed dead centre, the leather striking with a sound like a gunshot. It pushed me forward against the stool, and for a moment, I felt nothing. Then I went ballistic in agony. I thought for sure I was going to die and that was after the first one.
My aunt told me to hold on tight for the next stroke. I glanced at the boys who were looking over their shoulders at me . The next stroke hit right on my sit spot and I almost fainted with the pain. I began babbling incoherently but that did not stop my aunt.
She told me to get ready for a crossover and it hit across the other two welts with a wave of incredible pain.
She moved me against the wall and told us all not to move for 30 minutes.
After the 30 minutes was up we were finally allowed to get dressed and leave. I grabbed my nightgown and ran for my bedroom. I just flopped face down on to my bed.
Later, we were called downstairs to have lunch. We all ate standing up, then shuffled back to our rooms.
It took about a day and half before I could sit down and that was still an uncomfortable proposition. I truly learned what a real strapping was all about that day, and needless to say the punishment never had to be repeated.
