(gap: 2s) In the gentle county of Surrey, during the 1970s, I lived in a pleasant row of houses where every family took great care to raise their children with the utmost propriety. The neighbours were always watchful, and children were expected to behave with perfect manners, for any mischief would soon be known to all.
My mother, who was a devout Irish Catholic, insisted that I attend the local Catholic school, which was famous for its strict discipline and high standards. The rules were always clear, and the consequences for breaking them were never in doubt. Both at home and at school, the prospect of a firm punishment was ever present.
At school, the teachers were permitted to administer corporal punishment to boys. Girls might have their knuckles rapped or their faces slapped, but for boys, a spanking was the usual correction. If a boy was sent over a teacher’s knee or bent over a desk for a dozen smacks, he could expect the same again at home.
I was generally a well-behaved child, and so I rarely found myself in trouble. Mrs Brown, my first form teacher, only spanked me twice—once for forgetting my tie, and once for whispering during arithmetic. On each occasion, she delivered exactly twelve sharp smacks to my bottom, her hand firm and unyielding, while I lay across her knee. The sting was immediate, and I could not help but cry after only a few.
The punishment was always carried out during break. Mrs Brown would unbuckle my belt, guide me gently but firmly over her lap, and raise her hand high before bringing it down with a crisp smack, again and again, until the full twelve had been delivered. My cheeks would burn, and my eyes would fill with tears, but I knew it was meant to teach me right from wrong.
Afterwards, Mrs Brown would write a note for my mother, explaining my misdeed and the punishment. She would hand it to me with a stern warning: if it was not signed and returned the next morning, I would be sent to Sister Elizabeth’s office for a paddling.
These notes home always resulted in a further lesson at my mother’s knee. She would fetch her wooden hairbrush, seat herself on a sturdy chair, and call me to her side. Over her lap I would go, and she would deliver twenty brisk smacks with the back of the brush, each one landing with a sharp crack. I would squirm and sob, but she never relented until the count was complete.
Yet, as painful as those early punishments were, they were not as severe as the day I made my gravest mistake.
One day, Mrs Brown wrote ten words on the blackboard and called on each pupil to read one aloud. Normally, I was attentive, but that day I was lost in a daydream about the new bicycle the boy across the road had received—a splendid Raleigh, far finer than mine.
When Mrs Brown called my name, I was startled. I stood, uncertain which word I was meant to read, and in my nervousness, I blurted out a word that was not at all proper.
Mrs Brown’s face became very stern. She told me to wait in the corridor, then went next door to ask the other teacher to keep an ear on her class while she dealt with me.
I heard her announce to the class, “I am taking Jeremy to the nurse’s office to have his mouth washed out with soap and his bottom spanked. If I hear of any mischief while I am away, there will be spankings all round at break.” The warning was clear: any boy caught misbehaving would receive twelve smacks, just as I had.
Mrs Brown emerged, took me firmly by the ear, and marched me to the nurse’s office, where Mrs Simmons presided.
“It appears Jeremy thinks he can use improper language in class,” Mrs Brown informed the nurse. Mrs Simmons, always gentle, gave me a sympathetic look and said, “I shall fetch the soap.”
She rinsed a bar of Imperial Leather under the tap—a brand my mother favoured for its supposed refinement, though it tasted no better than any other.
Mrs Simmons knelt beside me and said, “Open your mouth, dear.” I obeyed, feeling oddly comforted despite my predicament. She rubbed the soap gently on my tongue, then told me to close my mouth. The taste was dreadful, and I fought the urge to cry, but I bore it as best I could.
No sooner had she finished than Mrs Brown took me by the ear again, led me to a corner, unbuckled my belt, and lowered my trousers. “Hands on the wall, bottom out,” she instructed.
Then came the punishment: Mrs Brown delivered fifty firm smacks to each cheek, alternating left and right, counting each one aloud in a steady, measured tone. Her hand was as hard as a cricket bat, and my thin underpants offered little protection. By the twentieth smack, my resolve had crumbled, and I was sobbing openly, tears streaming down my face and mingling with the soapy taste in my mouth. By the end, my bottom was aflame, and I could scarcely stand.
“No rubbing,” Mrs Brown admonished, then left the room. I stood, sniffling, dreading the note that would surely be sent home. Mrs Simmons put a comforting arm around me. “Come now, Jeremy, it will all be all right.”
Just then, I heard footsteps. Mrs Brown returned, accompanied by Sister Elizabeth, the headmistress, who carried a fearsome paddle with holes drilled through it.
Sister Elizabeth asked Mrs Simmons to ring my mother on the telephone. Mother answered cheerfully, but her tone changed as Mrs Brown explained my offence.
“Jeremy has had his mouth washed out and been spanked,” Sister Elizabeth said, “but we feel the paddle is warranted.”
My mother replied, “Quite right, Sister. He will be getting the hairbrush at home as well. How many will he receive from you?”
“Ten hard swats across his underpants,” Sister Elizabeth replied. “Mrs Brown will administer the paddling, with Mrs Simmons and myself as witnesses.”
My heart sank as my mother’s voice crackled through the receiver: “Make certain he feels it. He must learn.”
Sister Elizabeth assured her that the lesson would be memorable. As the call ended, I felt a wave of dread—not only for the pain, but for the humiliation of being punished before three adults.
“Let us get this over with,” Sister Elizabeth said. Mrs Brown took the paddle, and I was told to face the wall and present my bottom.
Mrs Brown slipped her fingers into the waistband of my white school pants and lowered them to my ankles, exposing my already sore behind. She tapped my bottom twice with the paddle, then delivered ten slow, stinging swats—five to each cheek. Each swat landed with a resounding crack, and I cried out with each one, my legs trembling and my face wet with tears.
When it was over, Mrs Brown told me to stand and keep my hands away from my bottom.
Sister Elizabeth put her arm around me. “Jeremy, you have paid for your mistake. We only discipline because we care for you and wish you to grow up properly.”
“Indeed,” Mrs Brown added. “I must return to my class, Sister.”
“Thank you, Mrs Brown. Mrs Simmons, please see to Jeremy and return him to class when he is ready.” “Of course, Sister.”
The others left, and Mrs Simmons gently wiped my tears.
“You may open your mouth now, dear.” She removed the soap and led me to the sink, steadying me as I shuffled with my trousers and pants still at my ankles.
At the sink, she handed me a paper cup. “Rinse out, Jeremy. Take your time.” She kept her arm around me as I washed away the taste.
When I finished, she produced a small bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. “Do you like chocolate?” she asked. I nodded, still sniffling.
She unwrapped it and placed it on my tongue. “Do not chew, just let it melt. It will help with the taste.”
The chocolate was a comfort, and I felt grateful for her kindness.
She hugged me, kissed my forehead, and asked, “Have you learned your lesson?” I nodded. “Good boy. Let us get you back to class.”
Mrs Simmons led me by the hand.
At break, my friend David told me that Mrs Brown had recounted my punishment to the class, including the paddling. She warned that any boy misbehaving would receive the same: twelve smacks for minor offences, and the paddle for grave ones. I was never spanked by her again, though some of my friends were. Each time, the number of smacks was always counted aloud, and the boys would emerge red-faced and tearful, but wiser for the experience.
I walked home carefully, my bottom still sore. At home, my mother greeted me with a stern look, but also a hug and a kiss.
“Jeremy, this is not the end of the matter. Swearing is a grave sin, and I must do my duty as your mother. Come here.”
She held the dreaded hairbrush in her right hand. I was placed over her knee, and the wooden back pressed coldly against my bare skin.
The spanking began in earnest. My mother delivered thirty sharp smacks, fifteen to each cheek, with the back of the brush. Each one landed with a crisp crack, and I cried and pleaded, promising never to utter a bad word again. My bottom throbbed, and my tears flowed freely, but my mother was resolute, determined that I should learn the lesson well.
It seemed endless, but at last it was over. I was a sobbing wreck. Mother ignored my protests and led me to the kitchen sink, where she lathered another bar of Imperial Leather. “This is your supper tonight,” she said. “Open your mouth.”
I tried to resist, but she spanked my left cheek with her hand and pinched my nose until I opened up. She rubbed the soap on my tongue, then stood me in the corner by the dining table.
After an hour, my father came home. Mother had already telephoned him at work. He remarked that he had never seen such a well-spanked bottom.
Mother called my younger brother for dinner. I remained in the corner, mouth full of soap, while the family ate. Only when the meal was finished was I allowed to rinse my mouth and sent straight to bed.
Needless to say, I slept on my tummy that night. It was not the last spanking I received, but it was certainly the most memorable—etched forever in my mind, as vivid as the desire to keep up with the neighbours and never let anyone see a hair out of place. And so, I learned that discipline, though painful, was always given with love, and that a lesson well learned would last a lifetime.
