It is hard to believe that fifty years have passed since that memorable visit to my aunt’s house with my mother. The memory is still vivid: the gentle hum of the car as we arrived, the crisp air tinged with the scent of cut grass, and the imposing, slightly faded house that stood before us. We were ushered into the dining room, sunlight streaming through lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the polished table. My aunt, always brisk and efficient, greeted us with a warm but hurried smile, apologising for asking us to wait as she had a pressing task to finish upstairs. The room felt both welcoming and charged with anticipation, as if it held secrets just out of reach.
My mother, even by the standards of the early 1970s, was considered rather strict—her posture always upright, her gaze unwavering. She believed in discipline, in the value of rules and order, and her expectations for her children were set high. I remember the way she would smooth her skirt and glance at me, a silent reminder to mind my manners. Mischief was rarely tolerated, and even the smallest infraction was met with a firm word or a raised eyebrow. Yet beneath her stern exterior, there was a deep well of care, a desire to see us grow into respectable, capable adults. In those days, such an approach was not uncommon, but to me, it sometimes felt like living under a watchful shadow.
As we settled into the high-backed chairs, the muffled sounds from upstairs drifted down—a sharp, commanding voice, unmistakably my aunt’s, cutting through the stillness. There was a pleading, almost desperate tone in the reply, the youngest daughter’s voice trembling with anxiety. I could just make out the words, instructions to lift her dress and petticoat and bend over the side of the bed. The tension in the room was palpable; I remember glancing at my mother, who sat perfectly composed, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Aunt Mildred was another of those women who had managed to net herself a richer man and marry into a fairly comfortable lifestyle. Naturally, bearing this in mind, Aunt Mildred had ideas above her station. With Aunt Mildred, it was not a case of keeping up with the Joneses—it was more a case of being above them. This was evident in the way she administered discipline to her three girls. Whereas other parents used the hand or, at worst, the slipper or brush, Aunt Mildred had gone so far as to buy each of them a cane, each one hanging in the conservatory, marked with their names.
Suddenly, a series of six sharp cracks echoed through the house, each one distinct and deliberate, spaced out as if to prolong the ordeal. After each sound, there was a pause, then a wail—each cry growing louder, more desperate, mingled with promises to be good and pleas for mercy. The sounds seemed to reverberate through the walls, leaving a heavy silence in their wake. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach, a mix of fear, curiosity, and sympathy for my cousin upstairs.
I knew from previous visits that at the back of the house, in the cool, glass-walled conservatory, three thin, flexible canes hung on the wall—one for each daughter, each marked with a name. The sight of them had always filled me with a strange mix of dread and fascination. Today, it was clear that Jacqueline’s cane was being put to use. The conservatory, usually a place of sunlight and potted plants, seemed to hold a different significance in that moment—a silent witness to the rituals of family discipline.
After a few minutes, we heard my aunt’s voice again, this time softer, instructing her daughter to get dressed, wash her face, and come straight downstairs. Moments later, my aunt entered the dining room, her expression composed but her eyes betraying a hint of fatigue. She apologised once more for the delay, her tone gentle but resolute. As she and my mother began to talk, snippets of their conversation revealed the family’s approach to discipline—firm, consistent, and, in their view, necessary for raising well-mannered children. The air was thick with unspoken understanding, a shared belief in the value of order and obedience.
My aunt explained, almost matter-of-factly, that when a punishment was due, the girl had to fetch her own cane from the conservatory, then wait in her mother’s bedroom. She believed that the cane only began to sting properly at the fourth stroke, so she always administered at least six, sometimes as many as twelve for more serious offences. The ritual was precise, almost ceremonial, designed to instill both fear and respect. I remember thinking how daunting it must be to wait in that quiet room, knowing what was to come, the anticipation perhaps worse than the punishment itself.
The reason for Jacqueline’s punishment that day, my aunt confided, was that she had recently become rather cheeky—her tone more defiant, her answers less respectful. It had been six weeks since her last punishment, and my aunt believed it was time for a reminder. I could sense a mixture of regret and resolve in her voice, as if she wished there were another way but felt bound by duty to uphold the family’s standards. For Jacqueline, it must have felt like a storm she could not escape, the consequences of her actions looming large.
Jacqueline, I told you to come straight downstairs. Do you want some more?
Immediately, a small, trembling voice called out from the hallway, “I’m coming!” Moments later, Jacqueline appeared, her face flushed, eyes downcast, moving quickly but hesitantly into the room. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension, every eye on her as she entered.
Jacqueline was told to sit down on one of the dining chairs. She started to protest, her voice barely above a whisper, but a single warning look from her mother silenced her. With obvious discomfort, she eased herself gingerly onto the chair, wincing as she sat. The rest of us pretended not to notice, but the awkwardness hung in the air, impossible to ignore.
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, cheeks streaked where they had already fallen. She tried to shift in her seat, hoping to ease the stinging sensation, but her mother’s sharp voice cut through her efforts: “Sit still.” Jacqueline froze, her small hands gripping the edge of the chair, doing her best to obey despite the pain. The room was silent except for the faint ticking of the clock and the occasional sniffle.
At the time, I thought it was terribly cruel, almost unbearable to witness. But as the years have passed, I’ve come to understand that being made to do as she was told, even when it was the last thing she wanted, was a lesson in self-control and resilience. It was a difficult experience, but one that, in its own way, prepared her for the challenges of adult life. The memory of that day has stayed with me, a reminder of how discipline, though painful, can shape us in ways we only appreciate much later.
Such discipline was common among families in those days, and I was no stranger to similar events in my own life. Yet this was the closest I had ever come to witnessing it firsthand, apart from my own experiences. The memory has lingered, etched into my mind by the intensity of the emotions and the clarity of the details. Even now, I can recall the way the light fell across the room, the hush that followed, and the sense that something important had just taken place.
In the years that followed, the three girls grew into delightful, successful women, each with families of their own. Their love for their mother never wavered, and as they matured, they came to appreciate the way they had been raised. The bonds of family, forged in moments of both joy and hardship, remained strong—a testament to the enduring power of love and discipline.
