I grew up in the south of England in the 60s, a world of sunlit fields, striped paper bags, and the faint scent of cut grass drifting through open windows. This is the only incident of corporal punishment I can now recall, but it is etched in my memory as sharply as the crack of a ruler on a school desk.
My parents were divorced, and Mother had come home with Hanna, a Norwegian girl friend whose accent made even the most ordinary words sound mysterious. The house was filled with the clatter of teacups and the low hum of grown-up conversation, but on that day, a storm was brewing just for me.
I can’t recall exactly how it started, but I remember the sickening crunch as the small ladder from my bunk bed went straight through the glass panel in the door. The shards tinkled to the floor like tiny bells, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Mother’s face turned a shade of red I’d never seen before—her cheeks flushed, lips pressed into a thin, trembling line, and her usually soft brown eyes blazing with a fierce, wounded anger. Her dark hair, always perfectly set, seemed to bristle with the force of her emotion. She was on me in an instant, her footsteps thundering down the hallway, her jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscles working beneath her skin. I darted through the house, heart pounding, but she caught me by the scruff of my jumper, her grip unyielding, and dragged me into the lounge, where Hanna sat frozen, a half-eaten biscuit poised in her hand.
(short pause) In a blur, Mother had me over her knee. The room was thick with the scent of furniture polish and old books, the air heavy and still, as if the house itself was holding its breath. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece grew impossibly loud, each second stretching out, marking the time before the first smack. My face was pressed against the coarse fabric of her skirt, the pattern imprinting itself on my cheek. I could feel the warmth of her body, the tension in her muscles—her back ramrod straight, shoulders squared, every inch of her radiating a stern, unbending resolve. Her hands, usually gentle and cool, were now hot and trembling with a mixture of fury and disappointment. (pause) Then, her hand came down—hard, sharp, and unyielding. The sound was a flat, echoing crack that seemed to bounce off the walls and ring in my ears. The sting was immediate, a hot, searing pain that bloomed across my skin and radiated deep into my bones. I gasped, the breath catching in my throat, and my legs kicked out instinctively, searching for escape. (short pause) Each smack landed with relentless precision, the pain building, overlapping, until it was all I could feel. My bottom burned, the heat intensifying with every blow, and my eyes filled with tears that spilled down my cheeks, hot and salty. The room blurred, the edges of my vision swimming as I sobbed, the sound raw and desperate. (pause) I could hear Hanna’s sharp intake of breath, the faint clink of her teacup as she set it down, and the soft, shocked silence that followed. Her eyes were wide, her mouth a perfect O, as if she’d stumbled into a scene from a book she couldn’t quite believe was real. (short pause) The pain was overwhelming, but so was the shame—the humiliation of being punished in front of a stranger, of being so utterly powerless. My mind raced with frantic thoughts: Would it ever stop? Did I deserve this? Why couldn’t I just disappear? (pause) The spanking seemed to go on forever—five minutes, perhaps, but it felt like an eternity. My sobs grew louder, mingling with the sharp sound of each slap, until finally, Mother let me up. Her face was still flushed, but now her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her breathing ragged, as if the punishment had cost her dearly. My bottom throbbed, a deep, aching heat, and my face was streaked with tears. She marched me up the stairs and into my bedroom, her grip still iron-tight on my arm, her jaw set, but her hand shaking ever so slightly.
Alone at last, I flung myself onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow. The house was quiet now, save for the distant murmur of Mother and Hanna’s voices downstairs. I could hear Hanna asking, in her gentle, lilting way, if such things were common in England. Mother’s reply was muffled, but I imagined her straightening her skirt and smoothing her hair, as if nothing at all had happened—her composure carefully rebuilt, though her eyes might still betray the storm she’d just weathered.
I lay there for a long time, the sting slowly fading, replaced by a strange, hollow ache. Outside, the sun dipped below the rooftops, and the world seemed to settle back into its ordinary rhythm. But for me, the day had changed—marked forever by the sharp lesson of a mother’s hand, the fierce love and pain in her eyes, and the silent, watchful eyes of a stranger from far away.
