It must have been about 1976 when Georgina and her family moved in next door. She was a small, shy girl, two years younger than me, with a mop of dark curls and a habit of peering out from behind her mother’s skirt. At first, she was just ‘the little girl next door’, a quiet presence glimpsed through the hedge or across the landing. But as the weeks passed, our mothers—both young, both new to the estate, both eager for friendship—found each other. Their laughter soon filled our kitchens, and the boundaries between our two flats blurred. Georgina and I became companions by default, our days spent darting between each other’s homes, sharing biscuits, secrets, and the endless, sunlit hours of childhood.
That summer was unlike any other. The heat was relentless, the air thick and shimmering, and the grass in the communal gardens turned brittle and yellow. Britain was in the grip of the worst drought in living memory. Water was rationed, tempers were short, and every window in the estate was flung wide open in a desperate attempt to coax in a breeze. The nights were stifling, and the days seemed to stretch on forever, heavy with the scent of hot tarmac and distant cut grass. I remember my mother’s patience wearing thin, her voice sharper than usual, as the heat pressed in on all of us.
It was just after lunch, the sun glaring down on the estate, when I found myself playing alone outside. The world felt strangely still, the usual clatter of children’s games muted by the oppressive heat. Suddenly, a commotion erupted from Georgina’s flat—a sharp, jarring sound that sliced through the afternoon haze. Her father’s voice, deep and thunderous, rolled through the thin walls, his words harsh and clipped. I froze, every muscle tensed, as the argument escalated. Then came Georgina’s voice, high and trembling, pleading in a way that made my stomach twist. Her words tumbled out in a rush, desperate and frightened, and for a moment, the whole estate seemed to hold its breath.
The first smack rang out—a sharp, unmistakable slap that shattered the silence. It was followed by a rapid succession of blows, each one punctuated by Georgina’s cries, raw and unguarded. Her father’s anger filled the air, his words a relentless litany about obedience and respect, each phrase landing as heavily as his hand. The rhythm of the punishment was merciless: the slap of palm against skin, the stifled sobs, the frantic promises to be good. The sounds ricocheted through the open windows, bouncing off the concrete walls and echoing down the stairwells, impossible to ignore. I could almost see Georgina in my mind’s eye—her small body flinching with each blow, her face crumpled in pain and humiliation, her hands reaching out in vain for mercy.
I stood rooted to the spot, my heart hammering in my chest, every sense heightened. The air felt thick and electric, charged with fear and shame. I knew that pain—the hot, prickling sting, the burning humiliation of being punished where everyone could hear. I remembered my own mother’s stern face, the way she would pull me over her knee, the sharp sting of her hand, the tears that always came. Part of me ached for Georgina, for the helplessness and terror I imagined she felt. But another part of me, darker and more curious, was transfixed by what had happened.
Georgina was not her usual animated self, and there were undeniable tear stains still on her face. “Is something the matter, Alison?” my Mother asked Georgina’s. “Oh, she had a smacked bottom off her dad about an hour ago,” the little girl’s mother replied. “She was told to clean up her bedroom and didn’t, so Daddy smacked her Bottom.”
“Oh dear!” my Mother said, glancing kindly at the little girl. “I bet you wish you had obeyed Daddy now, don’t you, Georgina?” The little girl nodded glumly. “Well, hopefully you’ve learned your lesson. Why don’t you go outside with Justin and play in the garden?” We scuttled out, glad to be away from adult attention.
We kicked a ball about for a little while, then I told Georgina: “I heard you getting smacked. Did it hurt a lot?” She blushed and nodded silently again. She obviously didn’t want to continue the conversation – but I did. “Georgina finally spoke, and found a little spirit. “I don’t get smacked very much at all these days,” she lied.
By now we were up the top of the garden in front of a large rhododendron bush.
“Justin!” I suddenly saw that my Mother was halfway up the garden. For some reason, it never occurred to us that she might look out of the kitchen window and see what was happening.
“What is the meaning of this?” My mouth was dry and I didn’t have an answer. “Come on – right now.” Mother took us each by the hand and marched us into the kitchen. Then she told Georgina’s Mother what she had observed. She was horrified.
“You dirty little boy!” she shouted at me, “and as for you” – she turned to her daughter – “it seems Daddy didn’t spank you hard enough!” She turned to my own mother. “I told him he should have used the wooden spoon.”
“Well, we can put that right, right now,” Mother replied. She went to one of the kitchen drawers and extracted two large wooden cooking spoons. “One each,” she said, handing one of the spoons to Georgina’s Mother.
The two women quickly arranged a couple of chairs so they were sat facing each other, their respective offspring on their right side. we were put across the parental lap and given a good two or three minutes with those spoons.
I remember clearly the sharpness of Mother’s spoon across my Bottom
Once both mothers were satisfied we’d been punished enough, we were put with our noses in opposite corners of the kitchen, in disgrace.
The two women talked a bit more as they finished their tea, reminiscing a bit about the smacked bottoms they had had from their own mothers. Eventually, we were both given permission to ‘ vacate the corner’ and Georgina left, still snivelling, with her hand firmly gripped in that of her Mother.
