I was born into a family of four children: an elder sister, three years my senior; a younger sister, three years my junior; and a twin brother, who, though only three minutes older, never failed to remind me of his precedence.
All four of us were subject to the firm discipline of my mother, whose sense of duty and justice was unwavering. Her method of correction was invariably a sound spanking, administered with a seriousness that left no room for doubt as to her intentions. Though all of us received our share, I, by some misfortune or perhaps by my own mischief, became the undisputed recipient of the greatest number. My twin brother would often remark, with a certain smugness, that the younger twin was always the more troublesome. My father, a lorry driver, was seldom at home, and so the responsibility of discipline fell entirely to my mother.
My mother’s system of discipline was precise and graduated. For minor offences, she would seat herself upon the wooden rocking chair, draw the culprit across her knee, and deliver a firm spanking with her hand upon the seat of the offender’s trousers. For more serious breaches, she would employ a ping-pong paddle, again across her knee, ensuring the lesson was not soon forgotten.
As we grew older, a third and more formidable implement was introduced: a broad leather strap, not a belt, but a fearsome strip of hide whose origin I never discovered. For the gravest misdeeds, we were required to stand, hands upon knees, and present our backsides for a thorough thrashing. The strap was to be avoided at all costs, for its sting was sharp and enduring, and the memory of it lingered long after the marks had faded.
The incident I am about to recount occurred during a particularly warm summer. Our home was situated at the end of a pleasant cul-de-sac, surrounded by friends and neighbours. Beyond the houses lay a small wood, and within the wood, a gentle stream wound its way, forming a modest swimming hole. My mother had forbidden us, in no uncertain terms, from swimming there without adult supervision.
One sweltering August afternoon, my closest companion, Annie, and I found ourselves at the edge of the forbidden pool. “Shall we go in?” I asked, the temptation of the cool water almost overwhelming. Annie hesitated. “We are not permitted,” she replied, “and we have not brought our bathing costumes.”
“That shall not deter me,” I declared, and, with a certain bravado, removed my shorts and undergarments. I stood unabashed, urging Annie to join me. I had always found a peculiar delight in swimming unencumbered, and the prospect of the water was too much to resist.
Annie was scandalised. “You cannot mean to swim without clothing! What if someone should see? What if your mother discovers us?” But by then, I was already wading into the water, the coolness enveloping me. Annie, after a moment’s hesitation, succumbed to the temptation and joined me.
Unbeknownst to us, my younger sister, Emily, had followed in secret. The moment she saw us enter the water, she hurried home to inform my mother.
Annie and I were thoroughly enjoying ourselves, oblivious to the world, when a voice, shrill and unmistakable, pierced the air. “What do you two think you are doing? Out of the water at once! Dress yourselves immediately!”
My mother stood at the water’s edge, her expression severe. As we emerged, she delivered a sharp smack to each of our wet backsides. The sting was intensified by the water, and we both winced. She then delivered a stern lecture on the dangers of unsupervised swimming and the impropriety of bathing unclothed, especially in a place where, as she put it, “the eyes of God and the world might fall upon you.”
At that moment, I made a grave error. I replied, “There was no one else here, and surely God has seen everything already.” My mother, her patience exhausted, struck me across the mouth, not with anger, but with the intent to impress upon me the seriousness of my impertinence. “You are already in sufficient trouble. If you have any sense, you will remain silent.”
With our clothes clinging to our damp bodies, my mother marched us home. Our first stop was Annie’s house, where she recounted the incident to Annie’s mother. Annie’s mother, shocked and disappointed, administered several firm smacks to Annie’s bottom and sent her to her room. I knew that Annie would receive further punishment, though perhaps not as severe as what awaited me.
Upon our return home, my mother instructed me to “prepare myself.” This meant I was to use the lavatory if necessary, then remove all clothing below the waist and stand in the corner of her bedroom, awaiting her arrival.
As I stood in that humiliating position, I heard the unmistakable sound of giggling from the hallway. It was Emily, my ever-vexing younger sister. “Someone is in trouble!” she sang out.
“Be quiet and leave me alone,” I replied, my dignity already in tatters.
“I only wished to inform you that it was I who told Mother. Good luck,” she said, sticking out her tongue before darting away.
My anger was considerable, but I knew better than to retaliate at that moment. Any further mischief would only worsen my predicament, and my mother was already in a most determined mood.
I resumed my vigil, silently hoping that my mother would choose the paddle rather than the strap. Alas, it was not to be. She entered, the dreaded strap in hand, her face grave but not unkind.
She delivered a further lecture, impressing upon me the gravity of my disobedience and the necessity of learning from my mistakes. Then, in a voice that brooked no argument, she instructed me to assume the position: hands upon knees, back arched, and bottom presented.
The first stroke of the strap landed with a sharp crack, the pain immediate and intense. I gasped, but resolved not to cry. The second stroke followed swiftly, and I bit my lip, determined to show fortitude. My mother, though strict, was never cruel; each stroke was measured, intended to correct, not to harm.
After the third stroke, I could not help but cry out and shifted from my position. My mother reminded me, firmly but not unkindly, to return to the proper stance, and I did so at once.
Two more strokes followed in quick succession, each one burning, each one a lesson. I again faltered, clutching my smarting bottom, but my mother’s voice was steady: “Move your hands and resume your position.” I obeyed.
Two further strokes were administered, and by now I was weeping openly, tears and sniffles betraying my resolve. My mother always gave us a number of strokes equal to our age, and so I knew there were two more to come. She delivered them slowly, with extra firmness, ensuring the lesson would not soon be forgotten.
At last, it was over. My mother instructed me to go to my room and reflect upon my actions. I hurried away, flinging myself upon my bed, and wept into my pillow, the pain and shame mingling with a sense of having been justly corrected. My mother’s discipline, though severe, was always accompanied by a sense of care and a desire to instil in us the values of obedience, honesty, and respect. And so, though the lesson was harsh, it was, in its way, an act of love.
