I remember that Sunday morning so clearly, as if the air itself was tinged with anticipation. I was all dressed for Sunday School, my best dress pressed and my hair brushed until it shone, with my younger brother Jeff at my side. My father, always so proper, handed us each a shiny quarter for the collection basket, his eyes warm but expectant. Off we went, shoes tapping on the pavement, the coins heavy in our pockets and our hearts light with the promise of mischief.
Mother was home with the new baby, Randolph, her hands full and her mind elsewhere. As soon as we were out of sight, I turned to Jeff, my mind already spinning with ideas. “Why don’t we go to the classes part, and then leave before chapel starts? That way, we can keep the quarter and go get some candy.” Jeff’s eyes lit up, and he grinned, the thrill of rebellion making us both giddy. We slipped away, hearts pounding, and soon found ourselves in the corner shop, the sweet, sugary scent of candy bars filling the air as we clutched our forbidden treasures.
We were having a wonderful time, the taste of chocolate melting on our tongues, when suddenly the bell above the shop door jingled and in swept Nanny, her sharp eyes scanning the aisles. She spotted us before we could duck away, her face a mask of disappointment and surprise. My stomach dropped. She didn’t say a word—just took us each by the hand, our candy bars still clutched in our fists, and marched us home, the walk back feeling like a funeral procession.
My father was the first to see us. He stood in the hallway, arms folded, his face grave. “You’re both in trouble,” he said, his voice low and steady. He asked how long this had been going on, his gaze searching our faces for the truth. We stammered and promised it was the first time, our voices trembling. He looked at us for a long moment, then nodded, choosing to believe us. But the reprieve was short-lived. “Upstairs,” he said, “let Nanny prepare you for a spanking.” Jeff’s face crumpled, and he started to cry immediately, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. I always wondered why boys seemed to cry so soon, but now I felt my own eyes prickling.
Nanny led us to the nursery, her grip firm but not unkind. We waited, expecting Daddy to come in and deliver our punishment, but instead, the door swung open and in came Mother. She looked different—her eyes blazing, her jaw set. The air in the room seemed to crackle with her anger.
She fixed her gaze on me, her voice cold and sharp. “I know you masterminded this, Laura. You’re the oldest. You should have known better.” That word—oldest—always felt like a curse. Why did being older always mean being guilty? I never understood, but there was no arguing with her now.
She took Jeff by the hand and led him into his room, closing the door behind them. I was left alone in the playroom, the silence pressing in on me. Through the thin walls, I heard the unmistakable sound of slaps, each one punctuated by Jeff’s cries. My heart thudded in my chest, dread pooling in my stomach. When the door opened again, I saw Jeff, red-faced and sniffling, being tucked into bed. Mother turned to Nanny and instructed her to put Jeff into his pyjamas for a nap, and said we could have lunch later in the playroom.
Then it was my turn. Mother took me by the shoulder, her grip unyielding, and marched me into the bathroom. The room felt colder than ever, the tiles icy beneath my feet, the air thick with the scent of soap and the faint, lingering smell of bathwater. The chair in the corner, usually a resting place for bathrobes, now looked like a throne of judgment, looming and ominous.
Mother sat down, her face set in a mask of determination, and pulled me across her lap. The anticipation was excruciating—my stomach twisted in knots, my cheeks burning with shame and fear. I could feel the rough fabric of her skirt against my skin, the hard edge of the chair digging into my hip. My hands gripped the chair leg so tightly my knuckles turned white. Then, with a suddenness that made me gasp, the first smack landed. It was sharp, stinging, and echoed off the tiled walls like a gunshot. I yelped, the sound bouncing around the small room, mingling with the rush of my own breath. Each spank was a jolt of pain, hot and relentless, building and spreading across my bottom until it felt like I was sitting on a bed of coals. The rhythm was merciless—smack after smack, each one harder than the last, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the air. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears spilling down my cheeks, my body tensing and flinching with every blow. The pain was overwhelming, a burning, throbbing ache that seemed to go on forever. My legs kicked involuntarily, my face flushed with humiliation, but Mother’s grip was iron-strong, holding me firmly in place. The world shrank to the sting of her hand, the cold of the tiles, and the sound of my own sobs echoing in my ears.
Through my tears, I heard her voice, tight and trembling with anger and disappointment. “Everyone out there knows that you and Jeff didn’t attend chapel. It will be all over town. Here I am, with a new baby, and you’ve done this to me.” Her words stung almost as much as her hand, each one a fresh wave of guilt and shame. I felt so small, so exposed, as if the whole world was watching me be punished.
She just spanked and spanked and spanked, her hand rising and falling in a relentless rhythm. I thought I would die from the pain and the humiliation. I tried to wriggle free, desperate for escape, but I slipped off her lap, my legs flailing, my face hot with tears and mortification. But she was furious—her grip like steel, she hauled me back up, repositioned me, and continued, her hand coming down
I didn’t count, but it felt like a thousand spanks. It probably was nowhere near that, but to me this was dreadful.
I went to chapel the next Sunday with Jeff, and no-one seemed to look at me in any strange way. In fact, the teacher said that it was good to see me back.
