(gap: 2s) In the golden days of the late 1950s, a Sunday at the seaside was a rare and splendid treat for families such as ours. Most weeks, Father toiled at the docks, Mother managed our humble guesthouse, and we children—Margaret, Susan, Janet, and myself, Peter—did our part with chores and errands. Holidays were precious and few, so when the weather promised sunshine, the whole house brimmed with anticipation.
All week, the excitement grew. On Saturday evening, Mother—her name was Mary—would polish our Clarks sandals until they gleamed, lay out our woolly jumpers and swimsuits, and tuck a rationed bar of chocolate into her handbag for later. Father, Arthur, would check the tyres on the old Austin and fill a flask with strong, sweet tea. Even little Janet, the youngest, sensed the specialness in the air.
On Sunday morning, we tumbled from our beds at first light, the salty breeze already drifting through the open window. The promise of a day at Hastings beach was enough to make us forget our quarrels and chores. We packed a tartan rug, a paper bag of buns from the bakery, and our battered bucket and spade—simple treasures for a simple time.
The journey to the seafront was an adventure in itself. The car was packed tight with towels, a cool bag of milk bottles, and all four of us children squeezed together in the back seat. We craned our necks for the first glimpse of the pier, hearts fluttering as the sea finally came into view.
Hastings beach was a world of its own—striped deckchairs, the tang of salt in the air, and the distant music of the pier’s amusements. The sun shone, but the breeze off the Channel kept us in our jumpers until midday. Families crowded the shingle and sand, mothers in floral dresses, fathers in rolled-up trousers, children darting between windbreaks with buckets and spades.
For most, a Sunday at the seaside was a welcome escape from the week’s routine—a chance to be together and forget one’s worries. The sand was coarse, mixed with shingle and seaweed, but we did not mind. We dug with our spades, hunted for shells, and dared each other to paddle in the bracing water.
Our favourite spot was near the old wooden groynes, where the shingle gave way to a strip of sand at low tide. Here, the sea was brisk and clear, and the farther one wandered from the pier, the more the crowds thinned, until the beach felt like one’s own.
Father and Mother set up their chairs, Janet perched on Father’s knee, while Margaret, Susan, and I wriggled out of our jumpers and dashed to the water’s edge, shrieking as the cold waves lapped at our ankles.
After a time, as we tired of splashing, I wandered back to the sand. Mother called Margaret over to watch Janet while she and Father braved the chilly English sea. Every parent knows what happened next.
With the grown-ups swimming, Susan and I joined Margaret and Janet on the rug. Boredom soon set in, and Janet—always eager to join in—became our willing accomplice.
I cannot recall who suggested it, but soon we were digging a hole in the sand, determined to bury Janet up to her neck. We convinced her it would be a grand joke, and set to work with our spades and hands.
The hole was shallow, but we managed to settle Janet in, piling sand around her until she was stuck up to her elbows. She soon tired of the game, complaining of scratchy sand and cold shingle, but Margaret insisted we finish what we had started. Despite Janet’s protests and eventual tears, we pressed on.
Janet’s cries carried over the sound of the waves, and soon Mother and Father hurried from the water, alarmed. They found us in a flurry of sand and limbs, Janet red-faced and wailing. With a few sharp words and gentle hands, they freed her, brushing sand from her hair and suit, and led her to the water’s edge to rinse off.
Father returned first, his face calm but stern. Mother followed, and they exchanged a few quiet words before turning to us. Father spoke first, disappointment clear in his voice as he told us how childish and unkind we had been. Mother, holding Janet, scolded us for tormenting our little sister, while Janet, now comforted, watched with a hint of satisfaction.
Mother stepped forward and took Susan by the wrist, leading her to the deckchair. She sat, straightening her skirt, and told Susan that even the youngest should know better.
Susan, still damp from the sea, was soon over Mother’s lap, sobbing before the first smack landed.
To our horror, Mother produced her wooden hairbrush from her beach bag—a familiar tool of discipline. Without hesitation, she brought it down on Susan’s bottom, the sound sharp above the waves.
Susan’s cries grew louder as Mother continued, her legs kicking, tears streaming down her face. Mother’s face was resolute, her duty clear: to teach her children right from wrong, even if it meant a firm hand.
When it was over, Mother hugged Susan close, whispering comfort as she calmed her. The lesson was given, but so too was forgiveness.
It was only then that I realised—Susan had been spanked in public, right there on the beach. My stomach twisted with dread. What if someone from school walked by? I blurted out my fears, clutching my little swimsuit, but Mother was unmoved. She pulled me gently but firmly over her lap.
The cold, damp fabric of her dress pressed against my skin, but before I could protest, the hairbrush landed hard on my sandy, wet bottom. The sting was fierce, the sound echoing across the shingle.
I was sure I was getting it worse than Susan, but there was no time to complain. Tears came quickly, and I kicked and pleaded, but Mother was determined. When she was satisfied, she let me up, my bottom burning.
I started to run for the sea, but Margaret’s protests stopped me. She argued she was too old for such treatment, especially in front of strangers.
At that point Mother stopped fighting her, and simply told Clara that if she couldn’t cooperate, she would get the cane the moment she got home. Clara’s jaw dropped, and as a few silent years fell from her eyes, Mother peeled down her one piece, revealing a better look at my older sister than I had had in quite a while. before I could make sense of what I saw, she was over Mother’s lap, getting her own bottom smacked into the next world.
Reminded again of the fire in my swimsuit, I quickly dashed to the water to join my little sister, and I watched on as Clara was rapidly reduced her to tears. After the spanking,
Before she had chance to join her siblings in the water to cool her bottom, Father commanded us all to dry off and help pack up. We trooped down the long trail to the car,
