From my desk in the council-run primary school, I could see the estate road outside. I was mad about buses, especially the old red Routemasters that sometimes made their way down from London. My desk was right by the radiator – a real treat in those chilly Surrey mornings – and, best of all, I had a clear view of my teacher’s legs. This was the late 1960s, after all, and skirts were getting shorter, even in our part of Surrey.
Mrs Slater, my teacher, must have been in her mid-30s. I liked her a lot – she spoke softly, was warm and friendly, and always seemed to have time for us. If you needed help with your sums or reading, you’d put your hand up and wait to be called to her desk.
Once you were beside her, it was easy to lean in as you talked about your work. More often than not, she’d slip her arm around your shoulders. I remember once putting my hand on her knee as I listened to her explain something. The feel of her nylon stockings was a thrill that stuck with me for years – it was the start of my own little journey, my first joyful encounter.
Discipline in our school was strict, as it was in most council schools back then. Teachers were allowed to smack younger ones, and if you were really naughty, you’d get a note to take to the headmaster. That usually meant a trip to his office and a couple of cane stripes for your trouble.
Mrs Slater’s way was a spanking on the bottom, but she wasn’t quick to hand them out. If you crossed her, though, you’d know about it.
She always did it at break or lunchtime, never in front of the rest of us. Afterward, the unlucky pupil would have to sit on the ‘naughty chair’ with their hands on their head, while Mrs Slater marked books or had her tea and sandwich.
I only remember a couple of my classmates getting spanked by Mrs Slater. One boy said she smacked harder than his mother or father – I couldn’t quite believe it.
You knew someone was in for it when Mrs Slater told them to stay in their seat after the lesson. All eyes would turn to the poor soul – we all knew what was coming.
When we came back from break, the classmate would already be at their desk, red-eyed and quiet. I never actually saw a spanking, which only made me more curious about what it was like.
One morning, Mrs Slater asked us to draw ‘a mode of transport’. I, of course, set to work on a Routemaster bus. It was a brilliant morning – drawing my favourite bus and sneaking glances at Mrs Slater’s legs.
After a while, I put my hand up and was called to her desk. I showed her my drawing and asked if I could use some crayons to colour it in.
Mrs Slater slipped her arm around me and pulled me closer. My bare legs, sticking out from my shorts, pressed against her. She gave me a pat on the bottom and left her hand there. I put my hand just above her knee as I leaned in – another sneaky feel, and a good long one.
She told me her own father was a bus driver and said my drawing was very good. She suggested I add a bus stop and a queue of people, let me pick out some crayons, and gave me another squeeze and pat before sending me back. What a treat – a good feel of nylon and a pat on the bottom! That warm, squidgy feeling inside was lovely.
As I coloured in my bus, a girl across the room caught Mrs Slater’s eye. The warning that followed sent a jolt through me.
“Jane, if I hear your voice again, you’ll stay behind at break! I’ll be happy to deal with you. That goes for anyone else – and woe betide those who do!”
My mind raced. If I stayed behind at break, would Mrs Slater spank me? It was the first time I ever thought about being spanked in a way that wasn’t scary. I’d seen cartoons of younger ones over a parent’s or teacher’s knee, and the idea of being across someone’s lap was oddly exciting – though I’d never been spanked at home.
At break, everyone but me and a girl left the room. Mrs Slater asked the girl why she’d stayed; she said she had a tummy ache and was sent to the school nurse.
Then Mrs Slater turned to me and asked why I was still there. I said I wanted to finish my picture. She came over, praised my drawing – I’d drawn her father as the driver – and laughed, saying, “It looks just like him!”
She said she’d put my picture on the wall and give me my first gold star. That was great, but I had another reason for staying behind.
“Come on,” she said, taking my drawing. We went to the front of the class, pinned it up, and I got to put a gold star by my name. Mrs Slater smiled and said, “Well done.”
At that age, you don’t think things through, so I just asked, “Are you going to spank me for staying behind at break?” Mrs Slater laughed. “Oh Peter, no – of course not, silly!” She guided me to the door and told me to go outside for the rest of break. I remember feeling quite disappointed!
Mrs Slater probably never realised it, but she’d sparked something in me. The fire was lit – I wanted my bottom smacked! But I had to wait another three years for that to happen.
By then, I was in the last year of juniors. That’s when Pritpal joined our class – the first non-white boy I’d ever met, his family having moved to our estate from further up the line.
We walked part of the way home together. One day, he lagged behind and asked if I got spanked at home for not getting top marks. I told him I never got spanked.
He explained that every day, his mother grilled him about school. If he got less than 100% on any work, she’d give him a proper smacked bottom. I was shocked, but also strangely excited – and wondered if I could use this news to my advantage.
That weekend, I tried my luck at home. Father was out in the garden, my sister next door. Mother was sewing, listening to the radio.
My plan was to ask her to spank me, like Pritpal’s mother, if I didn’t get good marks in spelling or arithmetic. But it didn’t go quite as I’d hoped.
After a bit of dithering, I asked if she’d ever been spanked at school. Saying the word ‘spanked’ out loud was a thrill in itself. Mother didn’t look up from her sewing – she just carried on as if it was a normal topic.
She told me about a woman teacher who used a short leather strap on pupils’ hands. Mother said it stung like the devil and she hated that teacher. My ears pricked up. Mother said the woman seemed to enjoy strapping younger ones.
I told her Mrs Slater was fair and only smacked younger ones after a warning. Then I mentioned Pritpal’s fear of being spanked at home for not getting top marks. Before I could ask if she’d do the same, Mother stopped sewing and looked at me.
“When I was at school, if you got punished there, most parents would give you another hiding at home. Luckily, I never had to worry about that, but it must have been awful knowing you were in for another dose.”
I was thinking this over when Mother said, “Have you thought what it’s like for Pritpal – knowing if he gets a poor mark, he’ll get spanked at home?” She added, “I hated my teacher for strapping my hands. It
