If anyone were to ask me about my earliest memory, I would say it was the Christmas when I received a simple train set. However, there is an even earlier memory that remains with me, one that I shall never forget. (short pause) My mother was a gentle lady, with soft brown hair and a kind, open face. She always seemed to radiate warmth and patience. My father was tall and broad-shouldered, with a hearty laugh and a twinkle in his eye. He was the sort of gentleman who filled a room with his presence. One night, when I was tucked up in bed, a storm began outside. The rain rattled the window of my bedroom, and I lay awake, listening. Then the lightning began, and distant rumbles of thunder could be heard. They grew closer and louder, and I remember feeling rather frightened.
I wished to see my father, so I crept out of my room, jumping as the lightning lit up the landing. I could see that Mother and Father’s bedroom light was on, so I made my way along the landing. I could hear voices, gentle laughter, and shushing. Through the gap in the doorway, I saw Mother, sitting at her dressing table in her underclothes, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Suddenly, there was movement, and I froze.
They spoke quietly, but I could not hear what was being said. Seeing my father in such a way surprised me greatly. I longed to be with Mother and Father, but I knew, deep down, that I ought not to enter the room. I understood that I should not be there. There was some gentle murmuring and quiet talk and affection.
Suddenly, Mother turned slightly, took Father’s hand, and placed him across her knee as if he were a naughty child. I simply watched. I was too young to understand what was happening, though I suppose I may have seen other children punished in such a way, or at least been aware of such a consequence. All I knew was that I should not be there. The image of my father, a grown man, draped awkwardly over Mother’s knee, was both confusing and strangely familiar. Even at that age, the ritual of a spanking was something I had seen in the world around me—a swift, almost ceremonial act, always accompanied by a hush of anticipation and a sense of shame. I remember the way Mother’s hand hovered for a moment, the air thick with expectation, before coming down with a sound that seemed to echo in the small room. I felt a curious mixture of fear and wonder, my heart beating quickly as I watched, knowing I was witnessing something private and important.
By this time, the storm had passed, so I crept quietly back to my room. I had seen something that, even at that young age, I instinctively knew I should never tell anyone about. I should add that I never again saw or heard anything of that sort between my parents.
The experience
A year or so after witnessing that private moment, I began school. There, spankings were given out quite frequently—a surprise for a boy like me who had never felt his mother’s hand upon his person. The very word “spanking” carried a certain weight in those days, a mixture of dread and inevitability. It was a punishment that hovered over every classroom, every playground quarrel, every minor misdeed. The anticipation was often worse than the act itself—the waiting, the glances exchanged with classmates, the knowledge that your turn might come next.
I somehow managed to avoid any serious punishment, only receiving a few slaps to my legs and two swift smacks of a ruler to my hand. But I can remember wondering what a real spanking was like, and always watched closely when a classmate was being punished. Part of my fascination was the look on the teacher’s face. There was a ritual to it: the teacher’s stern voice, the slow rolling up of sleeves, the deliberate way she would pull a chair into the centre of the room. The unfortunate boy would be called forward, his face pale, hands trembling. The room would fall silent, the only sound the scrape of the chair legs on the wooden floor. Over the teacher’s knee he would go, shorts and underpants pulled down with practiced efficiency. The spanking itself was swift but thorough, each smack echoing off the walls, punctuated by gasps and stifled sobs. When it was over, the boy would be left red-faced and sniffling, rubbing his bottom as he stood in the corner, the lesson learned as much in humility as in discomfort.
Some children—mostly the boys—received very firm spankings from the lady teachers. There were no gentlemen teachers at either my infant or junior schools. My own teacher, Miss Rose, was a tall, imposing lady with sharp blue eyes and auburn hair always pulled into a neat bun. Her uniform was always crisp, her posture perfectly straight, and she carried an air of unyielding authority. She seemed to take particular care in telling boys off. She took her time with any scolding, deliberately increasing the anticipation of what was to come. Several boys were in tears before a smack had even landed. Every boy, without fail, was in floods of tears when eventually he was lifted from the teacher’s knee and taken to the corner for some ‘thinking time’. The sound of a spanking carried through the corridors, a sharp, unmistakable rhythm that made every child sit up straighter. The sting of the teacher’s hand, or sometimes a slipper, was well known—a burning, tingling pain that lingered long after the punishment was over. But it was the emotional side that stayed with you: the shame of being exposed, the hot flush of embarrassment, the knowledge that your friends had witnessed your downfall. Yet, in a peculiar way, it was also a rite of passage, a shared experience that bound us together in the secret world of childhood discipline.
I cannot remember a girl receiving such a harsh punishment. Yes, they were smacked, but never as severely as the boys. The girls’ punishments were lighter, almost perfunctory—a quick tap, a stern word, and it was over. For the boys, though, it was different. There was a sense that we were being toughened up, prepared for the world in a way that required a red bottom and a few tears.
One sentence no child ever wished to hear was: “Go to the headmistress’s office!” Our headmistress, Mrs. Blackwell, was a physically large lady, with a formidable presence. Her iron-grey hair was always pulled back in a severe bun, and her eyes, small and piercing behind thick spectacles, seemed to see straight through you. She was very, very intimidating. Her response to every misdeed was ‘six of the best’, no matter how minor or serious the offence. Some boys who had progressed to the senior school even maintained that she caned significantly harder than their present headmaster. The cane was the ultimate threat, a thin, whippy rod that lived in a drawer in her desk, its very presence enough to make even the bravest boy quail. The ritual was always the same: the slow walk to her office, the heavy silence, the headmistress’s steely gaze as she pronounced your sentence. The swish of the cane through the air, the sharp crack as it landed, the burning line of pain across your person—it was a punishment you never forgot.
