The evening’s entertainments reached their height with a most remarkable incident—one that, even now, I remember with a blend of delight and astonishment. The parlour, bathed in the gentle, golden glow of Christmas candles, sparkled with the reflections of tinsel and the soft flicker of the fire. Shadows played along the walls, and the air was filled with the mingled scents of pine, orange peel, and the sweet, buttery aroma of freshly baked mince pies. Laughter rang out, clear and unrestrained, as the company—family and friends, both young and old—gathered in a circle, their faces bright with merriment and the warmth of good cheer. The gentle clink of glasses and the rustle of silk dresses and crisp shirts created a harmonious background to the festivities, and in that moment, the world outside seemed to disappear, leaving only the enchantment of Christmas and the promise of innocent amusement.
As the music began, a lively tune played on the old upright piano by Uncle George, we children circled the chairs with growing excitement. The adults, their eyes alight with good-natured mischief, encouraged us with shouts and applause, their voices rising above the melody. The anticipation was palpable; each time the music paused, hearts leapt and feet hurried, the air alive with laughter and playful protest. The game of musical chairs, so simple and yet so exhilarating, became a contest of wit and agility. When the final round arrived, only Aunt Susan—resplendent in a festive green dress with a sprig of holly at her collar—a friend of Margaret’s, and I remained. The room seemed to hold its breath as the music played on, the tension mounting with every note. Suddenly, the music ceased, and in an instant, I dashed for the last chair, my heart pounding. Aunt Susan, swift as ever, lunged as well, but I narrowly beat her, collapsing into the seat with a triumphant smile. In a display of mock indignation, Aunt Susan sat herself squarely on my lap, her laughter ringing out like a bell. The room erupted in a chorus of delight, and I felt a surge of pride and happiness—never had I been so at the centre of attention, the hero of the moment.
Aunt Susan, always the good sport and the undisputed queen of theatrics, declared in her most dramatic voice that I had “cheated most dreadfully” and must be punished for my cunning. Before I could utter a word in my defence, she swept me up with a flourish worthy of the stage, her arms strong and sure, and placed me across her knees. The company expressed their approval with laughter, and I found myself, for the first time, in the classic over-the-knee position so often depicted in the storybooks of my youth. The sensation was at once thrilling and mortifying, a curious blend of excitement and embarrassment that sent a shiver down my spine.
I was acutely aware of the warmth of Aunt Susan’s lap, the rustle of her festive skirt beneath me, and the gentle firmness of her hold. My heart thudded in my chest, and I could not help but notice the seams and bows of her stockings, which seemed, in that moment, the very height of elegance and sophistication. The room, for all its noise and bustle, faded into a blur; all that existed was Aunt Susan, her laughter, and the curious anticipation of what was to come. I could feel the eyes of the entire company upon me, their faces alight with amusement and affection, and I was swept up in the drama of the moment, both actor and audience in this impromptu play.
“Now then, young man,” Aunt Susan announced, her voice ringing with mock severity, “let us see if you can take your medicine like a gentleman!” The ladies, encouraged by the spirit of the season and the safety of tradition, called out suggestions—“A dozen for luck!” “Make them count!”—while Margaret, ever the protective mother, urged her sister to be gentle with her “precious boy.” The gentlemen, not to be outdone, offered their own hearty encouragement, and the room was alive with a sense of shared amusement, a collective delight in the harmless spectacle unfolding before them.
I lay quite still, determined to show no sign of fear or discomfort, my resolve strengthened by the knowledge that all eyes were upon me. In truth, I was rather enjoying the spectacle, and the knowledge that I was the centre of such attention filled me with a peculiar sense of pride. I called out, “I cannot feel a thing!” in my bravest voice, and the company laughed heartily, their amusement mingling with admiration for my courage. Aunt Susan, not to be outdone, delivered a resounding smack—more theatrical than painful—and told me to mind my cheek, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
The smacks came, one after another, each punctuated by the company’s cheerful counting. “One! Two! Three!” they cried, as if it were a birthday celebration, their voices rising in a jubilant chorus. With each, I declared, “That did not hurt!” or “Is that the best you can do?” The room was alive with merriment, the laughter growing louder with every playful retort. I felt, in that moment, as though I were the hero of some grand adventure—William Brown himself, caught in the midst of a splendid escapade, cheered on by a loyal band of friends and admirers.
As the count reached twelve, Aunt Susan paused, her hand resting lightly on my back, her face a picture of exaggerated concern. There was a brief, good-natured debate as to whether I deserved a baker’s dozen, or perhaps even a slippering, but Margaret intervened, declaring with mock sternness that I had suffered enough for one evening. Aunt Susan, with a theatrical sigh and a wink to the company, set me gently on my feet and enveloped me in a warm, perfumed embrace, her arms strong and comforting.
The consequences of my “punishment” were, in truth, nothing more than a faint tingle and a tremendous sense of satisfaction. The company congratulated me on my bravery, their words a balm to my pride, and several of the ladies ruffled my hair or bestowed kisses upon my cheek, their affection genuine and heartfelt. I felt, for the first time, a curious kinship with the heroes of my favourite books—those courageous boys who faced the world with a smile and a stout heart, undaunted by the trials of childhood.
The episode became the talk of the evening, with the adults teasing me good-naturedly and Aunt Susan declaring, with a twinkle in her eye, that I had “taken it like a true gentleman.” I basked in the attention, my cheeks flushed with pleasure, secretly hoping that such adventures might become a regular feature of our family gatherings. The laughter and camaraderie lingered long after the game had ended, weaving a tapestry of memory that would endure for years to come.
As the party wore on, the candles burning low and the fire crackling softly in the hearth, I found myself reflecting on the curious blend of embarrassment and pride that the event had stirred within me. It was, I realised, a rite of passage of sorts—a moment when the world of childhood and the mysterious realm of adulthood briefly overlapped, and I, for one shining instant, stood at the threshold. The faces of my family and friends, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight, seemed kinder and more familiar than ever, and I felt a deep sense of belonging, of being cherished and understood.
That Christmas gathering, with its laughter, its games, and its gentle lessons in courage and good humour, remains etched in my memory like a scene from a beloved storybook. The spanking, far from being a humiliation, became a badge of honour—a story to be retold, embellished, and cherished in the years to come. The warmth of the parlour, the music, the laughter, and the love that filled the room became, in my mind, the very essence of what it meant to be young and alive.
And so, as the last of the guests departed and the house grew quiet, I slipped away to bed, my heart full of gratitude for family, for tradition, and for the small, splendid adventures that make childhood such a marvellous thing. The memory of that night, with all its vivid colours and emotions, would remain with me always—a shining beacon of joy and belonging in the tapestry of my life.
