(gap: 2s) Before I share the tale , let me introduce the principal characters who made those childhood days so memorable. (short pause) Aunt Margaret, my father’s elder sister, was a most impressive lady. She was tall and broad-shouldered, her face tanned by the sun and crowned with neatly pinned silver hair. Her years in South Africa had given her a brisk, no-nonsense manner, and her sharp blue eyes could quieten a room with a single look. She wore sensible tweeds and sturdy shoes, and her voice carried the authority of one accustomed to being obeyed. Yet, beneath her stern appearance, there was a gentle warmth, revealed only in rare, tender moments.
(short pause) My cousins, Peter and Geoffrey, were as different as brothers could possibly be. Peter, the elder by two years, was wiry and quick, with untidy brown hair and a mischievous smile that seldom left his face. He was the leader of our adventures, always the first to suggest a new game or challenge. Geoffrey, in contrast, was round-cheeked and gentle, with sandy hair and wide, earnest eyes. He followed Peter everywhere, eager to please, but quick to tears when things went wrong. Both boys had inherited their mother’s determined nature, though it showed itself differently—Peter in boldness, Geoffrey in quiet resolve.
(short pause) As for myself, I was the visiting cousin—slightly younger, a little more cautious, with dark hair and a habit of watching before joining in. My parents often described me as thoughtful, but in the company of Peter and Geoffrey, I was swept up in their lively mischief, eager not to be left behind. (pause) Together, we formed a trio who could turn any ordinary afternoon into an adventure—or, as it happened, a lesson we would not soon forget.
(pause) Aunt Margaret, a most formidable lady with a sun-browned face and a voice that could quieten even the noisiest child, had spent many years in South Africa. Her approach to discipline was, shall we say, most thorough. She rarely needed to use the cane—her presence alone was usually enough to keep even the most spirited child in order—but on the rare occasions when she did, the event was never forgotten.
(short pause) It was not long after we had moved to the village that I was invited to stay with Aunt Margaret and my cousins, Peter and Geoffrey, for an entire month. Their house was a large, rambling place, with creaking floorboards and the faint scent of lavender polish, and a garden that seemed to stretch on forever. The days were golden and endless, and we filled them with every sort of adventure imaginable.
(pause) One memorable afternoon, we spent our time playing football indoors, staging mock sword-fights with broomsticks, and building a most elaborate fort from sofa cushions. Not a single household chore was completed. The kitchen was in disarray, muddy footprints marked the hall, and the sitting room looked as though a small whirlwind had swept through. When Aunt Margaret returned, accompanied by her book club—half a dozen ladies in hats and sensible shoes—she was quite beside herself. Her eyes surveyed the chaos, and her lips pressed into a line so thin it nearly disappeared.
(short pause) There was a frantic, hopeless attempt to tidy up, but the damage was done. At dinner, Peter and Geoffrey were as quiet as church mice, their usual chatter replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. I could feel the tension in the air, as if the very walls were waiting. Once the book club ladies had departed, their voices fading down the garden path, Aunt Margaret summoned us to the parlour. She stood, arms folded, and declared our behaviour quite unacceptable. “Tomorrow morning,” she announced, her tone leaving no room for argument, “you shall all be punished.” She instructed us to each select a cane from the cellar and soak it overnight. The words hung in the air like a thundercloud.
(pause) Peter and Geoffrey immediately began to plead for mercy, their voices trembling, but Aunt Margaret silenced them with a single, stern glance. “Any more fuss,” she warned, “and you shall receive extra strokes.” The threat was enough to quieten us at once.
(short pause) I followed my cousins down the narrow, chilly steps to the cellar, my heart beating fast. The air was damp and smelled faintly of earth and old apples. In the corner stood a battered bucket, filled with canes of various lengths and thicknesses. They all looked much the same to me, but Peter and Geoffrey chose theirs with trembling hands and tearful faces, as though each was selecting his own instrument of doom. I picked one at random, trying to appear calm, though I was most anxious inside. We filled a tall pail with water and placed the canes inside, watching as they bobbed and sank. The boys whispered that tomorrow’s caning would leave us sore for days, and I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.
(pause) I had been spanked before—by hairbrush, slipper, and even the occasional strap—but never with a cane. It looked so light, so harmless, almost amusing. How mistaken I was! I lay awake that night, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house, my mind imagining every possible horror the morning might bring.
(short pause) At dawn, before the sun had properly risen and before we had so much as a crumb of breakfast, we were ordered to fetch our canes and report to the study. Peter and Geoffrey began to whimper, but Aunt Margaret’s stern look silenced them at once. I picked up my cane, now heavy and ominous from its night’s soak, and followed my cousins down the corridor, my feet dragging as though I were walking to the gallows.
(pause) The study was a sombre room, lined with books and smelling faintly of pipe tobacco and old leather. Aunt Margaret stood by the window, the morning light casting her shadow long and forbidding across the carpet. She took Peter’s cane and told him to bend over the stool. He gripped the lower rung, his knuckles white, and began to sob quietly, his shoulders shaking.
(short pause) Aunt Margaret tapped the wet cane against Peter’s back, measuring her aim with the precision of a sergeant-major. . Peter tensed, every muscle in his body drawn taut as a bowstring. Then, with a swift, practiced motion, Aunt Margaret brought the cane down with a sharp, unmistakable crack. The sound seemed to echo through the very floorboards, and Peter let out a cry, his legs kicking in the air. I felt my own knees go weak at the sight.
(pause) The next stroke landed lower, and Peter cried out, his whole body shaking as tears streamed down his face. The red lines rose on his skin, angry and raw, and I could not help but wince in sympathy. The atmosphere in the room was thick with dread, as if the very air had grown heavy and oppressive.
(short pause) Two more strokes followed, each lower than the last, each delivered with the same unwavering resolve. Peter begged her to stop, promising he had learned his lesson, but Aunt Margaret delivered a final, stinging blow to his sit spot. He writhed and kicked, quite beside himself, his cries muffled by the sleeve of his pyjama top. The whole scene was like something out of a schoolboy’s cautionary tale, the sort one might read in a well-worn annual.
(pause) She allowed Peter a moment to recover, then announced, “Last one, lad.” She tapped his legs, ordering him to spread them. He pleaded for mercy, but the cane whistled through the air and landed with a final, agonising crack. Peter’s scream was so piercing I thought the windows might shatter. He was helped to his feet, his legs trembling so badly he could scarcely stand, and was marched to the wall, his face blotchy and wet with tears.
(short pause) Next, it was Geoffrey’s turn. He bent over the stool, gripping the rung as though it were a lifeline. The first stroke landed squarely, and for a moment he was silent—then he cried out, legs flailing. The next stroke fell just below the first, and Geoffrey’s knees buckled. Aunt Margaret’s face was set, her jaw firm, her eyes steely with purpose.
(pause) Aunt Margaret tapped his legs, and Geoffrey’s knees quivered. The next two strokes were harder still, each lower than the last. After each, his body shook with sobs, and I could see the tears streaming down his cheeks, glistening in the morning light. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as the ordeal continued.
(short pause) “Mother, not so hard!” he begged, but Aunt Margaret was unmoved. The next stroke made him kick and shout, frantic with pain. I felt a lump rise in my throat, and my own eyes began to sting. The final, crossing stroke left Geoffrey weeping like a much younger child, and he too was led to the wall beside Peter, the two of them sniffling and rubbing their eyes, their faces pale and drawn.
(pause) I knew I was next, and tears were already streaming down my cheeks before I had even moved. Aunt Margaret helped me out of my nightshirt and stood me by the stool. Through my tears, I saw Peter and Geoffrey watching, wide-eyed, their faces a mixture of sympathy and relief that it was no longer their turn. “In position,” Aunt Margaret commanded, her voice as unyielding as iron.
(short pause) “You shall have three strokes,” she said, “and let this be a lesson. If I ever have to cane you again, it shall be the full six.” Her words rang in my ears, and I braced myself, gripping the stool so tightly my fingers ached. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself, my mind racing with every dreadful possibility.
(pause) The first stroke landed in the centre of my bottom, so forceful it pushed me against the stool. The pain took a moment to register—then it exploded, white-hot and searing, and I cried out, convinced I might faint. My vision blurred with tears, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out again. The sensation was unlike anything I had ever known, a sharp, stinging agony that seemed to radiate through my entire being.
(short pause) “Hold tight and spread your legs,” Aunt Margaret instructed. I glanced at my cousins, who were peering over their shoulders, their eyes wide with a mixture of horror and fascination. The next stroke landed on my sit spot, and I nearly fainted. I babbled incoherently, but Aunt Margaret was unmoved, her face set in grim determination. The room seemed to spin, and I clung to the stool as though it were the only solid thing in the world.
(pause) “Ready?” she said, and the final stroke landed across the previous two, a wave of pain crashing over me. I felt a trickle of embarrassment down my leg, and Aunt Margaret remarked, “I think you have learned your lesson.” Her tone was not unkind, but there was no mistaking the finality in her words. I was moved to the wall, my legs trembling, my face hot with shame and relief.
(short pause) There we stood, the three of us, lined up like miscreants in a school story, forbidden to rub our sore bottoms or utter a word. The minutes crawled by, each one an eternity. My legs ached, my bottom throbbed, and I could hear the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, each chime a small mercy bringing us closer to freedom.
(pause) At last, we were allowed to dress and leave. I snatched up my nightshirt and dashed to my room, unable to sit, flopping face-down on the bed. The sheets felt cool against my burning skin, and I buried my face in the pillow, vowing never to cross Aunt Margaret again.
(short pause) Later, we were summoned for lunch. All three of us wore baggy trousers—anything tighter was unthinkable. We ate standing up, shifting from foot to foot, and exchanged glances of mutual understanding. The meal was a silent affair, punctuated only by the clink of cutlery and the occasional sniffle. Afterwards, we returned to our rooms, each lost in our own thoughts.
(pause) It was a day and a half before I could sit, and even then it was a delicate business, requiring the utmost care and a good deal of wincing
