(gap: 2s) I was born in the year 1956, in the pleasant county of Staffordshire. I was the third of four children, with two older sisters, Patricia and Jane, who were eight and eleven years my senior, and a younger brother named Peter. Peter and I were the closest of companions, while our sisters, being so much older, seemed almost grown up to us.
Our mother was a brisk and cheerful lady, always bustling about the house with a sense of purpose. Her face was kind, but she could be very firm when the occasion demanded it. Father was a quiet man, but his presence was always felt. He believed in good order and discipline, and though he seldom needed to punish us, when he did, it was not soon forgotten.
One of my earliest memories is of Mother having to discipline Patricia. It must have been during the summer, for Patricia was home from her school and wore a light, flowery dress that fluttered as she moved.
I cannot recall what mischief Patricia had been up to, but the scene remains vivid in my mind—the sunlight streaming through the window, the dust dancing in the air, and the hush that fell as Mother’s voice, usually so gentle, became very firm indeed. She took Patricia by the arm, her face set with a look of disappointment and resolve.
Patricia, who was tall and proud even as a girl, was led to the sofa. For a moment, she looked back at us, her younger siblings, her eyes wide but dry, as if she was determined not to show any fear. Then, with a deep breath, she allowed herself to be guided across Mother’s lap.
The sound of the first smack rang out, sharp and clear. I remember how Patricia’s dress bunched up, and how her hands gripped the edge of the sofa. Each smack was given with care, and though Patricia’s body tensed, she did not cry out or struggle. Her jaw was set, and her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, determined to be brave.
I watched, my heart beating fast, feeling a mixture of fear, sympathy, and admiration. The room seemed full of unspoken feelings—Mother’s disappointment, Patricia’s pride, and my own confusion at seeing such a serious moment in our family.
When it was over, Patricia stood up quickly, her cheeks pink and her eyes shining, but still dry. She did not look at any of us as she left the room, her steps quick and determined, the only sign of her ordeal the slight tremble in her hands.
That was how things were in those days—punishments were accepted, endured quietly, and seldom spoken of again. There was an unspoken rule: one accepted one’s punishment bravely, and life carried on as before.
The first time I remember being punished at school was when I attended a small, private school for young children. There were only four other pupils in my class, and the school was meant to prepare us for the next stage of our education.
The school was quite modern for its time, and boys and girls were taught together. During Physical Studies, which included games and exercise, all the children from three to eight years old played together, which could sometimes be rather trying.
The school did allow for corporal punishment, but my sisters had told me it was used only very rarely.
One day, during Physical Studies, we were playing cricket. I found the game rather confusing and did not wish to join in. Mr. Wentworth, the master in charge, noticed and told me to try harder. For some reason, I refused and sat down on the field. Mr. Wentworth was not pleased! He took me by the arm and sent me to the headmistress’s office at once.
The headmistress, Miss Frobisher, was a gentle and kindly lady who made school assemblies enjoyable and helped families choose the right school for their children.
On this occasion, however, she was not so gentle. She listened to my story and then called me over. In one smooth movement, she lifted me over her lap. I knew what was coming and felt very anxious, but I also knew I must be brave and lie still, waiting for my punishment.
I remember the faint scent of lavender from her dress, the coolness of her hand as she steadied me, and the sound of a drawer opening. My heart thudded as she took out a plimsoll, a soft-soled gym shoe, which seemed very large and important to me at that moment.
The first smack landed with a force that made me catch my breath. A hot, stinging pain spread across my bottom, so sharp and sudden that I gasped. Tears pricked my eyes, but I bit my lip, determined not to cry out. Two more smacks followed, each one making the pain worse, until it seemed to fill the whole world.
By the fourth smack, I could not help myself and began to sob, the tears running down my cheeks as I clung to her skirt. Miss Frobisher’s voice was gentle as she helped me up, but her eyes were firm, letting me know that the lesson was to be remembered.
I was sent back to Physical Studies, my bottom still sore, my pride wounded but somehow cleansed. I played cricket with new determination, the memory of the slipper’s sting urging me on.
The first time I was punished at home came a year or so after this. I do not remember what I had done wrong, but I was sent to my bedroom in disgrace, and several hours passed before Father came in.
I was bent over the edge of the bed, and Father gave me about twelve firm smacks with his hand. I cried, for it was very sore, but afterwards he gave me a hug, and the pain faded after a while.
My next school was a private school for girls, and one had to be quite clever to be admitted. I was told how fortunate I was to be there, as neither Pat nor Jane had achieved high enough marks to attend, and so had gone to a different school. I was warned to behave perfectly, but I am afraid I did not always manage it!
Every teacher at the school was allowed to use corporal punishment, and they did so quite often. Usually, a wooden ruler was used on the palm or knuckles. Matron would deal with any uniform or tidiness issues, and would use her wooden hairbrush on our bare thighs.
I remember once, in third form, my whole dormitory of eight girls got into trouble. Matron bent us all over the end of our beds and gave us each eight smacks.
The headmistress usually used the cane on the palm of a girl’s hand, though for more serious offences it was used on the bottom. I do not think a week went by without my hands, bottom, or thighs being sore.
In fifth form, I became a prefect, and the saying “prefects get it worse” was certainly true at our school. I was punished less often, but when I was, it was much more severe.
The worst time was when I brought some chewing tobacco I had taken from Father, and another girl found it and told the teachers. I received nine strokes of the cane, and I could not help but cry.
A letter was sent home to my parents, and Mother gave me a good thrashing with her hairbrush for the same offence, so I was thoroughly punished for my misdeed.
My next school also had corporal punishment, but only the headmistress was allowed to use the cane, and only for the most serious offences. Many girls went through school without ever being punished in this way.
By this time, I was becoming more mischievous, and my behaviour, which had once been quite good, became rather less so, as I sometimes sought out trouble.
The most serious incident happened when we went on a week-long trip to Switzerland for a debating tournament. I became friends with a girl from South Africa who had a bottle of forbidden gin.
A Belgian girl and two Chinese girls joined us, and we all tasted the gin. We were discovered by a member of the hotel staff, and after some confusion, we were sent back to our rooms.
Miss Holmes, who led the debating club, was very cross indeed. I was confined to my room for the rest of the trip, with the promise that I would be punished when we returned to school. And punished I was! I received twelve strokes of the cane, which the headmistress said was almost unheard of, and I was told I was very close to being expelled.
My parents were so upset that they did not wait until the holidays to punish me themselves—they drove up the next Saturday, when I was still sore, and Mother gave me the hardest hairbrush thrashing I ever received.
As I grew older, I often thought about the lessons I had learned from these experiences. I realised that discipline, though sometimes difficult, helped me to become a better person.
When I married Henry, a kind and sensible man, my father made a little joke at our wedding breakfast: “Marie needed a lot of smacked backsides growing up to keep her in line. I hope Henry will continue to keep her in line!”
Everyone laughed, and later that night I told my new husband that I still felt quite young at heart, and that I hoped he would help me to make good choices and guide me firmly if ever I needed it.
And so, with love and understanding, we began our new life together, always remembering the importance of kindness, honesty, and a little bit of firmness when needed.
