My parents did not believe in corporal punishment, particularly at a time when most mothers and fathers considered it quite ordinary to discipline their children in such a manner. This made my solitary experience with such a consequence all the more indelible in my memory.
The event occurred at the home of my friend, Craig Taylor. I must admit, I held a certain admiration for his mother—she had married and begun her family at a young age, and could not have been more than in her late twenties when this memorable afternoon transpired.
Craig and I were entertaining ourselves in the drawing room, tossing a small football to one another with a degree of abandon. The room rang with our laughter as we used the furniture as makeshift goalposts, giving little thought to the precious ornaments that adorned the walls.
Presently, Craig’s mother entered, her arms laden with freshly laundered clothes. “Boys, kindly take that football outside, if you please—you may break something in here,” she said, continuing with her household tasks. However, we, caught up in our enjoyment, paid her warning little attention.
The walls of the drawing room were decorated with several delicate plates, each one a treasured memento. As fate would have it, Craig sent the ball flying towards me, and in my eagerness, I failed to catch it. The ball struck a plate with a sharp clatter, and I turned just in time to see a large fragment tumble onto the carpet.
Craig’s mouth fell open, his face turning as pale as milk. I felt the colour drain from my own cheeks, and a dreadful sensation settled in my stomach. We stood quite still, overcome with apprehension, until Mrs Taylor returned and surveyed the scene.
“Did I not instruct you boys to go outside? Now look at what you have done! That is quite enough—both of you shall receive a smacked bottom for this!” With that, she left the room, her footsteps brisk and determined. Craig looked utterly stricken, and I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.
From the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of a drawer being opened, and soon Mrs Taylor reappeared, holding a wooden paddle. It was the sort one might find in a seaside shop, bearing the words ‘The Board of Education’ in bold letters.
“Craig, you shall be first,” she declared. Without protest, Craig walked over to his mother, his head bowed. He bent over, placing his hands on his knees, and waited. Mrs Taylor regarded him with a mixture of sternness and maternal concern, then positioned the paddle against the seat of his trousers.
She drew back her arm and brought the paddle down with a firm, practiced motion. The sound was sharp and unmistakable, and Craig let out a small grunt. The punishment was not perfunctory; Mrs Taylor delivered a series of measured, deliberate swats, each one echoing through the room. Craig’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his knees, and though he uttered a few yelps, he bore it with a stoicism that suggested this was not his first encounter with such discipline. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he did not cry out in earnest. At last, Mrs Taylor allowed him to stand. “In the corner,” she instructed, and Craig obediently took his place, hands on his head, facing the wall.
Now Mrs Taylor turned her attention to me. “You are next, young man.” My heart thudded in my chest, and I felt a peculiar fluttering in my stomach. “Please, Mrs Taylor, I do not receive such punishment at home,” I pleaded, my voice trembling. “Then it is high time you learned,” she replied, her tone resolute but not unkind. “Naughty boys are spanked in my house. Come here, Daniel.”
With great reluctance, I shuffled forward. “Bend over, hands on your knees, and do stick your bottom out, if you please.” I nodded, my cheeks burning with embarrassment, and assumed the position. Mrs Taylor placed a steady hand on my back, holding me gently but firmly in place. The paddle rested for a moment against my trousers, and I could feel its cool, smooth surface through the fabric.
There was a brief, breathless pause, and then—crack! The first swat landed squarely across my bottom, sending a jolt of stinging heat through me. I gasped, the pain sharp and immediate, and let out a cry that seemed to echo off the walls. Before I could recover, another swat followed, and then another, each one expertly delivered. The sensation was unlike anything I had ever known—a burning, tingling ache that grew with every stroke. My eyes filled with tears, and I squeezed them shut, trying to be brave, but the pain was too much for me.
The room seemed to shrink around me, the ticking of the clock growing louder as Mrs Taylor continued the punishment. I lost all sense of time, my world reduced to the sting of the paddle and the sound of my own sobs. Mrs Taylor’s hand remained steady on my back, her voice calm as she reminded me to keep still. “This is for your own good, Daniel. You must learn to listen.”
At last, the ordeal was over. Mrs Taylor lifted her hand from my back, and I straightened up, tears streaming down my face. I was crying in earnest now, my pride as bruised as my bottom. The pain throbbed, but it was the shame that stung the most.
Mrs Taylor’s expression softened, and she knelt beside me, gathering me into a gentle embrace. She comforted me as one might a much younger child, her voice soothing and kind. “There, there, Daniel. It is all over now. I shall not tell your parents you have been naughty, but you may tell them yourself if you wish.” I shook my head, mortified at the thought.
She took my hand and led me to stand beside Craig, who was still in the corner, hands on his head. “Stand here, and reflect upon what you have done, and how you might make better choices in future. Hands on your head, please—no rubbing your bottom!”
Later that night, as I lay in bed, the memory of the afternoon replayed itself in my mind. The sting of the paddle lingered, a vivid reminder of the lesson I had learned.
Yet, in truth, I had no wish to experience such pain again. From that day forward, I was always on my very best behaviour whenever I visited the Taylor household.
