(gap: 2s) In the gentle days of the 1940s, when the world seemed to move at a peaceful pace and the air was filled with the sweet scent of freshly mown grass, my daughter Margaret and her dearest friend Dorothy were in their second year at the senior school. The two girls were as close as sisters, their laughter ringing merrily along the quiet lanes. Their friendship was the sort that mothers admired, though sometimes watched with a careful eye, for together they were always up to some sort of adventure.
Dorothy’s mother, Mrs. Edith, lived only two doors away, and she and I shared not only a warm friendship but also a belief in raising children with both kindness and a gentle firmness. We believed that children should be guided with love, but also with clear boundaries—sometimes, if truly necessary, a gentle reminder in the form of a smacked hand or a trip across the knee. Both Margaret and Dorothy had known such lessons in their younger years, for Mrs. Edith and I were of one mind in these matters.
As Margaret grew older and left junior school behind, I hoped that the new freedoms of senior school would help her become more responsible. Punishments became more thoughtful: a weekend spent at home, a week without pocket money, or a few extra chores. I watched, sometimes with hope and sometimes with a sigh, for signs that she was growing up.
One afternoon, as the sun shone through the window in golden stripes, Margaret returned from school with a note in her hand. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes sparkled with a mixture of worry and defiance. The note, written in the careful hand of her headmistress, explained that Margaret and another pupil—Dorothy, of course—had been found out of bounds during the lunch hour. The punishment was clear: demerit points and a half-hour detention, to be served on Friday unless I objected.
My temper, usually calm, rose at once. I spoke with the seriousness of a judge: Margaret would be at home for the next two weekends, her pocket money would be stopped for a fortnight, and a list of extra chores would be made before supper. The words seemed to fill the room, heavy and certain.
Margaret, never one to accept her fate quietly, protested with all the energy of youth. “It is not fair!” she cried. “None of my friends are punished like this!” I looked at her, unconvinced, and asked what Dorothy’s mother would say. Margaret, quick as a flash, replied, “She told me she only has to go to bed early for a couple of nights. That is all!”
I regarded her with a mixture of amusement and doubt. “Knowing Auntie Edith as I do, I find that rather hard to believe,” I said. But Margaret insisted, her chin set in determination. “Well,” I replied, “I shall telephone Auntie Edith later and see if that is really the case. In the meantime, you may set the table for tea.”
After supper, I telephoned Mrs. Edith. Her laughter, warm and understanding, came down the line. “Dorothy will indeed be going to bed early,” she confirmed, “but only after a proper smacked bottom each night. Tonight, she will be over my knee at bedtime, and tomorrow, she will have a taste of the slipper as well.”
I told Mrs. Edith what Margaret had said, and she chuckled. “I doubt Dorothy would ever admit to being put across my knee,” she said. There was a pause, full of unspoken understanding. “Or perhaps she did, and Margaret simply chose to forget that part. Children can be very selective in their memories, do you not think?”
Then Mrs. Edith, always full of clever ideas, suggested a plan. “Why do we not play them at their own game? Tell Margaret that Dorothy was not grounded and was only sent to bed early. Then ask her if she thinks it would be fair to receive exactly the same punishment as her friend.”
The idea delighted me. There was a certain sense of justice in it, and I suspected Margaret was trying to be clever. I agreed at once, eager to see what would happen.
Returning to the kitchen, I found Margaret quietly setting the cutlery. “You were right,” I told her. “Dorothy was not grounded. She is just going to bed early for a couple of nights.” Margaret’s eyes shone with triumph. “So, do you think you should have exactly the same as Dorothy, then?” I asked. “Yes!” she declared, her voice full of confidence.
“Very well,” I said, my tone firm but gentle. “You will be going to bed early, straight after tea. I want you in bed by seven o’clock, young lady.” Margaret went upstairs, her steps full of indignation, and returned a little later in her brushed cotton nightdress, slippers, and dressing gown, looking for all the world like a character from a bedtime story.
We ate our tea in near silence, the clock ticking away the minutes. At a quarter to seven, as we cleared the table, the doorbell rang. Margaret’s face lit up with hope, certain that this unexpected visitor would delay her early bedtime. But when I returned with Mrs. Edith, her expression changed from delight to utter surprise.
I invited Mrs. Edith to sit, then turned to Margaret, who stood quite still, her mouth slightly open. “As you know, I spoke to Auntie Edith about Dorothy’s punishment, and you agreed to have the same. What you did not mention is that Dorothy is going to bed with a very sore bottom for the next two nights!”
(pause) Margaret’s eyes grew wide as she realised the truth. “Auntie Edith has just given Dorothy a proper smacked bottom and put her to bed. Now she has come round to do the same for you!” (short pause) I took Margaret gently but firmly by the arm. “It is bedtime for naughty girls. I think Auntie Edith needs us upstairs for this. Up we go!”
(pause) The air on the landing was full of anticipation, as if the very walls were waiting. Margaret’s steps up the stairs were slow and heavy, her courage fading with each creak of the banister. In her bedroom, the late sunlight painted long stripes across the faded rug, and the familiar toys on her shelf seemed to watch in quiet sympathy. Mrs. Edith sat on the edge of the bed, her back straight, her face calm but determined—a figure of authority from a storybook, yet with a twinkle of kindness in her eye.
(pause) I guided Margaret forward, her small hands trembling in mine. Mrs. Edith patted her lap, the universal signal that needed no words. “Over you go, Miss Margaret,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. Margaret hesitated, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and worry, but there was no escape. With a final, shuddering breath, she allowed herself to be drawn across Mrs. Edith’s knees, her nightdress rising just enough to reveal the place for justice.
(pause) Mrs. Edith looked up at me for confirmation, and I nodded gravely. “Yes, please, Auntie Edith—exactly the same way, and exactly as many smacks as you gave Dorothy.” (short pause) The room filled with the sharp, unmistakable sound of quick, careful smacks—each one echoing off the wallpaper, each one a mark in the lesson being given. Margaret’s protests began as indignant yelps, but soon turned into quiet sobs, her pride melting away. The sting was real, but so too was the sense of fairness—old-fashioned, perhaps, but as clear and bright as the sunlight on the bedspread.
(pause) When it was over, Mrs. Edith helped Margaret to her feet, her face blotchy and her eyes shining with tears. There was no anger left, only a wounded dignity and the faintest glimmer of understanding. I tucked her into bed, smoothing her hair and whispering the same words I had spoken to her as a little girl: “Tomorrow is a new day, my darling.” Downstairs, Mrs. Edith and I shared a look—one of friendship, of mothers who had done what they believed was right, even if it made their hearts ache a little.
(pause) But the story did not end there. The following evening, as the sun dipped below the rooftops and the house grew quiet, I sent Margaret to her room once more, this time with one of my slippers in hand. The lesson, I decided, would be finished in the time-honoured way. The slipper, soft and worn from years of use, was a symbol of consequence—never used in anger, but always with care. Margaret accepted her fate with a gentle sigh, and when it was done, she hugged me tightly, as if to say she understood, at last, the meaning of boundaries and forgiveness.
(pause) And so, dear listener, let this be a gentle tale: be careful what you wish for, especially when mothers and Auntie Ediths are involved. For in the world of childhood, justice can be as swift—and as surprising—as a slipper in the night.
