Mavis was younger than my mother, and although she wasn’t particularly attractive or unattractive she was clean neat and tidy, something I definatly was not.
She had the plain appearance that most women had in that era and, She lived alone after her parents had passed away a few years earlier.
Mavis thought it would be enjoyable to have some company around the house, she told my mother. But this company, meaning me, often found himself in trouble, my mother warned her. Before leaving, my mother gave Mavis clear instructions on what to do if I misbehaved.
“If he doesn’t follow the rules or steps out of line,” my mother instructed, “make sure you put him over your knee and give him a jolly good smacked bottom.”
Mavis found this amusing and smiled at me. I assumed nothing of the sort would actually happen, but I soon realized how mistaken I was!
The first few days went smoothly, without even a hint of scolding, and I began to fall into my usual routine of doing as I pleased and pushing boundaries. However, I quickly learned that Mavis was not a pushover and that she would follow my mother’s instructions to the letter.
One rainy morning, I was sternly warned not to get my clothes dirty while playing. The backyard was soaked, and the bare patches on the lawn were muddy. Needless to say, I didn’t stay clean for long – by the time I returned to the house, I was covered in thick brown mud and left a trail from the kitchen to the living room.
“Peter! You are a very naughty boy, I told you not to get your clothes dirty while playing!” Mavis’s angry voice came from behind me. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself, never mind my clean floor and carpet!”
Grabbing my right hand, she led me to the bathroom and said: “I’ll have to wash everything you have on while you take a bath. Leave them outside the door.” I did as instructed, stripping and placing my muddy clothes on the floor outside the door. I then took a bath and had just turned off the water when the door opened, and she walked back in.
I peeked around the shower curtain and saw her take a large pink bath towel off the rack. She held it out and told me to get out of the tub.
“After you leave,” I abruptly told to her. “ Peter,” Mavis retorted, “You gave up your right to modesty when you disobeyed me,” she said. “You can get out and let me dry you, or I can leave and return with the slipper. Which will it be, young man?” The slipper was a very common punishment back in English homes back in the 1970s. Having had the slipper from my own mother and at school on more than a few occasions, I chose to comply
I chose the towel and slid the curtain aside, stepping onto the mat next to the tub. She knelt down and dried me all over. I felt my face flush but said nothing.
But that was just the beginning of my embarrassment. I reached for the towel when I was dry, but she folded it and placed it back on the rack. She slapped my hand, took me by my left wrist, and led me out of the room.
“Now to address the second matter,” she said as we reached the living room sofa.
Blushing as red as a beet, I asked her what she was going to do. She replied by seating herself and pulling me face down across her knees – a position I was quite familiar with at home. However, I was used to my mother giving me a smacked bottom over her knee, not a complete stranger, and I became a contrite little boy, hoping to beg my way out of my punishment.
But Mavis was not swayed. She encircled my waist with her left arm, raised her right hand, and brought it down across my left buttock. Yelping from the sting, I pleaded with her not to smack me, but my pleas were in vain.
Her hand began to come down briskly and alternated from cheek to cheek. I started to cry and squirm as the sting spread and my cheeks burned. Each smack felt like a white-hot needle, and there was no escape.
I can’t say for sure how many smacks I received that day, but it seemed to go on forever. Finally, I just lay there taking them, gritting my teeth and promising I’d never disobey her again.
Then it was over. The last smack fell, and I heard my own breath coming in gasps. She left me there over her lap for a minute, then helped me back to my feet. I was warned not to rub or I would get more, then I was hustled into a corner.
I stood there until she returned with my clean clothes. I was told to dress, and she watched as I did, arms folded – wearing, I noticed, a smile of smug satisfaction.
Mavis did not tell my mother she had disciplined me. She feared my mother might repeat the punishment if she reported the incident, and that would not be fair. She explained that I had been disciplined for my misdeed, and the matter was closed.
Now, years after that day, I still think of her and look back on that over-the-knee hand smacking with a sense of nostalgia
