The first few days of our visit were uneventful, if a bit dull. Then, when my grandfather decided to come from Bournemouth, my mother and sister left to pick him up, leaving me alone with Aunt Mavis for a while.
Not long after they’d gone, Aunt Mavis and I were sitting at the kitchen table when she suddenly asked about my schoolwork. I hesitated, but eventually admitted my grades weren’t great—an F, a D, and mostly Cs.
Her usual cheerful manner faded, replaced by a look of disappointment. She fixed me with a serious gaze and said, “Peter, your education is important. You have to put in more effort!” That stung, and I snapped back, “Mavis, just stop—you’re not my mum!”
She stared at me, clearly shocked. “Excuse me? What did you just say?” she demanded, her voice rising. I repeated myself, and she firmly reminded me that I was under her roof and she was in charge of discipline. There was a spark in her eye, as if she’d been waiting for this moment.
I figured she’d just tell my mother and let her deal with it, which I dreaded even more. But instead, Aunt Mavis gave me a choice: she could handle it herself and keep it between us, or she could let my mother take care of it later.
I decided it was better to let Aunt Mavis deal with it. She agreed and told me, “Alright, go wait for me in my room. I’ll be there soon.” There was a note of anticipation in her voice that made me uneasy.
Sitting in her room, my heart pounded with nerves. Eventually, she came in, holding an old, worn red rubber-soled slipper, her face set with determination but also a hint of gentleness—and, I couldn’t help but notice, a trace of satisfaction.
She sat on the bed and motioned for me to come closer. She explained that she was doing this out of care and wanted to teach me a lesson. She admitted she wasn’t an expert—she’d never had children herself—but she would discipline me the way her own mother had disciplined her and my mum. Still, there was something about the way she handled the slipper that made me think she didn’t mind this role at all.
She laid out the rules: I had to stay still until she said otherwise—if I moved, I’d get extra smacks. And if I was still crying at the end, she’d keep going until I could take five more without making a sound.
(pause) The room felt tiny as I lay across the bed, the patchwork quilt cool beneath my cheek. The air was thick with lavender and the scent of old wood, and I could hear the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, each second dragging out. Aunt Mavis stood behind me, slipper in hand, her presence both reassuring and intimidating. Then, with a gentle but deliberate motion, she brought the slipper down on the seat of my trousers. The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing clap—surprising, but not unbearable. The sound filled the room, bouncing off the faded wallpaper and mixing with my quickening breath. Each smack that followed was firm and measured, the rubber sole delivering a sting that grew with every strike. The sensation was hot and prickly, a mounting ache that made my eyes water and my resolve falter. I tried to stay still, gripping the edge of the bed, but the urge to squirm was almost too much. Aunt Mavis counted softly under her breath, her voice steady and calm, a strange contrast to the rhythmic sound of the slipper. The pain was real, but so was the sense of ritual—each smack a punctuation mark in a lesson she believed I needed. As the spanking went on, the heat and sting became almost overwhelming, and I felt a wave of embarrassment and shame, mixed with a strange relief that it was happening here, in private, rather than in front of my mother. When I finally started to cry, the tears came more from the emotional weight of the moment than the pain itself. Aunt Mavis paused, her hand resting gently on my back, reminding me of the rules before continuing. The last smacks were the hardest, but by then, I was too tired to protest, my body limp and my mind oddly clear.
(short pause) To be fair, my own mother wasn’t exactly soft either. If I really misbehaved, she wouldn’t hesitate to punish me herself—sometimes with a wooden spoon, and on rare occasions, even with a cane. She always said it was for my own good, and though I dreaded those moments, I knew she meant it as a last resort. Compared to that, Aunt Mavis’s method felt both familiar and strangely different—less harsh, but with her own unique sense of ceremony.
By the time it was over, I’d stopped crying. Aunt Mavis helped me up and gave me a long, heartfelt hug, once again explaining her reasons and telling me she cared about me.
Later, I drifted off to sleep, and when my mother returned, Aunt Mavis kept her promise—she simply told her I was napping, and nothing more.
