(gap: 2s) It was the early 1970s, though one would never have guessed it from the manner in which Grandmother and Aunt Jean dressed. Aunt Jean, tall and upright, always preferred the sensible, practical styles of the 1940s—her utility dresses were fashioned from sturdy, no-nonsense fabrics in muted shades such as slate grey or faded blue. Her shoes were always practical, with thick soles and laces, and her hair was drawn back into a brisk, efficient bun. There was an air of determined efficiency about her, yet her eyes sparkled with kindness. Grandmother, meanwhile, was the very picture of quiet strength. She wore floral house dresses, always covered by a sensible cardigan, and her hair was neatly pinned in the same style she had worn since the war. There was a gentle authority in her manner, a comforting steadfastness that made the house feel safe and warm. On this particular day, they were hanging new curtains in the kitchen, their sleeves rolled up, looking every bit as if they had stepped out of a post-war photograph. My task was to find the boxes marked ‘kitchen’ and unpack them.
I set about my task with all the innocence of youth, unpacking a box and placing it to one side. Grandmother, balanced on a set of steps in her faded floral dress and sturdy shoes, was sliding the curtains onto the pole and asked Aunt Jean to pass her something.
As Aunt Jean turned—her skirt as plain and shapeless as ever, the fabric a dull brown that looked as though it had seen a thousand washings—she did not expect to find the box I had set aside. She missed her step, lost her balance, and fell against the large cardboard box, crushing it as she went. I could not help myself—I burst into laughter, my giggles making my stomach ache. Even Grandmother, still in her sensible cardigan and house dress, laughed as she called out, “Oh Jean! Are you all right?”
Grandmother descended from the steps, her sensible shoes clacking on the floor, and tried to help Aunt Jean out of the crushed box. The two of them were overcome with laughter, their plain dresses rumpled and dusty. I was quite helpless—I slid down the wall and sat holding my stomach, wiping tears from my eyes.
Once they had composed themselves, Aunt Jean pointed at me and accused me of causing her to trip. I could not answer, I was in such a state. As always, the solution was to put the kettle on! Grandmother began that process, her apron tied over her old-fashioned floral dress, while Aunt Jean removed the crushed cardboard box from the kitchen, her practical shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
I recovered enough to ask, “Did you enjoy your trip, Aunt Jean?” My comment brought on another wave of giggles! Grandmother laughed out loud and shook her head at me, her hairpins glinting in the light. “Oh, Jean!” she laughed, “you did look rather amusing.”
“I am sure I did!” my aunt replied, then added, looking at me with mock sternness, “I did not enjoy my trip, young man! It was about as much fun as the trip you are about to take, across my knee, you little rascal!”
Grandmother looked over her shoulder, her hair pinned up in the same no-nonsense style she had worn since the war, and surprised me by saying, “Be gentle with my little boy, Jean! We need those other boxes brought through.” In other words, Grandmother approved! Aunt Jean replied, laughing, her voice brisk but warm, “I shall give him boxes!”
Aunt Jean pulled me to my feet, her hands rough from years of housework, and ordered me to fetch another box from the lounge. Both women, still dressed as if rationing had never ended, were struggling to contain their laughter.
I suppose if I had kept quiet, I might never have received my smacked bottom. However, when I returned with another box, I placed it on the floor and said, “Do try not to trip over this one!”
“That is quite enough!” my aunt exclaimed, as Grandmother broke out into gales of laughter. Turning a chair around, Aunt Jean sat down, her skirt falling in stiff folds, the fabric as unyielding as her resolve. “Come here, you little mischief-maker,” she demanded, slapping her knees with both hands. Grandmother, still laughing, managed to say, “You have only yourself to blame, Lee. You should have learned by now.”
Meanwhile, I—of course—was delighted. At last, a smacked bottom from Aunt Jean, which was obviously going to be light-hearted. Grandmother also being present to see me smacked was a bonus. Grandmother settled herself in her favourite chair, her cardigan buttoned up to the neck, her hands folded in her lap, watching with a fond smile.
I duly presented myself, grinning from ear to ear, and did not even wait for instruction—I simply threw myself across Aunt Jean’s lap. I lay still, waiting. Grandmother came past and gave Aunt Jean her cup of tea. “Come along, Jean, drink your tea. We have to get these curtains up!” Grandmother said, settling down with her tea, her dress as plain as ever, her presence as comforting as a warm blanket. All the while, I was draped across Aunt Jean’s knees, not a single smack yet, but I would happily have stayed there all day.
There was movement, the sound of a teacup landing on a saucer, then I felt a pat on my bottom. “What are we to do with the urchin here?” Aunt Jean asked Grandmother, her voice brisk but not unkind. Her sister replied, “Well, he has been rather cheeky this afternoon. I am sure it will do him no harm to feel your hand before we finish these curtains.”
“I could not agree more!” Aunt Jean said, patting my bottom. Then, with a sudden, almost theatrical flourish, she slipped off one of her sturdy house slippers. The room seemed to hush for a moment, the only sound the faint ticking of the kitchen clock and the distant whistle of the kettle. I could feel the anticipation prickling along my skin, my heart thumping with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Aunt Jean’s hand, warm and steady, pressed gently on my back to keep me in place. I could smell the faint scent of lavender from her dress, mingling with the sharper tang of furniture polish and tea. The slipper felt cool and smooth as she tapped it lightly against my shorts, almost as if she was warning me of what was to come. Then, with a gentle but unmistakable swat, the first smack landed. It made a soft, hollow sound—more startling than painful—and I felt a quick, tingling warmth bloom across my backside. The slipper’s sole was firm but not harsh, and each swat that followed was measured, almost rhythmic, accompanied by the soft rustle of Aunt Jean’s skirt and the occasional clink of Grandmother’s teacup. I could hear Grandmother’s quiet chuckle, and the warmth in the room seemed to grow with every gentle smack. My cheeks flushed—not just from the spanking, but from the laughter and the sheer absurdity of the moment. The slipper’s scent, a mix of worn leather and soap, filled my nose as Aunt Jean continued, her voice light and teasing: “Let us see if you enjoy this little trip!” The smacking continued, a dozen or so gentle pats, each one stinging just enough to make me wriggle, but never enough to truly hurt. The atmosphere was thick with affection and mischief, the sunlight slanting through the kitchen window and catching the dust motes as they danced in the air. I could feel the love in every swat, the shared history in every laugh, and the unspoken promise that, no matter what, I was safe and cherished in that kitchen.
Nevertheless, I played up to my ‘punishment’. I begged Aunt Jean to stop, and declared that I was very, very sorry! The last two smacks did sting a little, sharper and more deliberate, making me yelp and kick my legs in exaggerated protest. But as soon as it was over, I was back on my feet, hopping around the room and playing the well-spanked boy. My bottom tingled pleasantly, and I could not help but smile at the memory already forming. Then my Grandmother stood up, smoothing her old utility dress and straightening her cardigan, and said, “Enough of this nonsense now, you two. Come along—there is work to be done!”
With a final warning of “You just wait” from my aunt, we all returned to our tasks. It was to be my only spanking of note that entire year, in a house where the 1970s never quite managed to arrive, and where Grandmother and Aunt Jean, in their plain, sturdy dresses and sensible shoes, kept the spirit of the 1940s alive.
