(gap: 2s) During my childhood, a time I remember with great fondness, my grandmother became gravely unwell. My mother and father travelled to be by her side, and as it was during the school term, they decided I should remain at home. Ordinarily, I would have stayed with my Aunt Brenda, but she too was journeying to see my grandmother. Thus, it was arranged that I would stay with my dearest friend Roger and his parents, while Aunt Brenda’s daughter, Sarah, was sent to stay with her own closest companion. I arrived at Roger’s house at the end of the school day on Friday. His mother welcomed me warmly, and all was well until Sunday morning. Mr and Mrs Webb were both devout and attended church services in the neighbouring town. They dressed with great care, and Roger and I were attired in our school uniforms.
We arrived at the church, which was in fact an old hall that had been converted for worship. As I followed Roger’s mother into the building, I could not help but admire her neat appearance—she was rather short, with beautifully permed brown hair, and wore a smart blue skirt and blouse.
We sat in the second row, and the service commenced. It was not a traditional service, but rather a gathering with its own unique customs. There were hymns, and, unable to resist, I altered some of the words as we sang. Roger glanced at me anxiously, and his mother gave me a most severe look. I did not heed these warnings and continued my mischief, until at last Mrs Webb’s patience was exhausted. She took me firmly by the arm, led me into a side room, and delivered a stern lecture before administering several smacks to the backs of my thighs. Feeling thoroughly ashamed, I was escorted back to my seat in the church.
At the conclusion of the service, I noticed Mrs Webb speaking earnestly with three other ladies. Roger whispered that I was in serious trouble. I was about to ask him why, but before I could, his mother returned. She spoke quietly to her husband, who then left the church with Roger.
Mrs Webb took hold of me once more and led me back into the side room. There, she explained calmly that I was to be punished for my misbehaviour. After a few minutes, the three ladies she had been speaking with entered the room. Mrs Webb informed me that they were church elders and would both administer and witness my punishment. I was very frightened, though I did not yet know precisely what form my punishment would take.
One of the ladies unlocked a cupboard and produced a long, straight rod, much like a school cane but without a curved handle. She turned to me and said, “Very well, young man—you are to receive eight strokes of the cane.” I pleaded with her, explaining that I was not a member of their church and therefore not subject to their discipline. She replied, “You are in God’s house now, and must abide by His rules. Correction will be given.”
Realising there was no escape, I agreed to accept my punishment. One of the other ladies placed a stool in the centre of the room and then sat quietly in the corner, joined by Mrs Webb and the remaining elder.
The lady holding the cane instructed, “Bend over the stool.” I was filled with dread. I protested once more, but she merely smiled and explained that it was the custom of the church for all punishments to be administered in this manner.
(short pause) With trembling hands, I bent over the stool, my heart beating rapidly. The room felt suddenly colder, and the air was thick with anticipation and the quiet authority of the elders. I could hear the gentle rustle of their skirts and their measured breathing behind me. My palms pressed into the worn wood of the stool, and I closed my eyes tightly, bracing myself for what was to come.
(pause) I felt the rod placed against my lower back, its touch cold and clinical, sending a shiver up my spine. There was a moment of dreadful silence, then a sharp, stinging crack as the first stroke landed. The pain was immediate and intense, a burning line that seemed to cut right through me. I gasped, my knuckles whitening as I gripped the stool. The elder paused just long enough for the pain to settle before the next stroke fell, each one delivered with unwavering precision. The room was silent except for the swish and snap of the cane and my own ragged breathing. With every stroke, the fire in my skin grew, radiating outwards, making it almost impossible to remain still. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I bit my lip, determined not to cry out. The elders watched solemnly, their faces composed, as if this were a necessary ritual rather than a punishment. The final stroke landed, the sharpest of all, and I felt a wave of relief and humiliation wash over me. My legs trembled as I was told to stand and face the four women, my cheeks burning with both pain and embarrassment.
The lady who had administered the caning gave me a stern lecture, her voice calm but firm, reminding me of the importance of respect and discipline. She concluded with a prayer, her words gentle, asking for forgiveness and guidance. The atmosphere in the room was heavy, but there was a sense of closure, as though the ritual had restored order.
Mrs Webb walked me home slowly, then instructed me to go to my room until luncheon. I was left undisturbed and had composed myself by the time Mrs Webb called me down for the meal. All was clearly forgiven and forgotten—it was as though nothing had happened, save for my constant fidgeting as I sat on my sore, itchy skin.
Nevertheless, I was greatly relieved when my mother returned several days later to take me home. Mrs Webb told my mother about my punishment, and she agreed that I had deserved it. Fortunately for me, my mother did not think it necessary to add to it when we returned home, and to my immense relief, I never visited that church again.
