Back in my formative years, I was allowed to go for five weeks in the summer to friends of my parents in Gourock, a seaside town in the west of Scotland. This was during the latter part of World War II, when holidays were not the easiest of things to arrange.
I was very excited about the prospect of a whole five weeks away at the home of Mr and Mrs Morrison. Mrs Morrison was a well-built lady in her late 30s, embodying the typical Scottish woman of the 1940s. She had a sturdy frame, a testament to the hard life she had led, with hands that bore the marks of years of laborious work. Her face, though kind, was lined with the experiences of a life that had seen its fair share of challenges. She had striking ginger hair, often tied back in a neat bun, and she wore simple, practical clothing that spoke of her no-nonsense approach to life. Whilst indoors, Mrs Morrison always wore dark green tartan slippers with fairly sturdy rubber soles. Little did I know, I was going to feel those very slippers across my bottom during my stay.
The Morrison house was a modest, two-story stone building, typical of the era. The exterior was weathered but well-maintained, with a small garden in the front where Mrs. Morrison grew a variety of flowers and herbs. The front door opened into a narrow hallway, leading to a cozy living room on the right. The living room was furnished with a worn but comfortable sofa, a couple of armchairs, and a wooden coffee table. The walls were adorned with family photographs and a few landscape paintings, giving the room a warm, homely feel.
The kitchen, located at the back of the house, was the heart of the home. It was a large, airy room with a big wooden table in the center, where the family would gather for meals. The kitchen was equipped with a coal stove, a sink with a hand pump, and shelves lined with jars of homemade preserves. The scent of freshly baked bread often filled the air, a testament to Mrs. Morrison’s skills as a cook.
Upstairs, there were three bedrooms and a small bathroom. My room was simple but comfortable, with a single bed, a wooden dresser, and a small window that overlooked the garden. The walls were painted a soft blue, and there was a handmade quilt on the bed, adding a touch of warmth and color to the room.
My mother gave me the most strict instructions as to my behaviour whilst with Aunt Agnes, as I had to call Mrs Morrison – any report of bad behaviour and I would be in very serious trouble.
Although I believed that I was then too old to be smacked I had a feeling that she might not see things that way.
After the first week away, I was enjoying the freedom to roam around the town which was quite new to me. Aunt Agnes always wanted to know where I was going and when I should return. I complied with her wishes to begin with but after a few days, I was becoming irritated by her constant requests for information.
One day at the beginning of my second week, after lunch, I decided I was going on a bus trip to Greenock, the neighbouring large town. Aunt Agnes was not too sure about this but eventually relented, with the clear requirement that I be back no later than half past four.
This seemed to me to be too restrictive and I began to argue, but to no avail. She reminded me that she was acting as my parent and that was to be that.
I muttered unaccountably the words ‘stupid old sow’ under my breath, or so I thought.
Aunt Agnes’s face turned a deep shade of red, her eyes narrowing as she processed the insult. . The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with the weight of my words. She took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring slightly, and then, with a voice that was both calm and icy, she demanded that I repeat what I had said. I said ‘nothing’ but she repeated the question, pointing out that she did not wish to have to send me home early. Faced with what this would mean, I duly repeated the unfortunate words.
Aunt Agnes looked at me for a few moments in silence, then slowly and deliberately turned one of the chairs from the table outwards. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me over to her.
I was expecting perhaps a few smacks from her hand on my backside but I was astonished to be hoisted over her lap; it all seemed to happen as one co-ordinated action.
To find myself in such a situation with a woman other than my mother was unbelievable and for a moment quite exciting. I was not aware, however, that she had removed her rubber soled tartan slipper and my reverie was rudely shattered by the first hard smack of the slipper on my bottom.
The initial impact was a shock, a sharp sting that spread across my backside like wildfire. I yelled and wriggled, trying to escape the relentless smacks. Each strike of the slipper seemed to amplify the burning sensation, making my skin feel as though it were on fire. The pain was intense, a mix of sharp stings and deep, throbbing aches that left me gasping for breath.
Aunt Agnes gripped my wrist and held me down fast whilst continuing the smacking. Her grip was ironclad, and I felt utterly powerless, pinned down and unable to escape the onslaught. The slipper’s rubber sole added a unique, almost biting quality to each smack, making the experience all the more excruciating. When at last she stopped – and I was sobbing real tears – she set me onto my feet.
The humiliation was then complete. I was still crying, my bottom on fire. I wanted the floor to open and swallow me. The pain lingered, a constant reminder of my punishment. I was told to go to the front room until I was ready to apologise.
After about a quarter of an hour, I quietly returned to the living room and told Aunt Agnes how sorry I was and pleaded that she would not tell my parents.
She said that the punishment had been completed and that would be the end of the matter. I was free to go out but the ultimatum of a return by 4.30 remained. She then said with some firmness and a glint in her eye that should I disobey or show any more insolence, my bottom would be treated to the tawse.
Now, I had experienced the tawse (or strap) on the hand at school and the thought of having it applied to my bottom was too much to contemplate.
My afternoon expedition was not too enjoyable – the after effects of contact with the slipper took some time to wear off and in addition I was almost obsessed with watching the time lest I should fail to comply with the 4.30 curfew.
Suffice to say that I was back at base well before the appointed hour!
