“I’m sorry, Peter, Sarah can’t come out today. She has been very naughty and I have sent her to her bedroom.” “Oh,” I said, disappointed. There were very few other kids around my age in scattered community, and no boys, and so although Sarah was a rather bossy and sometimes ill-natured girl, we had become companions, if not close friends. If she was being kept in, (the British did not say “grounded” in the 1950s) I was going to be at a bit of a loose end. Sarah’s mother took pity on me. “Come in and have a glass of orange squash and a biscuit anyway,” she said. I followed her rather reluctantly into the kitchen. I liked Mrs Hibbard, but I was somewhat in awe of her. She had a quirky sense of humour and a mischievous notion of fun that I sometimes found perplexing and discomforting. I felt ill at ease about being a guest in the house without the moral support of the more extrovert Sarah. But Mrs Hibbard made me welcome and as I nibbled and sipped, she said with a twinkle in her eye, “Actually, Peter, you may not have had a completely wasted journey over here.” “Oh?” I said again. My shyness made me even more inarticulate. Mrs Hibbard grinned at me and without answering, went to the kitchen door and called, “Sarah! Come downstairs—now!” I heard an upstairs door slam and then the thump of feet on the stairs. A few moments a scowling Sarah stamped into the kitchen. She stopped short as she saw me. What’s he doing here?” she demanded suspiciously. “Peter is here at my invitation,” her mother replied calmly. “And I see your manners have not improved for your spell of quiet contemplation. Never mind, I am sure more direct action may have a better effect.” “Mummy! You can’t…” Sarah began to protest. “Be quiet!” snapped her mother, suddenly sharp. Sarah pouted rebelliously and glowered in my direction, but remained silent. As for me, I had not understood half of what was said, but with a rising sense of excitement I was becoming sure something dramatic was about to happen. Sarah was a year younger than me, but slightly taller and robust. She had honey blonde hair held in untidy ponytail, blue eyes and a scattering of freckles across a straight nose. She was presently dressed in a floral print cotton dress, ankle socks and plimsolls. “Well, Peter,” mused Sarah’s mother, “what do you think we should do with her? She is going to get a good spanking, naturally, but should she be over my lap? Or that stool? Or the table?” At that age, I had never heard of a rhetorical question, but I knew no answer was expected of me—even if I could have spoken with my heart pounding in my throat. Sarah tried another objection. “Mummy, please, it’s not fair that Peter…” “Sarah,” her mother interrupted in a tone of sweet reason, “you should have learnt after eleven years that neither pleas nor complaints will lessen your punishment—rather the reverse—so I suggest you stop arguing and keep quiet.” Foolishly, Sarah only half followed that suggestion, staring at the floor and muttering mutinously. “Very well, Sarah,” said her mother, in a business like tone, I think you can have a sound spanking across my lap.” She sat on an upright chair and patted her right thigh. “Come along, quickly now.” With another fierce look at me, Sarah crossed to her mother’s side where she hesitated. “Tell him to go away first,” she insisted in a final attempt to preserve her dignity. “For goodness sake!” Mrs Hibbard said in an exasperated tone, and gripping Sarah’s arm in her left hand and pushing sharply behind her back propelled the girl across her knees. “And Peter—smack—has a name—smack—and you—smack—should remember—smack—to—smack—use—smack—it!” I stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed as Mrs Hibbard’ hand spanked the stretched seat of Sarah’s skirt. I had never seen a spanking before. My own parents were very easy-going and I was hideously good. As Sarah’s pony-tailed head bobbed at each blow to her bottom, I decided I was definitely enjoying the experience even if she clearly was not. Mrs Hibbard’ spanking hand ceased its motion and rested on her daughter’s seat. It was over. Ah well, it had been good while it lasted. “Right my girl,” declared Sarah’s mother, “now for your spanking.” Eh? I thought she’d just had that! But no, Sarah’s mother was turning back the cotton dress to uncover. Mrs Hibbard then raised her right hand and began to deliver a series of rapid slaps to the target area while Sarah wriggled and squirmed in obvious discomfort. For quite a few spanks Sarah managed to maintain a commendable silence apart from some stifled grunts and hissing through her teeth, but as the spanking continued she began to yell “Ow!” and “Ouch!” each time her mother’s hand struck the seat of her bottom. This spanking went on a lot longer than the preliminary, but at last, after a surprising length of time, Mrs Hibbard stopped spanking her daughter and told her to get up, which she did, red-faced and rubbing her bottom. It had been a wonderful experience and I was sorry it was over. But no…! “Right, Sarah, take that dress off!” “Mummy! No!” “Sarah, I am becoming tired of your silly arguing and wilful disobedience. Take that dress off! Sarah glanced balefully in my direction before giving a sort of grouchy groan and unbuttoning her dress. “Hm,” said Sarah’s mother judiciously. “Put your dress over there.” Making a face, Sarah flung the dress in the direction indicated where it fell to the floor. “Pick it up and put it on that chair tidily.” Mrs Hibbard said surprisingly calmly. With another murderous glare at me, Sarah crossed to where the dress was. Sarah perfunctorily folded her dress and tossed it onto the chair. “Now come and bend over this stool,” ordered Sarah’s mother. The stool designated was about three feet tall, with a round seat and rungs at its four legs. Sarah, although tall for her age, had to stand on these to position herself over the top. Her mother then pulled her further over to that her head and arms hung over one side and her legs over the other. Her bottom was balanced between. “Good,” said Sarah’s mother, when matters were arranged to her satisfaction. Mrs Hibbard obviously agreed as she went to a box of kitchen utensils and collected a wooden spoon. This was not like the small worn tool my mother used for mixing, but had a twelve-inch long handle at the end of which was a large oval bowl flattened on one side. Mrs Hibbard took hold of this formidable looking instrument and went round behind Sarah’s left hip. Her intention was plain—or perhaps not. For Sarah’s mother did not immediately begin walloping her daughter’s nervous bottom, but instead whacked the backs of her thighs: six stinging swats to each—three down and three up. This new attack seemed to disturb Sarah considerably as she yelled at each hit and she tried ineffectively to kick her legs out of the way. Mrs Hibbard now paused and Sarah and I anxiously awaited events—I afraid it was all over and she for fear that it wasn’t. It wasn’t! After what seemed an age, “Let go, Sarah,” ordered her mother, “or it’ll be worse.” Sarah ignored the instruction, but kept a firm grip on what little decency remained to her. “Ow! Wow! Yeeouch! Yeaaiieeow!” came Sarah’s increasingly enthusiastic commentary. She burst into tears. This did not deter her mother who continued walloping her, covering the whole surface of Sarah’s bottom and the tops of both legs with brisk swats for some time yet. Finally, though, she put down the spoon and allowed her daughter to get up. “Don’t you dare,” she instructed as the crying girl stood. Actually, Sarah seemed too busy gingerly rubbing her bottom to concern herself with her underwear. “Now, go and stand over there by the kitchen cabinet, facing the wall, and put your hands on your head and keep them there.” Sarah obeyed, her customary defiance for the moment spanked out of her. Mrs Hibbard washed the wooden spoon and, using another smaller one, began to mix a cake. I sat tight.