The Ritual of Discipline Part 2 The Call

There was something in the way mother called “Margaret!” that sent shivers up my spine.
I just knew from the tone I was in big, big trouble.
I would slowly enter the living room, a slight flicker of hope that perhaps I was mistaken.
But a glance at mother’s face as she sat cross-legged on one of the soft padded chairs, staring hard at me, her mouth set, told me to abandon hope!
Sometimes ‘the call’ took a little longer, when I was dispatched to school, with a sound whap on my skirt clad bottom, and “We’ll see about that when you get home, young lady!,” ringing in my ears, as I made my way down the driveway to the school bus.
All day I sat at my desk watching the big second hand on the wall clock push the minute and hour hands closer and closer to quitting time and my awaiting fate.
That walk up the drive, with some of my brothers and sister’s, seeing mother at the door, her arms folded under her ample bosum, her legs apart, eyes flinty, as she snapped “Hurry up, Margaret!”