It was the winter of 1960/61. I was thirteen years old and had been visiting a friend's house in the nearby town for the afternoon when it was apparent that I was going to miss the bus home. My friend's mother told me to go and use a nearby telephone box to call home, as they did not have a telephone. I said not to worry as my parents would not. I could catch the next bus, although they ran at two hour intervals. I felt quite grown up that day, having recently graduated to long trousers and my friend Simon was still in shorts.
I arrive home and walk into the dining room where the family were having supper. There was an unaccustomed silence. An atmosphere.
"Where have you been" asked my dad angrily.
"Just to Simon's. You know that. You saw me go" I retorted.
"You were told to catch the 5 o'clock bus"
"Well, I missed it"
"We have a telephone."
I said nothing but just went to sit at my place.
"Stay where you are, Philip" said dad. There was something in his tone of voice that made me feel nervous for the first time. My two brothers were looking at me. I thought they were smiling.
"You were told distinctly what time to be home. Missing the bus is not an excuse and in any case you should have telephoned. I am going to give you the stick"
I looked at my father open-mouthed. The stick! I had not been given that for two years. In our house the stick was a thin bamboo cane that was kept in the drawer of the sideboard. It had been there for years and was brought out frequently when I was younger but as I could remember had not appeared for many months when it was last used on my younger brother. It was given it last when I first started grammar school in my second week. That was for being late home after being kept in by the French master. I hated the stick but had now thought I had left that behind along with short trousers. How wrong I was.
"You can't" I shouted, with tears pricking my eyes.
"What do you mean, I can't" thundered my father as he stood and went to the sideboard drawer I used to dread so much. I looked on incredulously as he rummaged for some time and then took out the yellow thin length of whippy bamboo that had played such a regular and painful part in my younger disciplined life.
"No, you can't use that on me" I shouted again. I was scared now. He obviously meant to use it.
"Don't you dare shout at me, Philip" said dad in a lower but sterner voice. "You will do as you are told. You have been disobedient and insolent and I am going to give you a dammed good thrashing. I have been far too lax with you recently."
"I'm sorry but please don't give me the stick. I'm 13 now"
"Yes, and far too big for your boots." He said and turned to my mother. "Has Philip still got a pair of his school shorts in his room"
"Yes, of course he has, dear. He has only had his first long trousers for a few weeks. Don't you remember"
"Not really" said dad, "I don't know how that happened. I certainly did not give permission"
"He insisted, dear", said mum.
"Oh did he. Things are going to change around here. We say when it is right for our sons to wear long trousers. They don't. Go upstairs, Philip and change into short trousers. Don't forget the long socks. Hurry!"
I stared at dad who was glowering at me whilst flexing the cane in a very menacing manner. It was like facing a headmaster. One did not dare argue. My brothers were giggling to each other. I was blushing and feeling very small. I did not move though.
"When I tell you to do something I expect you to obey me, Philip. Now hold your hand out" dad ordered.
Suddenly I felt turned on. It was extraordinary. I did not understand. I was being told to hold my hand out like at primary school. Was this to be my punishment? Dad had never caned us on our hands before. I slowly held out the palm of my right hand. My father whipped the stick down hard and I withdrew my hand immediately after the stick had cracked onto its palm. The pain was excruciating.
"And now the other hand"
I held the left hand out and caught my brother's eye who was grinning at me. He was really enjoying the entertainment. The cane did its work again and I started to cry. I was 13 and crying like a ten year-old.
"Now, Philip" my father said gently but firmly, "Go and change into your short trousers and wait for me in the sitting room"
I slowly did as I was told. I left the warmth of the dining room and into the cold hallway. It was a long time before central heating was commonplace. I climbed upstairs and into my freezing bedroom. It was late January. I opened the bottom drawer in the little chest of drawers where my mother always put my school clothes and took out a pair of grey flannel short trousers that I had worn every day to school up to the end of the Autumn Term. I pulled off my long trousers and pulled on the short ones. My legs felt the draught of cold air that they had been until lately very used to. I found a pair of long school socks at the back of my sock drawer and put them on, not forgetting to turn the tops over neatly. They felt comfortable. My hands were hurting but knew now that I was really in for a thrashing downstairs. I had resigned myself to this now as I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of my small wardrobe. I saw the boy I was and thought how well I looked. I was feeling quite turned on. I could see a bulge at the front of my trousers. I didn't want to wear long trousers anyway I told myself, but without total conviction. I felt my left sock falling down and reached into the sock drawer for the black elastic gaiters that my mother had always insisted I wore with my socks. I sat on the bed and stretching the gaiters over my shoes positioned them under each turnover as I had been taught. Both the short trousers and socks were really too small for me now. I went downstairs into the sitting room.
If my bedroom was freezing the sitting room was arctic. The room was empty but I knew I would not have to wait long. I looked at the sofa over which I would soon be placed. I wondered how I would cope. I always would scream the house down when my father thrashed me. He came in with the stick. He looked at me with approval.
"Well, son. That is better. I did not approve of you going into long trousers. From now it is strictly short trousers for you until I say otherwise. We are talking about a very long time away. We will buy you some new clothes on Saturday but in the meantime you will return to school in what you have now even though you have grown out of them. You have been thoroughly disobedient and insolent to me - in front of your young brothers. It has been far too long since you had the stick. This cane is probably too small for you now as well, but we shall see what we can do with it. You didn't used to like it."
"No, you're right" I said trying to sound as if I was taking this in my stride.
"Trousers and pants off. Kneel on the sofa and bend across the arm. Take your shoes off first."
The instructions came quickly. I removed my shoes, fumbled with the snake belt clasp and dropped my trousers to my ankles and stepped out of them. I then pulled my pants down and nearly tripped as I tried to step out of them. I left them in a pile and positioned myself across the arm of the sofa with my hands touching the floor. I had been in this position many times. It was like old times and strangely reassuring. My bottom felt freezing in the cold air and I felt goose bumps coming. I was no longer turned on but my bottom was tingling in the way it always did awaiting the first stroke of the cane. I felt secure in that position but I was glad we were alone.
"You will not treat your new clothes with such contempt" said dad as he picked up my underpants and trousers, neatly folding them on a chair.
The next thing I know was the sting of the bamboo cane biting into my bottom. I gritted my teeth and tried to bear the pain. I did not do that before. I would be in tears even before the first stroke. Now I was much bigger and would try very hard. Three more strokes came in quick succession then a fourth and a fifth. It was really hurting now and I started to cry. I dug my knees into the sofa and pressed my front onto the arm hard as if to move away from the stick. This position was perfect though. I had nowhere to go and the sixth and seventh stroke followed harder then the earlier ones. Then a stroke landed low down and a cried loudly, only to be rewarded with two more, harder still and in much the same place. Further strokes came harder and faster so that I lost count but just cried and cried, just as I used to as a small boy. I do not know how many I was given but suddenly it stopped. It was over and all I could hear was my own crying and I tried to stop. My bottom was on fire and I clutched it with both hands and nearly fell off the sofa. It was absolute agony. I stood and hopped around the room still clutching my bottom.
"Put these back on but carry your shoes. You're going straight to bed and I will see you in the morning. In here at 7.30 sharp ready for school." said dad, handing me my clothes. I reluctantly removed my hands that were trying to grab the pain away from my bottom and took the clothes. Still blubbing like a ten year-old I picked up the shoes and left the room, forgetting to put my shorts back on but just went upstairs as I was. I heard the dining room door open and knew my brothers were viewing the effect of the thrashing. They had certainly been listening to it. I got straight into bed and cried myself to sleep laying on my front just as I used to. Just before I slept the pain had turned into a glowing sensation that was actually rather nice.