In the spring of 1990 I was a tall thirteen year old, a pupil at a prep school in Middle England. Like most boys I was a "Day-boy", but there were a few kids who slept over during the week, using a large house across the road. Of the 200 pupils at school, about 10 were boarders. We boys all wore bright red blazers with the school badge on the breast pocket, and grey shorts. Our long grey socks had red tops which turned over, and had to be held up by elastic garters or sections of lace. In the winter our legs would be blue with cold, and most mothers had a cruel habit of slapping our legs if we did not move quick enough. One slap on a frozen thigh would bring tears to any eye.
Michael Wilkins was my best friend. He lived nearby and was in the same form. Michael's mum was very friendly with mine, and we often spend time in each other's homes after school. Sometimes we would sleep over, especially if one set of parents were going out for the evening.
In England there is a quaint custom of "Pancake Day". This February festival has it's origins in the Christian faith, but nowadays is purely a children's' cookery exercise. Kids learn to mix batter from eggs, flour, milk; then fry the mix until it solidifies; and the exciting part is to toss the pancake, catch it in the pan, and cook the other side. Naturally little children are not allowed near the hot oil, but from about the age of eight most kids have a go. By the age of thirteen Michael and I were, in our opinions, masters of the craft.
So, in February !990 we decided to provide pancakes for our families. Michael had two younger brothers, Jeremy then aged 11 and Howard 6, and I had a little sister - Mary - who was 7. Pancake Day is always held on a Tuesday, and after school all the kids assembled at our house, which had a larger kitchen. The adults kept in the front room, leaving us boys in sole charge of the kitchen. In anticipation of flour and burning oil fumes, we had all been instructed to remove our expensive school uniforms, and wear old clothes. The three older boys had T-shirts and jeans (Incidentally the only long trousers I owned, and Jeremy had only got his new that Christmas). Mary wore a rather short blue dress which barely covered her knickers, and knee high white socks. Howard, as a six year old, wore a thick blue woolly pullover and tiny blue shorts, with the standard grey socks. He also wore a big red hand-print on his right thigh, the result of being seen with his finger up his nose.
The evening began with us letting the little ones weigh out the flour, then crack an egg. Jeremy had done this many times before, but Howard had never cracked an egg, and was nervous. He did get it into the bowl, and was most pleased with himself. Then we warmed the oil, which had to be very hot, before each kid ladled in a measure of the mix. Once the mix had dried, it was removed from the stove, and tossed. Jeremy made a mess of his first attempt, and the half-cooked mix landed on the floor. He made two more - expertly - and was quite smug as he ate them coated with strawberry jam. We decided that the little ones were too young to try tossing, but let them ladle in the mix, and add toppings to the finished product. Howard was happy, but Mary said she was old enough to have a go. I refused. As production got better, we served pancakes to the adults, and after about an hour everybody was satisfied. The adults announced that it had been a great success, and as a reward to Michael & I we could sit with the adults to plan our summer vacation, whilst Jeremy and the little ones washed the dishes.
We had been in the lounge for about ten minutes when a scream came from the kitchen. We all dashed in to find Jeremy holding his hand under the cold tap, whilst Mary stood with the smoking frying pan in her hand. It was obvious that she had cooked another pancake then tried to toss it, but had flung hot oil over Jeremy's arm. Jeremy had clearly permitted this illicit attempt at cooking. Howard was no-where to be seen, but then emerged from the back of the crowd at the door, having been to the toilet. Needless to say the washing-up was not done. "Jeremy, are you hurt?" asked his mum. "Not much" he said, more in hope than truth. There were several red spots on his left hand - clear scalds from the hot oil.
Mrs Wilkins opened fire. "Howard, did you know that Mary was cooking?" "No, Mummy" he almost cried
My Mother took charge.
She looked at me "Paul, did you tell Mary that she could cook another pancake?"
"No, mummy" I declared "And I told her she was not allowed to toss them" At times like these it was better to protect one's own position.
"Mary, come into the lounge" said Mother and took Mary by the right elbow. She lifted the elbow high and marched the terrified girl through the doorway. As they moved Mother used her right hand to apply six stinging slaps onto Mary's right leg. Once into the lounge she swapped elbows, and now used her left hand to thoroughly redden Mary's left leg as they crossed the room. As each slap impacted Mary leapt up, twisted away from mother, and screamed. This gave the procession a comical appearance, sort of two steps forward them jump. From bitter personal experience I knew, however, that this was far from comical for the culprit. I had been marched to the corner in similar fashion many times, with stinging thighs getting heated on route and knowing that there was worse to follow. Mary was parked in the corner, hands on head, white knickers visible below the hem of her short blue dress.
We all followed into the lounge. The men sat in armchairs, we innocent kids stood behind the settee. Jeremy was brought into the centre of the room. Mother went to the kitchen, and returned quickly. She rubbed some Burn-eze onto Jeremy's hand, a strange act considering what was to come next. Domestic discipline was the province of the females, the men only got involved if the kids refused to take punishment, or the mothers felt it necessary - things like stealing, truanting, etc.
Mrs Wilkins, sitting on the very edge of the settee, opened the firing again. "Well boy, what were you thinking of?" "Mary wanted to toss a pancake" he cried. "And you saw fit to let her?" Jeremy knew there was no escape. "I'm Sorry mummy" he started to cry. Mrs Wilkins leaned forward. "You will not be needing these" she said as she unbuckled his belt, then pulled down his jeans. Jeremy stood limply as his shoes were loosened, and then stepped out of his shoes and jeans. This left Jeremy in his white vest and pants, white T-shirt, and grey school socks with red tops. "Twelve" said Mrs Wilkins. Jeremy instinctively put his hands onto his head, tears trickling down his face. Mrs Wilkins swung her right hand back, then brought it sharply onto the sorrowful boy's left thigh. "Ow" he yelped. Now the left hand retracted, then assaulted the right thigh. "Ouch" One. We silently counted. After three slaps onto each leg, Jeremy was dancing. He moved his knees together, and twisted away from the descending palm, but succeeded only in dispersing the onslaught. Mrs Wilkins was not put off by her son's distress, in fact she seemed encouraged by her clear effectiveness. By eight pairs of slaps Jeremy was doubled up, but still kept his hands on the top of his head, gripping the hair. "Please, mummy, please" he begged. "This is only the beginning, young man" she replied. "Slower then, please, not so fast" Mrs Wilkins conceded to this request. Possibly she was feeling the sting in her own hands, or exhausted. Whatever the reason the final eight slaps were delivered much slower, but just as viciously. Jeremy doubled up in pain after each blow, but settled to an alert stance ready for the next one. He closed his eyes just before each slap, and then brought the appropriate knee up high immediately after impact. Tears flowed freely, and so did a clear fluid from his nose. "Now, to the corner" Mrs Wilkins ordered when the thigh-slapping had been completed. Jeremy hobbled to stand next to Mary. In both houses there was a corner of the lounge which had no furniture at all. All of us kids knew why. Mary, by now, had calmed down, but was sobbing. She stood facing one wall, he left elbow almost touching the corner. The hand-prints on her thighs had developed into large dull red blotches, the skin visibly swollen. Jeremy, taking up the adjoining wall, displayed vivid purple imprints, which we all knew stung terribly and would fade to a hot red in a few minutes.
"So, how do you think we should punish these pair?" asked Mrs Wilkins. "The slipper, I think" said my mum. "Jeremy is getting too big for that. Is Mary ready for the cane?" "No" mum said "She is far too young for that. But if you want to cane Jeremy, please help yourself" mum gestured towards the plant-pot by the door, which held two stingy little canes. How I hated that pot, every visitor would see it, and wink at me whilst touching their buttocks in mock agony. Mrs Wilkins looked at her husband, who shook his head. "No, not this time" Mrs Wilkins relented "Slippers for two will be fine" "Paul" mum turned to me "Bring a pair of your father's slippers, would you?" This was not a request. "Yes mummy" I shot out of the room, and raced upstairs. I was not willing to make it slippers for three. Within a minute I was back, offering the left one to Mrs Wilkins and the right one to mummy. "Jeremy" barked Mrs Wilkins "Come here" The boy walked across the room. still with his hands on his head, tears drying on his red face. He stood at his mother's right side. She put her hands under the hem of his T-shirt, and carefully lowered his underpants to his knees. "Over you go" she ordered, and Jeremy bent over his mother's knees. He put his hands onto the carpet, and his toes lifted clear of the floor. "Mary, come here" mother commanded Mary approached mother, and had her white knickers lowered. "Please, Mummy, I am so sorry" Mary wept. "I know, dear, but you have got to learn that you must do as you are told. Now over you go" and mother pushed Mary in the small of her back. The girl toppled into position. Both women placed a hand firmly on the back of their errant offspring. Whap! The first stroke of the slipper landed. Lectures during punishment were never a big feature of our domestic discipline, we knew why we were getting it. Simultaneous slippering were not common, but not unknown. Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! The slipperings progressed at a brisk pace. The blows were not particularly heavy, but rapidly delivered, one or two per second, and focused on one spot for a while, then moved to fresh flesh. Having been on the receiving end of this type of spanking I knew the heat built up, and it stung all over very quickly. "Mummy!" "Mummy!" "Mummy!" both kids squealed. After a few minutes both youngsters had bottoms like baboons, bright red all over. Each kid was squirming, legs kicking, arms lashing, tears streaming. They had cried themselves hoarse. "Well. that seems to have done the trick" said mum, suddenly stopping. "Yes, I think so" Mrs Wilkins concurred. Each mother put down their slipper, but kept their bawling infant across their respective knee. "Now, where were we" Mummy asked, looking at Daddy. "Discussing a camping trip to Wales" Daddy reminded her.
When the two sinners had stopped crying, they were let up, and sent back to washing up. Jeremy was allowed to replace his underpants, but his jeans stayed on the settee, neatly folded by his mum. Mary's knickers had been kicked off in the excitement, and she made no effort to recover them. This time the work was completed with no delay or flaw.
When the time came for the Wilkins to go home, his mother still retained his jeans. "Nobody is going to see you when you have your coat on" she decreed, adding "I see it was a mistake getting these for you. Perhaps I can cut them down to make play-shorts" So poor Jeremy had to walk across the road and down the street with his grey duffel coat flapping around his bare thighs. Not uncommon, as we all wore shorts to school, but on this occasion Jeremy had only his spanking to keep his bum warm. He never wore long trousers of any description for a further two years.
The following year Mary was permitted to toss a pancake, and thoroughly enjoyed it.
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Read what happened at school the next day, in Ash-Wednesday.