Date: Fri, 16 Feb 1996 00:06:40 GMT
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To: Jim Newton
From: Jay-Jay <flyaif@ibm.net>
Subject: Moving Out (Story 4)

Moving Out

I went away to school in the autumn of 1966, the year I was seven. This year represented a major turning point in my childhood life.

Earlier that year my father and I had come to an arrangement (or rather, he'd done the arranging and I, once it had been clearly explained to me, accepted his arrangements!) for how our relationship would continue for the rest of my life.

During the summer holidays another bombshell dropped and it is this that concerns me here. Those of you who know me will remember that I and my older brother, Chris, share a bedroom in the family house on my father's station.

We had shared a room for as long as I could remember. In some of the quarters we lived this was essential because space was at a premium and when all the kids were home there were four of us. For this posting my father, who was CO, was given a large house on the station itself. My (much older) sister had moved out and although my eldest brother, Ethan, was about to go to college and still had a room at the house, there was a lot of spare space.

Chris had just turned thirteen that summer. Suddenly, and without warning, my parents announced that I would move out of our shared room into one of my own.

"You're both getting older now," my father explained, "and, now we have the space, it's only fair that you should each have a room of your own.

I couldn't believe my ears. I stopped eating and looked up and down the table at the two of them.

"After breakfast we'll pack your things into boxes and take them to the room over the garage." My father said, between mouthfuls. He wasn't in uniform that day so he must have been off-duty and had had this planned.

I was devastated. I looked across at Chris who didn't seem to have any reaction at all. "He must already know," I thought to myself.

"Please may I get down?" I asked.

"Have you finished?" said my mother looking at my only half eaten breakfast.

"Yes." I said.

"OK."

The rule was that once you'd got down from the table that was it. You couldn't go back later if you felt hungry, particularly if you hadn't finished the meal.

I went upstairs to my room. My room that is - my shared room. The room I didn't want to leave.

I sat on my bed and looked around at each feature in turn as if it were for the first time and took inventory.

It was a big room and the majority of the things in it were Chris's. The posters on the wall, with the exception of my Thunderbird 1 picture with Scott Tracy in it, were all his. The table by the window was his and had his models on it and his instruments that he'd wangled out of the engineers when they'd gone U/S in the aeroplanes. The bookcase, with only a few exceptions, housed his books. The drawers underneath held his clothes. The wooden box behind the door with the hinged lid was full of his comics. The chest with the two deep little drawers side by side and the big wide drawer below was shared. I had the two little drawers for my toys and he had the big one for his. The dresser for my clothes. The walk-in wardrobe with the mirror on the outside of the door - shared. The small table-thing by my bed, mine; my Thunderbirds lamp on it. My bed and my bear, Edward. I didn't know whose the rug between the beds was - I'd never had a need to ascribe ownership to it before. Two wooden chairs on the rug against the wall - one each. Chris's bed, his bear, Esso (it was, or rather had been, blue). Chris's table-thing with his lamp on it. Back to Chris's table by the window.

I didn't want to move out. The houses may have been different, the rooms larger or smaller perhaps, but two things remained relatively stable throughout the family's world-wide migrations after my father; the way our bedroom was furnished and that Chris and I shared a room. Why had it got to change now?

"Dad says you're to get some of those big cardboard boxes out of the garage and start putting your things into them." Chris said as he came into the room.

I went down to get the boxes as I'd been told. Although Chris had delivered it, the instruction had come from Dad and so obedience to it was instant and mandatory.

"Jamie", my Dad called from the breakfast room as he heard me on the stairs.

"Coming."

"Jamie, go and get some of the boxes out the garage and put your things into them. I'll help you move them later."

"Yes, Dad."

I went out to the garage. I didn't actually move as quickly as I could have done. Not that I dragged my feet or loitered too obviously - that would have been in breach of my Dad's arrangements and the penalty for that was too gruesome to contemplate. I just moved a bit slower than I would have done if I was going to collect some sweets or an ice cream.

The boxes were stacked up in the corner. We always kept them between moves but they would usually not be used until it was time to move again. I selected two, one for each hand, and, dragging them across the concrete floor, I went back into the house.

"Carry them", my father shouted from the breakfast room, "or they'll tear."

I raised them from the ground and tried not to bump them audibly on the stairs as I went up.

"Come on Jamie," my father said as he came into the hall, "Buck up!"

I moved a bit faster.

I dropped the boxes on the floor and sat down on the bed again. Chris was going through the books in the bookcase. I watched him.

"Is this one yours?", he said holding up a large green one.

I looked away.

"Come on Jamie! Is this one yours?"

"I don't know." I said huffily. I was very upset and angry with him. "Why are you throwing me out?" I said.

"I'm not Jem. It's like Mum and Dad said. This house is big now and we can have our own rooms. You want that don't you?"

No I didn't! I never got what I wanted. I was the baby of the family and I always had to fall in with what other people wanted.

"Is it because I asked you all those questions?", I tried, softening. Thinking about going away to school had been occupying my time more and more recently and, because we didn't spend much time with each other during the day, I had taken the opportunity each evening as we lay in bed, to ask Chris that day's list of questions. He would answer most of them but, as sleep came, he would try to make each answer the last. I was persistent though and a couple of times he'd become exasperated with me and told me to go to sleep.

Looking back, he must have had the patience of a saint. Having to cope with an energetic brother, more than five years his junior, can't have been easy. He always found time for me though and only rarely used the tone of voice that would let me know it was time to stop. I have to say here that he never once hit me or hurt me, even when I was at my most exasperating, and, though we sometimes fought, he was the best older brother a boy could ever have.

"No, Jem, it's nothing to do with that."

"Why then?"

"You won't understand."

"I won't if you don't tell me!" I was becoming angry again.

"OK. I'm not throwing you out. Dad and I had a talk that's all." he paused, "I'm getting older now and .. and my body's changing .." he trailed off.

I looked at him, my eye's wide. Nothing more seemed to be forthcoming. "Wot!", I said, "What are you changing into - a frog or something?", I was furious. This isn't an explanation - I'm not going to be taken in by this - I'm not a baby anymore - he can't seriously think that THAT is an answer!

"It's complicated, Jem. We'll talk about it some other time."

"Yes," I thought, "when you've had time get a better story together!"

He had his back to me and I looked hard at his arms where they emerged from his tee-shirt, the bare skin at the back of his neck, and the backs of his legs where they dropped from his shorts before they disappeared into the tops of his socks. I looked carefully for any signs of green or scales.

"Nonsense!" I concluded to myself.

"Come on Jamie," my father said standing in the doorway, "fill the boxes. Put your toys in first. Your mother will come and do your clothes later."

I sat on the floor in front of the drawers and, having opened mine, began shifting my toys into one of the boxes.

I could feel my father looking at me and that made me work a little bit faster.

"I'll help you move the room round later," said my father, addressing Chris.

"Thanks, Dad" Chris said.

I glared at him. My father looked back at me. I began transferring toys again. A smile came over his lips and he left.

The rest of the day was spent moving me into the room over the garage. It was a fair size room and my possessions were few - a consequence of a nomadic life I suppose. Moving around as we did there was little to be gained and a lot to be lost from accumulating possessions. I, and I think it's true for all of us, put more value in collecting friendships than things.

I was miserable all day and as uncooperative as I dared to be without crossing the line. A couple of times I got a warning look or voice tone from my father and at one point, just after lunch, when I was particularly sulky, I think I came very close - so close, in fact, that the look I got gave me goose-bumps on the backs of legs and bottom - this was the usual precursor to a spanking and I rapidly came back, clear of the line.

And so it was, by the evening, my bed, my table- thing, my chest of drawers, my chair, my clothes, my poster and me and my bear were installed in the room above the garage.

I sat on the bed and looked around. The surroundings were unfamiliar and uncomfortable. I tried the room with the door open. I tried it again with the door closed. I tried laying on the bed first one way, then the other. I tried sitting on the bed. I looked out of the front window. Now that was something!

This room had two windows. One looked over the back of the house to the garden and rockery. The front window had a view into the station and, to my delight, I discovered that I could see a part of the runway. The sight of an aircraft taking off or landing at night would have me transfixed. I loved it. ("One day," I told Chris once, "I'll do that!".)

The view from the window was some comfort although I was still far from happy. I could hear Chris and my father moving the furniture round in the room I'd been turned out of - Chris's room. The door was closed but I could hear the scraping of things as they were man- handled across the wooden floor. I felt left out. I think this must have been the first time I realised that, in a way, I was a bit jealous of Chris. He was older and allowed to do things I wasn't. He had a life outside the house and the station in term-time at school. He was bigger than me and cleverer. And now, he was spending time with my father moving furniture around. I don't think I could remember when Dad had spent time with me doing something together (except when it was necessary to explain - or re-explain - to me some of his "arrangements" and since this was usually conducted over his lap with the explanation being impressed on my bare bottom this most certainly didn't count!). Ethan and, especially, Chris spent time with me but not Dad.

The scraping had stopped.

"What's this?", I heard my father say. He was muffled by the closed door and the distance between the rooms but, with his powerful voice, I could hear his words clearly.

I couldn't hear Chris's answer. I heard my father again. His voice beginning to get that angry, threatening edge to it that I knew only too well.

"How long have you had it?"

Some indistinct mumbling.

"I cannot believe you have brought this into the house! Jamie might have seen it! Your mother might have seen it!"

At the sound of my name from my father's mouth in that angry tone I got my goose-bumps again.

"I will not have magazines like this in the house!"

My father was getting louder. Magazines, eh, they must have been moving the wooden box with the Eagle comics in it. But why would they make him angry? Chris and I used to read these all the time. Chris had practically taught me to read from them. When I was younger I'd sit on his bed and we'd read them together. I'd look at the pictures and he'd read the words. As I got older and could read them myself we'd spend rainy days in the bedroom reading them in sequence. Chris first, then me. He could read faster so he'd go through one first and then pass (throw) it to me. When he was at school I would sometimes read them without him. I never knew whether he would mind this or not so I never told him.

"How dare you! He might have come across these at any time!"

This is getting more serious. Chris HAD shown me the comics, I HAD read the comics on my own, I didn't realise any of this was wrong. My father was very angry. Perhaps when Chris tells him I've already seen them he'll come and get angry with me. The goose-bumps are rising on my legs and bottom and the butterflies are starting.

"I promise you, he hasn't seen them!" Chris was shouting!

Oh my God! I lay on my back on the bed - terrified. Not only had Chris shouted - actually shouted - at Dad, he had now lied to him as well! I couldn't believe it! I HAD seen the comics, Chris HAD shown them to me and, although Chris didn't know it, I'd been into the wooden box myself. My stomach was churning and my heart was beating in my ears.

"You, young man, are getting beyond yourself!"

My father said in that awful, awful way of his.

"Please don't answer him back, Tif, please." I found myself saying out loud. There was no one else in the room and he couldn't possibly have heard me two rooms away through a closed door.

"Please, Tif, don't make him angry."

"We'll deal with this now!" My father exclaimed.

His voice was falling away. Although I wasn't in the room, I knew what was going on now. Dad would be talking to Chris in that slow, deliberate voice he used when he was angry and someone was going to end up with a sore bottom.

I clutched my bear.

There was a long period of silence.

Then,

WHAP

"Dad's spanking Tif! Oh, God. Dad's spanking Tif." I was mortified.

WHAP

Tif was trying to protect me and lied to Dad when he said I hadn't seen the comics and now he's taking the spanking I should have had. I squeezed my bear even tighter.

WHAP

My breathing was becoming faster as my distress mounted.

WHAP

And I'd been so beastly to Tif today. I'd been angry with him and said horrid things to him and here he was being spanked and it was all my fault.

WHAP

Oh poor Tif. It's all my fault. He won't be my brother any more because of this. Dad, please stop, please don't hit Tif any more! I hugged Edward so hard it was hurting.

WHAP

Silence.

"You will take them outside and burn them." my Father's voice boomed, "You will do so this evening and you will never introduce such things into the house again. Do you understand?"

There was a pause before came out of Chris's room and walked towards my open door. I squeezed Edward and swallowed hard. My heart was beating, my bottom tickled and I was breathing hard but I was ready. Dad was adjusting the belt on his trousers. He turned at the top of the stairs, looked at me, and went down.

I lay there puzzled. Chris had taken a beating on my account and hadn't snitched on me. I lay there petrified with fear and regret.

When I could move my legs again I got off the bed and padded, still holding Edward by the arm, down the corridor to Chris's closed door. I stood outside. Should I knock - it wasn't my room any more. I stood for a while then I turned the knob and went in.

Chris was standing facing the bookcase and pounding his fist on the top of the drawers below. He turned his face towards me as I came in. He was bright red with anger and his eyes were moist with rage.

"I'm sorry, Tif! I'm sorry!", I exploded, "It's all my fault, I'm sorry!"

His face softened and he swallowed. Then, suddenly, he darted at the floor, picked up a couple of magazines and threw them into a drawer, shutting it with a bang.

"I'm sorry, Tif! Does it hurt a lot?"

"Yes, it hurts a lot." my brother said with just the very hint of a smile, "what are you sorry for, monster?"

I had been a monster - I'd been awful, all day - and I had some more news for him.

"I read your comics when you were at school. You didn't know I did but I did and Dad must have known and I heard what you said to him and he spanked you. I'm sorry Tif!"

"What?"

"I didn't know it was wrong," I paused, and swallowed, and then after a short struggle I said quietly, "You can spank me if you want." I looked at the floor and then him. I didn't want him to spank me but if it would make things better then it would be worth it.

"Jem," he said, looking at the ceiling, then me, then sighing, "Why, on earth, do you think I would want to spank you?"

He moved over to the wardrobe door.

"Sit down on the bed and I'll show you something," he continued.

The counterpane on the bed was ruffed up and there was a dent horizontally across it from one side. I sat in the dent, which was surprisingly warm, and waited.

Chris eased his shorts and underpants down and turned his head to look at his bottom in the mirror.

"Tif!", I exclaimed as I got a look at his bottom. There were thick red and purple lines across both buttocks and one that went right across his upper thighs.

Chris reached round and gently touched one of the marks with his finger. He winced and pulled away from himself as he touched a red bit.

"This," he said to me, "is supposed to be for my own good." There was a sarcasm in his voice I'd never heard before.

I was filled with admiration for him. His bottom must be really hurting but he wasn't crying. I had looked at my bottom in the mirror after I'd been spanked but it never looked as bad as that. I didn't look that time Dad gave me THE spanking and maybe if I had, that's what my bottom might have looked like. If so, then I was amazed that Chris wasn't bawling his eyes out as I had been. I looked at my big brother open mouthed.

"Don't look so surprised," he said, "one day all this will be yours."

I stared at him.

"When you get a bit older you'll see, Dad will take his belt off to you. I just hope someone's around to pick up the pieces when he does."

I couldn't believe my eyes or my ears. My Dad was a fearsome man and I resolved there and then that I would never give him any cause to use his belt on me. A resolution, I'm sorry to say, I later failed with miserably.

"Tif," I said, at last, "I don't think your body's changing. You don't have any scales on your bottom, or if you did, Dad has whacked them off."

He looked at me mystified and then the light dawned. He pulled up his trousers and pants, came over to me, ruffled my hair and said, "Go back to your room. You can read my comics any time you want. I have something to do in the garden. And for goodness sake take that wretched bear with you!"

I watched him out of the back window burn a couple of comics in the garden and I never touched the ones that were left again unless he was there and, even when he was, I'd always make sure we read them with the door firmly closed.