I grew up in the 1930s and 40s, a time when boys expected to be kept in order with corporal punishment. It was just a part of everyday life, like having to take a bath EVERY Saturday night! Boys boasted about the terrible hidings they got from their dads. We swam naked in the water hole and out of the dozen or so boys, there was always one with a few faded bruises on his bottom, courtesy of his Dad. Slippers, hairbrushes and belts were the implements most often used in the correction of 10 year old boys.
Hidings fascinated me because I was the only boy I knew who had NEVER been spanked. My father died from tuberculosis when I was little and my mother had never so much as laid a finger on me.
It must have been a struggle for my mother to bring me up on her own. There was little in the way of government assistance in those days. People in the community were very kind and offered practical help which was gratefully accepted.
Then Mum took sick. She was in a hospital where I wasn't allowed to visit her. I now know she'd had a breakdown but I wasn't told that at the time. Once again the community rallied around and, instead of being sent away to a boys' home in the city, I stayed with neighbours. I called them Uncle Pat and Auntie Eileen although we weren't related. He was the town's only policeman. They had three sons, and I shared a bedroom with Michael who was in my class at school.
The family were very welcoming to a rather sad and bewildered little boy. Auntie Eileen fed me up with delicious food. The older boys Peter and Herbie let me play with their Meccano set and even a much-prized Hornby train.
The boys were kept in line with a police-issue belt wielded by their father. Hidings were carried out in the privacy of the miscreant's bedroom. The sounds were clearly audible in the kitchen. Uncle Pat soon returned and the punished boy some time afterwards. I was more fascinated than ever by the ritual which was accepted by the whole family.
In those days every house had a 'front room' which was kept polished and dusted for visitors. Families never used it, preferring the warmth of the kitchen with it's hot stove. One wet Saturday afternoon Michael and I were playing in the front room and I knocked an ornament off the mantelpiece. It shattered on the hearth. Auntie Eileen heard the noise and rushed in.
"Go to your room and wait for your father", she told Michael.
He trudged off down the hall passage. I followed Auntie Eileen into the kitchen and saw her say something to Uncle Pat. He sighed and put down his paper. He left the kitchen. A few minutes later the sounds of a hiding were heard. I felt very bad that my friend Michael was being punished for something I had done. At the same time very relieved it was not MY bottom on the receiving end of that belt.
The chastiser and the chastised eventually returned and life got back to normal. If I had been born with a conscience it wasn't working yet. At afternoon tea time we were all sitting around the kitchen table eating freshly baked scones with homemade strawberry jam. Peter arrived back from Scouts and said to me with a grin: "You can still sit down then Greg? Dad must be losing his touch". He had seen me break the ornament through the open door while he was rushing off to Scouts.
Uncle Pat looked very serious. "I think we'd better have a little talk, Steve" he said. We walked in silence to the bedroom I shared with Michael.
Alone in that room with my uncle I realised for the first time how big he was. He towered over me. His voice was sad as he explained how wrong I had been not to own up. Instead, Michael had taken the blame and been punished for it.
"Steve, while you are here that means you are part of my family. Auntie Eileen and I love you as if you were our own son".
I nodded my head.
"And being part of this family means we expect you to love us in return. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Uncle Pat".
"Earlier, right here in this room, I punished Michael for something he did not do. It seems only fair that the boy who really broke that ornament should pay the same penalty".
Auntie Eileen's scones had been light as a feather but now felt like lead weights in my stomach. My uncle sat on a bed and beckoned me to him. He unbuttoned my braces at the front and gently turned me around. He undid the back buttons and pulled my pants down.
"Kneel on the bed, son" he said.
I stepped out of my britches and climbed up onto the bed. Uncle Pat carefully peeled down my underpants so just my bottom was exposed.
"Now, lie flat". I did as I was told.
"Keep your legs together. Good boy. How old are you?"
"10", I said.
"Then you'll get ten licks with the belt".
I heard him undo the clasp and the leather slithering through the loops of his trousers. He folded the heavy belt, raised it high and cracked it down onto my quivering mounds. A broad river of fiery pain scorched my rump. Tears sprang to my eyes. I managed not to yell but "Ugh!" sprang from my lips.
I lost all sense of time. It was being measured simply by the rise and fall of that belt.
THUD!
"Ugh!"
After the eighth lick had landed, not one inch of my buttocks had not felt the leather. Those plump little mounds reacted to the belt like a pair of 'shock-absorbers'. It was the safest site yet there were enough nerve-endings to supply salutory hurt.
"Good boy", my uncle was panting with the exertion, "Only two to go".
THUD!
"Ugh!"
THUD!!
"UGH!!"
The hiding was over. Through my tears I saw in the mirror my uncle thread the leather belt back through his trouser loops.
"Kneel on the bed. That's it".
My underpants were gently pulled back up over my burning backside.
"Now your pants".
I climbed into my britches and Uncle Pat buttoned me up. He wiped my eyes with his handkerchief.
"That's my brave boy. Come back into the kitchen when you're ready" he said, ruffling my hair. He left the door open.
My tears turned to hiccups. The throbbing in my bottom subsided into a warm, glowing sensation. I walked along the corridor and into the kitchen. It was as if the hiding had never happened. No one referred to it again.
In these more enlightened times some people might regard the hiding I got as abuse. That, it most certainly was not. Not to teach a boy right from wrong is neglect and, in my book, almost as bad as abuse. I was very lucky to have the security of being accepted - and loved - by a wonderfully big-hearted family.
One weekend my adopted family attended a wedding in another village. I was not invited so on the Friday night Uncle Pat dropped me off at a private boys' school in our town. The headmaster and his wife were friends.
"See you Sunday night, Steve" said Uncle Pat. I promised to be good.
Dr Scoullar was a tall gentleman with a black moustache. His wife was a tiny little lady, who always wore an anxious expression. I was shown to my bedroom in their living quarters.
Saturday started uneventfully. It was term holidays so I was the only boy in the school. It was made clear to me that I was not to leave the living quarters. About 4 o'clock I got restless and went outside into the small garden. There was a gate, and having the natural curiosity of any 10 year old boy I wanted to know what was on the other side. I went through the gate and found myself in the school grounds.
I tried the door of the imposing stone building but it was locked. I continued to explore and soon found a window which had not been locked. It only took a moment to push it open and clamber inside.
I wandered from empty classroom to classroom. It reminded me of my own school. I went into the boys' lavatory, sat on a toilet and did Number Twos. I wiped myself and flushed the cistern.
Greatly relieved, I ventured out into that corridor again. I decided I'd seen enough of the school so turned to make my way back out but there, in the dusty light, was the impressive figure of the headmaster, my host Dr Scoullar.
"What are you doing in here?" he boomed at me.
"Nothing."
"Well it doesn't look like 'nothing' to me".
His hand gripped my shoulder as he steered me into his study and closed the door. The panelled walls were intended to impress prospective parents. He sat on the chair behind his desk with me standing between his legs. He looked into my eyes. I felt confused and a little afraid.
"Mrs Scoullar and I have taken you in, temporarily, to accomodate our old friends. Did we not make you welcome?"
"Yes. You did".
"Then why did you disobey our express instructions that you were not to wander off?"
"I got bored in the flat".
"Bored? Were there not books for you to read? A Jigsaw to do?"
"I suppose".
The headmaster glared at me. "Stephen, I'm very disappointed in you. I am responsible for your welfare, 'locum parentis' as it were". What would your uncle do if you disobeyed HIS instructions?"
"Give me a .. a "
"Go on, boy!"
"A hiding, with his belt on my bare bum, er bottom". Fear had loosened my tongue, alarmingly. Dr Scoullar nodded approvingly.
"Do you know what happens to a boy at this school who disobeys an order?"
I shook my head, not wanting to find out.
"I have to beat him".
There was a long silence. The headmaster coughed. "I suppose it can wait until your uncle comes home. I will have to tell him how you rewarded our hospitality by disobeying Mrs Scoullar and myself. Put us both to a great deal of worry..."
My new family meant the world to me. I couldn't bear them to know I'd upset the Scoullars. Auntie Eileen had even wanted to cancel the wedding and stay at home to look after me. She would be so disappointed.
The headmaster, wise to the minds of small boys, was ready to reel in his fish.
"What are you thinking, Stephen?"
I gulped. "If you were to punish me would that make it alright?"
"Well, yes".
"And Uncle Pat and Auntie Eileen wouldn't have to know I disobeyed you?"
"Definitely not".
"Um ... "
"What is it Stephen?"
"I need help to undo my braces". This was a fib but I liked the way Uncle Pat had done it for me.
"Of course", murmured the headmaster. He undid my front buttons then spun me around and undid the back ones. My pants fell to the floor closely followed by the underpants. Dr Scoullar bent me over one knee, his hand felt my bum.
"How old are you, boy?"
"Ten".
Hmmph. "Small for your age. Still, 7 year old boys are well aquainted with the rod at my school".
He let me up. I pulled my singlet down at the front.
"Don't be shy. I've seen hundreds of boy's diddles". He leered at my member which shrivelled under his gaze. The headmaster got up and walked to a cabinet. He opened the door revealing a selection of canes. He took his time selecting one. Tucking it under his arm Dr Scoullar moved a padded stool in front of his desk. He lifted me into position, with my bottom pointing up in the air. How many other terrified young boys had been on that stool?
The cane landed on my small mounds. Not with a thud! like Uncle Pat's belt did, but with a thrip! The savage hurt was all-consuming. I yelled at the top of my voice. Dr Scoullar replied with a second stroke that turned my poor bottom into a raging forest fire. Four more strokes followed. I lay there on that wretched stool and sobbed my heart out.
Thankfully, the terrible thrashing had ended. The headmaster disappeared into his bathroom and returned with a cold flannel which he gently applied to my flogged buttocks. He hummed an old familar hymn tune as he tended to my wounds. The flannel was removed.
"Lie there and don't get up until you have recovered your composure". I heard him go and sit behind his desk. No doubt he was admiring his handiwork.
After some time had passed the fiery furnace died down into a throbbing sensation. Cautiously, I clambered down from the stool and found my underpants and trousers. I pulled them on and did up my braces.
"I thought you said you couldn't do your buttons?"
Dr Scoullar glared, righteous and sanctimonious at having caught me out in a fib.
"I detest little boys who lie to me! Obviously, you haven't learned your lesson. Incorrigable! I shall award you another six strokes and this time I won't be so easy on you!"
I gasped. There was no way I could go through that again. The headmaster looked at his pocket watch.
"My dear wife will be expecting us for dinner. We will postpone the rest of your chastisement until tomorrow".
We walked together back to the living quarters. I rinsed my face under the bathroom tap and combed my hair. I felt the hot, throbbing corrugations in my bottom through my shorts.
The headmaster was a genial host during dinner. Mrs Scoullar fluttered around him. I was surprised at how hungry I was. Sitting on the dining room chair was very uncomfortable and he knew it.
When it was time for bed he saw me to my room.
"Sleep tight!" Mr Scoullar boomed. "See you tomorrow". He closed the door and I heard the key softy turn in its lock. I changed into my nightshirt and flung myself down on the bed. I eventually drifted off to sleep.
I awoke in the night, unsure of where I was until my still throbbing bum reminded me of the events of the day before. I needed to pee so got up, switched on the light and used the pottie which I found under the bed.
There was a large mirror on the wardrobe door. Lifting the back of my nightshirt I examined the state of my backside. Six crimson welts emblazoned very tender flesh. I put out the light and climbed back into bed. Never before in my short life had I felt so alone, helpless and afraid.
The next morning I sat down to Sunday breakfast with the Scoullars. Then we walked to church. It was a sunny, warm morning but I did not respond to it. I was terrified about what the headmaster planned to do to me, at some unspecified time that day. The hard wooden pews were very uncomfortable. The hymns, normally rousing and inspiring did not calm my troubled spirit.
Afterwards, I stood outside the church with Dr and Mrs Scoullar. People I knew stopped and spoke to me. I did not have the wisdom to confide in them. I had told a fib and had to be punished for that.
We returned to the school. At the entrance to the living quarters the headmaster spoke to his wife.
"My dear, I promised to show Stephen something at the school. We will be back for your excellent Sunday luncheon at one o'clock".
The lady twittered and waved her arms vaguely. Her husband gripped my shoulder and steered me to towards the school. All too soon we were once again in that panelled study. The headmaster strode to the cupboard and selected a thick cane.
"This is what I use on boys who lie to me!"
I wanted it to be over so undid my braces. My pants fell to the floor. I stepped out of my underpants and placed both garments neatly on a chair. Then I clambered up onto that wretched stool and lay there, submitting my bottom to him.
"Excellent!", boomed Dr Scoullar. "With God's help and loving chastisement, we will make something of you yet".
My stomach lurched and I needed to pee. The man was muscular and fit. He laid six hard strokes across my welted and bruised buttocks without a break. After the sixth stroke had landed my bottom erupted into dreadful hurt. Wave after wave of scorching pain radiated from wounded flesh. I yelled blue murder and tears ran unchecked down my face.
He left me there until the worst of it had passed. Then he cleaned my wounds with that wet flannel. This was not intended to as a salve although it did cool the burning heat a little. The purpose of the flannel was to soak up my blood.
"You heal quickly", he sounded disappointed. The flannel was removed. I lay there sobbing. When I had recovered sufficiently, I got down from the stool and put on my clothes. Dr Scoullar took me into his bathroom and I rinsed my face.
We walked back to the living quarters where Mrs Scoullar served a rather meagre meal. It was hell sitting on a hard chair but I still managed to eat everything she put in front of me.
That afternoon my host and his wife dozed in the conservatory while I played Patience. My bottom hurt abominably after the 'loving chastisement'.
About 5 o'clock the doorbell rang. It was Uncle Pat. My heart leapt for joy at the sight of him.
"He's been as good as gold", said Mrs Scoullar.
"No trouble at all", said her husband.
I climbed into the back of the Morris. Auntie Eileen and the boys welcomed me and I almost forgot the hurt until my bottom made contact with the hot leather seat. "Ouch!" - quickly smothered and not heard by my adopted family.
That night, I lay listening to the snuffling noises dear Michael made in his sleep. Immensely comforted, I turned over and slept until morning.