THREE DADS AND THREE SMALL BOYS
NUMBER ONE
I was eight or nine when I was at Timothys Fitzgibbons birthday party. Timothy was my best friend.
Timothy opened one of his presents. It was a working model of a steam engine. Forgetting Timothys mothers presence, I exclaimed, "Bloody hell!"
"Im afraid we cant have that sort of language Simon. I shall have to call your parents," said a shocked Mrs Fitzgibbon.
I half heard the conversation on the telephone in the hall. (Everyone seemed to have their telephones in the hall in those days.) "Yes.... shocking.... will explain when you get here....indeed." Silence reigned in the lounge where all Timothys guests were gathered. I think my face went redder than the strawberries on top of Timothys birthday cake.
She returned to announce that my father was coming to fetch me and would I mind waiting in the hall until he arrived. I was mortified that I was going to miss my best friends party.
As I sat on the chair in the hall I wondered why my father was coming, when I remembered that my mother had gone shopping in town, not expecting me home until late evening. The children in the lounge seemed to forget my absence and the party continued. A tear rolled down my cheek as I heard the girls squeals of delight as they all played pass-the-parcel.
My father arrived with a face like thunder. He and Mrs Fitzgibbon retired to the dining room where I heard a muffled conversation. A minute or two later they came out and Mrs Fitzgibbon went into the lounge and brought out Timothy. At my fathers request I apologised to Timothy for spoiling his party and to Mrs Fitzgibbon for my bad language. I was then marched out to my fathers Jaguar.
He drove off and as we turned the corner of the cul-de-sac he said, "I was just about to go off for a game of golf when I had to drop everything to come and sort you out. And sort you out I shall. Yes indeed. When we get home I shall take you straight upstairs to your bedroom, take down your trousers and pants and smack you hard."
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and made the leather squeak. No further words were spoken until the car stopped in the drive. "Go and wait by the front door while I put the car away," he said. "I shant get my game of golf in now."
A few moments later my father opened the front door and pushed me in. He then literally took me under his arm and carried me up to my bedroom. He put me down and sat on the bed. He took a deep breath and drew me towards him. I was wearing my party trousers, which were a rich blue corduroy, and like all short trousers in those days went down to just above the knees. He fumbled with the buttons and eventually got them all undone and brusquely pulled my trousers right down. They were quickly followed by my pants, which did not present any complications. I was hoisted over my fathers knee and then very soundly spanked.
I can remember my hand brushing the sheepskin rug next to my bed and have hated sheepskin from that day to this. I seem to remember I yelled a lot and (in accordance with the standard custom) asked my father to stop. He (equally maintaining tradition) failed to do so. I do not suppose I was spanked that hard or long, but for someone unused to it, it was a painful and humiliating experience.
My father put me on my feet and I stood there sobbing uncontrollably. He was about to say something when the phone rang in the hall downstairs.
"Bloody hell! Whos that?"
NUMBER TWO
It seemed to Christopher that his father was a very fierce man, although he was not really frightened of him. At least he did not think he was. He was always very kind, but still a bit fierce. Christopher loved him. Whenever Christopher was naughty, his father would talk to him and tell him how disappointed he was. Christopher was always very sorry, cried and promised to be good, which he usually was for a while.
One day Christopher was so naughty that his father was very cross indeed. He marched Christopher into his study. He went to a trunk in the corner and rummaged around for a minute or two until he produced a long thin stick. Christopher was very frightened.
His father said, "My father used to beat me with this when I was your age, even if I only stepped an inch out of line. I hope I do not need to start using it on you. If you do anything like that again this is what will happen. I will stand by the side of my chair, take down your trousers and pants and bend you over the arm. I will then whack you like this."
His father put a cushion over the arm of his chair and whacked it very fiercely ten times. A lot of dust flew up. Christopher was relieved that he was not going to get the stick there and then, but shuddered at the thought of being beaten so hard on his bare bottom with that long, horrible stick. He never did anything like that again.
NUMBER THREE
Like many people, I have strong opinions, weekly held. I never believed in corporal punishment. I do not know if I ever told anyone, even my wife. Not the sort of thing that comes up at dinner parties; at least not the sort of dinner parties I get invited to.
One day I changed my mind. It all happened very quickly.
I was in the kitchen with my ten-year-old son, Oliver, just getting ready to go out with him to the park to fly a kite. Mrs Goodling, our next-door neighbour, put her head round the door with her usual cooee. My heart sank. She chatted on about this and that and nothing. Oliver, never a patient boy, started fidgeting. In the end something must have snapped and he shouted, "Why dont you go home you silly old cow!" I was stunned, as I am sure was Mrs Goodling, whose jaw dropped in mid sentence.
"Oliver!" I said, "How dare you speak to Mrs Goodling like that. Apologise at once."
But the devil had got into him and he folded his arms and declared "No. I wont"
Well, something snapped in me and I lifted him out of the chair by the scruff of his neck and laid him across the kitchen table. "Well have to see about that," I retorted, pulling down his football shorts and underpants together with one swift movement.
"What are you doing?" he whimpered.
"Teaching you some manners," I hissed, as I reached over to the dresser and picked up a wooden spoon lying there.
He looked round anxiously and I placed my hand on his back. I started to belabour his bottom with the spoon and he was soon crying and begging me to stop.
"Do you apologise?" I said, carrying on spanking him.
"Yes. Yes."
"Are you sure?" I continued applying the spoon. His bottom was now turning bright pink.
"Yes. Sure"
"Really?" A couple more swats.
"Yes. Please stop!"
I stopped. I put Oliver on his feet facing Mrs Goodling. No doubt feeling self conscious, he started to pull up his pants. I tapped him sharply on the side of his thigh with the spoon. "Dont worry about those," I said. "Apologise to Mrs Goodling."
He let go of his pants and sobbed, "I am very sorry Mrs Goodling."
"Thats all right dear. You mustnt be rude to people; it can upset them you know. I know you are a good boy really. Heres some money for some sweeties." She fumbled in her purse and brought out a few coins and handed them to Oliver.
"Thank you," he said sheepishly, looking down at the shorts round his ankles.
"I know I go on a bit, but I get a bit lonely. You must come round and have tea in the school holidays. Goodbye Mr Jenkinson. Goodbye Oliver." She trundled off clucking contentedly.
" You can pull your things up now." I said to Oliver. "Well go to the park when youve got yourself together. Mind you behave yourself or I shall tell your friends that I had to spank you on your bare bottom."