During the week, my grandmother was the main person that I saw. If I was a nuisance, I had to answer to her. My grandmother did not waste any time telling my mother if I was ever badly behaved; I was punished well before her return from work. By the time I saw my mother I was on my best behaviour. If I was out shopping with my grandmother and causing a minor nuisance – normally through boredom, there was often a telling off. If I took the hint and did not cause any further disruption for the rest of our time out, once we arrived home, no more was said about the matter.

A second warning whilst we were out and I knew I had to be absolutely perfect until we arrived home. That might get me off the punishment, but normally it was too late. If I had made a fuss at the point of the second telling off I was really in trouble. For the occasional disobedience or an accident in my pants when we had been out, as soon as I entered the kitchen after we arrived home, my grandmother would sit down on a chair and beckon me to come forward and lie across her knee. A light but not painful spanking of three or four hits with her hand would now be administered. I would then be sent to my room. Once I had made up my mind to be good I could return; it was up to me to decide when the punishment was over.

If when we arrived home after having been naughty and my grandmother started to put the shopping away, then either put the kettle on or poured herself a glass of Guinness, I knew I was past the minor stage of disobedience. Other than taking my coat off I was not allowed to leave the kitchen. Even using the excuse that I needed to visit the lavatory would not work; my grandmother didn’t want me hiding in there to avoid the punishment that was about to befall me. Even if I had decided to lock it from the inside, it was easy to open from the outside with a small screwdriver.

There was some fear, as I knew exactly what was coming next; it would just be a wait of about five minutes whilst she relaxed with her drink before attending to me. This delay was a good idea, when she did punish me, she was much calmer. From the age of four I had found out that this punishment hurt. I could start crying now or when the smacks started; my grandmother was not going to take any notice of my feelings.

The punishment when it came was harder slaps with her hand on my bottom; they were not done in a way that would cause me any physical harm, just enough to bring tears to my eyes. By the time I was five I knew exactly how much it was going to hurt. Once over I would be escorted to the bathroom for a wash, and then taken to my bedroom to quieten down. When I decided I could be good, it was possible to go back to my playing. After a spanking, a treat was normally given to me on my return to the kitchen if I promised to be good. A few squares of chocolate or sweets allowed me to forget all about earlier events.

My worst ever punishment had been shortly before my sixth birthday. To my grandmother the age of six was the point by which I should have learnt to behave. I had deserved to be punished that day as I really was causing a nuisance, and was badly behaved. Instead of the normal hand, my grandmother had used a small cane; this was kept in the kitchen for closing the top window. Originally it had been a parasol, but now only the thin cane remained. Instead of being put across her lap I was told to face the wall. Unlike the three or four hits with her hand, I was only given two hits on my bottom with this cane. It was far more painful but soon over.

I was sent to my room to contemplate my actions; from that point on I knew how to behave. I did get my reward on my return to the kitchen, but it was not any different from the reward following an ordinary spanking, which I thought was slightly unfair as this time it had hurt more.

At the age of five, I should have started infant school. Our flat was located on the very border of the borough; the nearest infant school that might have space was a good half-hour walk. My mother had already gone off to work at that time so she could not have taken me, whilst my grandmother was still looking after her son in the flat, just at the time I would need escorting to school, and with it being uphill for most of the journey to school, there was some reluctance over the idea that I should start school.

My mother had the idea that the pair of us would move in the spring to a new location, so it was not really worth starting school in these winter months. Spring came but no firm plans for moving emerged. Spring became summer and still no real plans were made. It did not seem worth starting me in the middle of term; it might be best to start with the next school year in September.

The school year started but I did not. It was not a case of not getting an education; my grandmother had many years’ experience of bringing up children and did not let me stay idle. Time was spent drawing, writing my name and learning to read. There was encouragement in this field with her starting a story and making me get really interested, then we would work through the final part, word by word with me doing the reading.

I was quite happy with this life. Having been led past a school on days we had been out for our walk, and looking at those noisy children behind the big iron railings, it did not really give me any thoughts to demand to take part.

By the end of the year my mother’s plans were made; around mid December we left London and headed to the West Country to a small seaside town. Travelling in the holiday season was not easy, and coupled with very bad winter weather, a shortage of fuel for the trains, a train dispute and a totally unreliable timetable, and you have the makings of a rather irritable child surrounded by a larger number of cross, overcrowded passengers.

Continued

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