Who’s sorry now?


corner timePerhaps it comes on the wind, for I have never seen it come another way. One day it is funny and then you can hardly believe what you did at all. But anyway, it was all so long ago now, and as the man said ‘it was another country.’

I was but a girl back then and much too young to know a single thing. Although at the time I would have spat in your eye if you had told me. I had finished even with big school and dreamed of college, imminently approaching, a woman grown now and free.

But for then the town beckoned and boys in pubs who Megan and I called men because they drank beer and stout until they fell down or smashed windows and faces when they didn’t.

“Be back by 10,” my father said. I didn’t tell Megan of this chain.

But Megan had temporal chains of her own and I laughed at her when she told me.

“Home by 10.30 like a child,” I said and laughed again.

For a moment I considered dread and the weight of father’s wrath if I should be so late, but then what could he do? I was a woman now.

The pub was wild and we sang to the old juke box while sipping Babycham with a slice of lime and an umbrella. In those days you knew you had scored when a boy bought you two or three Dalek-stems. This is what we called them on account of the glasses that looked like appendages of the pepper pot foes on that TV show of the time. This meant you had to have a snog in the alley round back.

If you liked the boy then his hand might stray into your blouse and stay there for a slow count until you slapped him. The slap meant you weren’t a slut and could tell the girls of your outrage until next time. But next time you hoped he would make a play for your knickers. While at the same time you hoped he wouldn’t. Oh the contradictions of a woman, you then believed. But outcomes here were never spoken of as a slap did not counter slapper and the envious catcalls whispered around town.

Just before 10 I decided to miss the bus, but Megan made doe eyes at the clock.

“She has to be in by 10.30 you see,” I teased loudly so that the boys could hear.

Megan looked so lovely in red, although the boys did not laugh so much. One or two drifting away as if to night club appointments, but the town had none. But I was happy enough to run for the 10.15 up the hill; my father might only gently scold if I was less than half the hour late. But as we hit the street the big red bus was a diminishing square as it retreated up the road and Megan looked sick.

“What will he do?” I ask, “Your Da I mean.”

Megan pulled a face I had once seen at the headmaster’s door when we were called as truants. Three on the bum is nothing for a big girl, but I knew that it was the letter home she feared and not old beaky’s stick.

But we are women now and 18; all the world was waiting for our wisdom, which we could hardly contain. In those days even my mouth was smart.

The last bus never came and so we trudged it two miles to the lane where we both lived, Megan’s house being nine doors down from ours.

“Good night Meg,” I said more cheerily than I felt.

Megan did not say the empty words; her footfalls were too leaden with doom. I remembered the letter home and I think then so did she.

Halfway home I conceived of mischief and fuelled by four or five Babychams I crept back to the kitchen window in the lane by Megan’s backdoor.

The shouting was over and slippers had been drawn. Well one anyway and I swallowed my giggle as something thrilled within me.

“Da I’m too old,” Megan wailed, but it did not save her bottom.

Bent over knee and unseemly bared, she was polished with wallops and wailed as she was whaled.

The colour red suited her no less than it had in the pub, only then it had been at her other end. This was much more fun and for long minutes Megan’s Da was John Wayne and this was a movie.

The cherry red spheres bucked for a time until finally they were sent to cool at the wall while Megan’s skirt was held ruefully bunched at her waist as knickers settled at half-mast in mourning. The show wasn’t over then, but home beckoned and I was happy then to doubt my womanhood if stingy caresses was my peril.

Would I be spanked like Megan, all red, sore and sorry while standing in the corner like a bad girl? I knew everything back then, as I told you, but I could not then fathom why this idea thrilled me so. Never had a return home been so exciting.

“You’re late,” heralded my humble entrance.

“Last bus was cancelled,” I said meekly and shuffled in the doorway.

“Bloody typical,” said my father before sending me to bed unspanked.

Now I look back, this rite of passage was an unfulfilment for me. Unlike Megan, who has dined out on the spanking revelations of her youth, which are mental erotica for one of my disposition. If only I had such an adventure to call upon in my dreams, but sometimes youth is wasted on the young.

6 Responses to “Who’s sorry now?”

  1. 1 George

    Megan’s father did the right thing…

  2. 2 paul1510

    I was expecting a bit more, you’re slipping. 😉

  3. excatly as it should be like it when the slipper does the talking!

  4. 4 DJ

    An alternative tale exploring origins and the theatre of the imagination perhaps

  5. 5 Karl Friedrich Gauss

    This story feels like it might have been an anecdote. Reads very convincingly. Not much effort required to suspend disbelief. I like it.

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