I remember the pain.....

I suppose you think I harp on about the punishment side of us growing up, but as we said to our mother, when a few years ago we had our first family (that’s brothers and sisters and mum, and partners for those of us who had them) get together in 26 years, we got to discussing many things, some funny, some hazy in their recollection, yet, many had the same common thread. Punishments. Our somewhat disappointed mother said in her best British tone, “Honestly, you would think, listening to you lot, that all we ever did was beat you.” There was a moments slightly embarrassed pause as we looked about to each other, before one of my sisters put forth with, “Well, it was certainly one of those things that sticks in the memory”.

As I have said before, everyone copped it, for one thing, or another. It is with this particular incident (the kite, the tree and the damaged brother), while I sat in the bedroom I too was wondering what the particular punishment would be. I have already confirmed with you that while not dead, it was a seriously significant injury. I had missed slicing his face fortunately, but, as I said, head wounds are messy and deceptive. Look at any teenager who has scratched at a pimple or scab, or any man (or woman) who has nicked their face or head with a razor, it can be very, very difficult to staunch the flow of the crimson river.

No doubt the inquisition floors ran fast with the crimson tide they would have created. Their devices far more fear and death inducing than I was expecting. Or, maybe not. I originally had seriously believed my father was going to kill me when he got home, when I thought I had caused the death of my younger brother. So, with his survival and likely recovery, albeit painful, there was a chance that I would suffer no less than a wayward miscreant had suspected he would, before the fearsome Dominican (Not the Caribbean kind) cardinals of the Spanish Inquisition and their machines.

I’m sure had my parents given consideration to creating a similar punishment machine, there would have been no end of helpful offers from the church widows. They would have been only too happy to organise a constant tea and biscuit service, or to run a stall to fund whatever device my parents would want to create. Particularly  if it meant my parents would be pulling their misbehaving children into line and restoring the true level of piety and appropriate behaviour to the hallowed chamber of their church. I wonder if the Dominicans of the Inquisition encountered teams of widows only too happy to plait the ropes of the rack pulleys or to file the ends of the iron maidens spikes? To provide them with a cup of tea when the questioning got too hard. They would have thrived on the service to the church they could provide.

(continued tomorrow)