The Memoir of a Boy

It wasn’t that I was a particularly unhappy boy. For sure, even by the standards of the time my parents were stricter than many others in our neighbourhood, but for the most part, being somewhat diffident, I was unaware of how much freedom other boys were given as they grew into their teenage years. I did my best to avoid upsetting my parents even though the opportunities for getting myself into any sort of trouble were very limited to say the least. My life was was a very ordered one, structured in such a way as to leave little time for any naughtiness. But as the years passed and I grew older I began to notice how repressive my upbringing was compared to my peers. However it wasn’t in my nature to rebel and this is undoubtedly the reason I endured so many seemingly petty restrictions during my adolescence.

My parents had very firm views with regard to the correct way of raising their son. I was by temperament an obedient boy and as such accepted the right of my parents to impose upon me whatever rules they deemed necessary for my welfare. With the benefit of hindsight I imagine that family friends and neighbours merely thought my upbringing was possibly a little unusual given the changing attitudes towards childcare prevalent at the time. Although it seems to me, as I look back, they were quite happy to ignore any perceived eccentricities displayed by my mother and father. 

For instance it was common knowledge that other than for school I was kept in short trousers to an age well past that at which even far younger boys wore the sort of formal short trousers I was still wearing. Despite this no adults of our family’s acquaintance, that I was aware of, were at all bothered by my short trousered appearance. It was, I need hardly add, quite different when I was out and about with my parents. The older I was the more I became aware of the looks I received from people who must have been surprised to see a boy, clearly in his mid to late teens, dressed in thigh-baring, properly tailored short trousers, the style worn by me at all times of the year whatever the weather. The point I would emphasise here is that the short trousers I was made to wear were obviously not the knee length, baggy, brightly coloured casual shorts sometimes worn by boys. It must have been perfectly clear to anyone seeing me in public that I was an older boy, one on the verge of young manhood, kept in short trousers by his doting parents.

You may find it odd that I use the wording ‘doting’ to describe my parents, but I can assure you they were just that. They were obviously proud of me and would, much to my embarrassment, regale their friends with accounts of my achievements however minor these may have been. The knowledge of my parents enduring support and concern for my wellbeing made matters worse, since it would obviously have been churlish of me to complain, for example about my strict clothing restrictions. What grounds would I have? After all they had allowed me to wear longs to school from the age of sixteen. What more could I want? Yes, mother was not afraid to upbraid me in public when I was acting up and it wasn’t only done verbally either. If it was thought necessary to reinforce her message, mother would have no hesitation in smacking me on my bare legs. This wasn’t done with malice, it was done because I needed to be taught a lesson and to pay attention. In other words, it was for my own good.

It was mortifying enough to have my legs slapped in public as a young boy, but by my mid-teens it had become extremely humiliating, although I’m not sure whether my parents were even aware of my anguish. If I happened to be wearing a pair of my longer short trousers mother would simply reach down and yank up the leg of the shorts by the hem, exposing even more of my smooth, hairless thighs before directing a few painful hand smacks that not only had me gasping, but also left the flesh bright red. Mother was completely unconcerned that everyone could see the results of her handiwork glowing on my bare legs. It was my own fault and sore legs were the price boys paid for inattention.

By the way, by ‘longer short trousers’ I mean shorts still short enough to leave my thighs quite bare and vulnerable. Since none of my short trousers possessed an inseam longer than three inches, how could it be otherwise?

At the time the events of which I am about to write took place I was seventeen, but in the eyes of my parents still very much a boy. As such I was treated, as I have said, not as if I was on the verge of becoming a young man, but as a child who is in constant need of adult supervision.

My mother and father had always been a lot stricter with me than their friends had been as parents with their own sons. As I grew up I didn’t feel as if this attitude to my upbringing was in any way abnormal. My parents had always made it clear to me how different families have different values and different ways of doing things. However, when I began to notice how other boys were allowed greater freedom than I was, it wasn’t long before I became envious of what seemed to me to be their ability to behave and dress, when not at school, more or less as they pleased. Although rebellion by me was out of the question, I was nevertheless foolish enough to argue with my parents about the restrictions they imposed upon me.

I say ‘argue’, but in hindsight I realise it must have appeared more like a temper tantrum. This sort of childish behaviour simply reinforced my parents’ belief that I was still far from old enough to be allowed any sort of latitude. Once more they would point out that although I was in my mid to late teens I was still only a boy and more to the point, while I remained at home under their roof with my bed and board taken care of, I was expected in return to behave myself and to do as I was told without complaint.

Having said this it may sound odd that my parents encouraged me to stay on in the Boy Scouts when most of my contemporaries had drifted away from the conformity which such youth organisations imposed on their members. I didn’t mind too much, apart from the teasing I got from my classmates in the sixth form when they caught sight of me dressed in my traditional smart Boy Scout uniform, which needless to say included thigh-baringly short khaki scouting shorts. Looking back I can see it was a way in which my parents could be reassured that while I was getting plenty of fresh air and healthy exercise, it was within a tightly controlled environment. They were well aware how structured the rules and uniform requirements of the Boy Scouts were at the time and they knew I would be kept fully occupied. It must also have helped that the Scoutmaster was a close personal friend of my parents, one whom they knew could be trusted to keep a very close eye on my behaviour when I was with the troop.

It hadn’t been until I was nearly fifteen that I began to notice how my parents were keeping me in short trousers as a means of ensuring that boys they considered to be unsuitable company would be unlikely to want to associate with me. I was still in shorts when every other boy I knew had long since graduated into ‘longs’. The moment a boy was presented with his first pair of long trousers was something of a rite de passage; a sign that his parents recognised their son was no longer a little boy, but on the cusp of young manhood. The fact that I was still in short trousers obviously weighed against me among my contemporaries who were wary of being seen to be too friendly with a bare-legged boy.

It wasn’t until the age of sixteen that I was finally awarded the privilege of wearing long trousers to school, but the minute I got home I was expected to go straight to my bedroom and change into the clothes my mother had laid out for me on my bed. My change of clothing always included a pair of brief, suitably tailored short trousers. I would take off my long trousers, fold them neatly and once I had finished dressing, take them to my mother for ‘safe-keeping’. My longs were never kept in my own bedroom. Perhaps my parents thought the temptation for me to secretly wear them would be too great, although I’m not sure what I would, or could have done had the opportunity arisen.

Mother probably thought it was a kindness to put my long trousers out of reach, but for a teenage boy who has just had to pick up and put on a pair of exceptionally short short trousers, drawing them up over his smooth thighs to leave his legs quite bare and fully exposed, that ritual handing over of my long trousers was mortifying. The feeling of the terylene/wool mixture of my school longs rubbing against my legs was always fresh in my mind along with the knowledge that when long trousers were worn my shamefully hairless legs were covered, a boost to my fragile self-esteem. Although I possessed many pairs of short trousers, I only ever had one pair of longs. Perhaps that is why mother was always so careful to keep them reserved for schoolwear only.

There was no doubt that when I was wearing my long trousers I felt different, more confident, as if I was at least in some small way accepted by my schoolfellows. What boy at that age isn’t conscious of wanting to be part of a group? So you can imagine what it felt like for me to hand over my school longs upon my return home. It was as if each day I was being demoted to the status of a little boy. 

My parents were very sociable, being members of a number of local societies. They were often invited to various events as well as to dinners at the houses of their friends which often took place on Friday evenings or at the weekend. It will probably come as no surprise to know that I was never left alone when my parents had to attend one of their frequent social gatherings. 

When I was seventeen I had some important exams coming up and nothing had changed with respect to my clothing restrictions, nor to the belief of my parents that I should not be left alone. It was arranged for me to go and study at the house of family friends, the Fletchers. Mother felt that it would be better if I was supervised while I studied, otherwise I might be lazy or become distracted and not get any work done. I wasn’t consulted about this arrangement, I was simply told what was happening and to be grateful for the Fletchers’ offer to help. 

The Fletchers had a daughter, Mary who was a couple of years younger than me. It was Mary who took it upon herself to organise my study periods at the house of her parents. We were to use the dining-room and would be left alone there while her parents were sat in the living-room.

I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but Mary had already acquired a great deal of experience in sitting for families with younger children. Even if I had known this, I doubt it would have made any difference, but with hindsight it did explain her no-nonsense approach from day one to my study sessions with her.

For my first visit to the Fletcher’s mother had laid out a pair of my shortest short trousers for me to wear. Although this particular pair of boy’s shorts had an inseam of a little under two inches, they were tailored to be comfortably lose around my thighs. These short trousers, together with a grey, short-sleeved school shirt, school tie, sleeveless school uniform pullover, school socks and T-bar sandals, was the apparel I was to wear for the evening. This outfit was selected to ensure I was in the correct frame of mind for my studies.

Although I was anxious about my forthcoming study evening, there was nothing unusual or out of the ordinary about the type of clothes I wore. By my mid-teens I had become very self-conscious about how I was dressed and this made me extremely nervous in company. I might have been suffering torments of exquisite embarrassment, but my parents did not trouble themselves about how I felt. As far as they were concerned a boy of my age was not entitled to have any say in the clothes he wore.

Often I would become quite jealous when I saw a boy dressed in the latest cool, trendy clothes. Although my parents never seemed to get over the shock when they caught sight of a boy, often as not a boy much younger than I, dressed in brightly coloured casual clothes. They would criticise the obvious extravagant expense of such clothing and wonder why the boy’s parents allowed their son to wear what was to them such an unsuitable outfit. It would seem my parents felt themselves to be in some sort of vanguard, showing how they were upholding standards by continuing to dress me in such a strict, uncompromising manner. I imagine they sought to present me as an example to others… an example, I hasten to add, that no one else as far as I was aware, had the slightest desire to imitate.

It shames me to have to admit this, but I even had a pair of grey ‘pull-up’ short trousers, the sort with no zip fly, no pockets and a fully elasticated waist. These were the style of short trousers you might have seen worn by Cub Scouts as part of their uniform, but larger sizes to fit older boys were available. Much to my chagrin I was made to wear these particularly humiliating trousers, which revealed the lower cheeks of my bottom, when I needed to be taught a lesson and reminded of my junior status. Fortunately I was only made to wear them on these occasions, or when my parents felt it was necessary to display a visible sign of their rectitude. As I have said, my parents were firm believers in the value of setting an example.

I would add that the very fact these special occasions were thankfully relatively rare meant the wearing of these ‘little boy’ pull-up short trousers was for me more intensely humiliating than ever. Moreover, simply being aware of the presence of these ultra-small grey shorts in my wardrobe ensured I did my very best to not give my parents grounds for ordering me to wear them. This was one of the innumerable reasons for me to behave myself and to not show up my parents in front of others. Heaven forbid I should give them any reason to make it clear to me what can happen to boys who fail to live up to their high moral standards… not an easy task for a teenage boy.

 

I’m afraid I am digressing somewhat from my original intention which was to explain what happened during those evenings when I was dropped off at the Fletcher’s house. Nevertheless I hope it helps to give you some idea of the life I led being brought up to follow the strict code of behaviour set for me by my parents. 

As it was I might have guessed what was in store for me upon our arrival at the house of my parents’ friends. Mary, the Fletcher’s daughter, straightaway took charge telling me to go and wait for her in the dinning-room. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the way Mr Fletcher looked at his daughter. Was there a hint of admiration behind his smile? I saw my father glance at Mr Fletcher and catch his eye as he nodded. A sign of agreement? A sign of satisfaction that the decision to bring me here had been the right one? It was clearly nothing that need concern me, besides I knew it was better for me to do as I was told, even if it was by a girl two years younger than I.

Without saying a word, I took my books through into the dinning-room in the expectation that Mary would follow me. However, she stayed outside the room I had entered and pushed the door to behind her, leaving it slightly ajar. Mary remained in the hallway with both her parents and mine and I could hear them talking, chatting freely among themselves. Mary too joined in the conversation and it felt to me as if I was being deliberately excluded from this discussion among the ‘grown-ups’. There was occasional laughter, but I was too well-mannered to try and eavesdrop, to say nothing of my fear of being caught. I had no idea what was being talked about. It did of course cross my mind that it was in part to make sure I understood that Mary was considered by her and my parents to be responsible and mature enough at the age of fifteen to be put in charge of me, a seventeen year old boy.

Instinctively I waited for Mary to finish talking with the adults in the hall. I placed my books on the table but thought it prudent to remain standing until Mary came into the room. When she did so a few minutes later I knew straightaway that she was in charge and that my standing waiting had met with her approval. Why I should be concerned with how she felt about me was of course the way I had been brought up. The fact that Mary was younger than me did not matter. She was there to supervise my studies and was therefore due my respect for her position. What a well behaved, polite boy I was.

That first evening passed without incident. I got on with my work while Mary kept a close eye on me. She would occasionally pass comment, or ask me questions, but otherwise I was allowed to study in peace. However, I have to say it was somewhat nerve-racking, as it made me feel as if I had to be on my best behaviour, knowing that any slip up would undoubtedly be reported to my parents. 

As it turned out, I had been right in my assumption since when my parents came to collect me later Mary was asked if I had been applying myself diligently. I stood to one side anxious to hear her report that I had behaved myself to her satisfaction. It was a considerable relief to learn that I had indeed been a good boy and as a reward for my good behaviour I would be allowed to study under Mary’s watchful eye again the following week. 

From then on I noticed little changes at every study session. For example, my chair on that first evening had been an ordinary padded dining-room chair. By the second week the chair had been changed to one which had a hard wooden seat, while Mary’s chair was not only one of the padded ones, but she had also added a cushion for her comfort as well. Naturally after an hour or two sat on the hard wooden chair I began to squirm and found it difficult to concentrate on my work. This was the perfect excuse, if any were needed, for Mary to criticise me for inattention. It was in fact this failing that gave Mary the idea that she should set me tests so she could more closely monitor my progress.

To be fair to Mary, she did research my subjects so that these tests would be relevant, but in order to ‘broaden my horizons’, as she put it, there would be questions on subjects about which I was to find I had little or no understanding.

“I’ve discussed this with your parents, Georgie and they have given me their full support,” Mary explained, using this form of my name in a way that made it sound as if she was talking to a ten year old. By this stage I had been told by my parents a number of times how very lucky I was to have someone like Mary to help my with my studies, so I thought it best to accept the way she addressed me without complaint, however demeaning I felt it to be.

Mary wasn’t long in developing a procedure for these tests. It wouldn’t be as straightforward as her asking the questions as I sat on my uncomfortable seat on the other side of the table. I was told I would have to stand in front of Mary while she quizzed me. There was something very humbling about the formality of being told to stand, dressed as I was in my short trouser schoolboy uniform. It felt rather as if I’d been hauled out, as a junior boy might be, to stand in front of the class at school.

At first the questions were fairly easy, but it wasn’t long before they became more abstruse and that’s when Mary decided I needed some ‘encouragement’. At first I would be firmly admonished for my failings. This was humiliating enough, but when Mary decided that I should place my hands on my head during these question and answer sessions it was clear that my study time with her in charge was going to take a turn for the worse.

Little by little, almost imperceptibly, Mary became more confident and I soon found that in accepting one stricture in the belief that by doing so it would satisfy her requirements and prevent matters from getting any more disagreeable, I was very much mistaken. 

I have already said how I was made to feel excluded from the conversations that took place between Mary and both sets of parents when I was dropped off at the Fletcher’s house. This became something of a routine, designed I am sure with the object of putting me into a subservient frame of mind for my impending study session.

It wasn’t long before Mary explained that since she had been placed in charge of my study periods, I should from now on address her as ‘Miss Mary’. I felt foolish of course. I was a seventeen year old boy. Why should I be required to do such a thing? Mary patiently explained that it was a sign of respect that boys owed to those who were put in charge of them. It was such a little thing, she said, but it would help us both and remind us why we were there. You see, Mary, or Miss Mary as I began to call her, appeared to be so reasonable in her requirements that it was hard to argue against something seemingly so trivial, so of course I agreed. 

It was lazy of me, but by then my attitude had become one of ‘anything for a quiet life’. Rather red-faced at first, and reluctant to argue, I started to use this new form of address whenever Miss Mary and I were together in the Fletcher’s dining-room. It wasn’t long before another small addition to my study periods was ‘suggested’. She would put forward her proposals and present them to me in such a logical and reasonable manner that it became harder and harder for me to disagree with anything she proposed.

As the range and scope of her authority over me grew, it was as if Miss Mary was the elder of us two and I but a mere junior schoolboy whose woeful marks in his exams at school necessitated him undergoing remedial private tuition. Anyway, that is how it felt to me. I was no longer simply a visitor to the Fletcher’s house as somewhere to study.

My parents had taught me to always respect those placed in authority over me and so whatever I felt about Miss Mary’s increasing control, there was an ingrained belief that whatever I had to endure was all for my own good and that I should be grateful for whatever sacrifices she had made in order to help. 

To return to the tests: As I said questions were put to me by Miss Mary as I stood meekly in front of her with my hands on my head. In this position I was already a bundle of nerves, as I imagine any boy would be. This was not an ideal frame of mind in which to concentrate on giving correct answers even before the questions became more difficult. Miss Mary then decided that to help focus my attention I should stand on a low footstool in front of her for what she gaily referred to as ‘Georgie’s question time’. Those very words still send a shiver down my spine as I recall the indignities I would suffer. Thereafter wrong answers would be rewarded by a hand smack directed to one of my bare thighs coupled with verbal admonishment for my failure. 

Why did I accept this you may ask? The short answer is that I was, as you may recall, no stranger to the sting of a well-placed hand smack to my bare legs, a common enough occurrence when out and about with my parents, usually accompanied by a statement of what I could expect when we returned home unless I bucked my ideas up.

Had this well proven and very effective method of discipline been mentioned by my parents when they were talking in the hallway? It would come as no surprise to find out that something had been said in passing, since, as you might have gathered, my parents were perfectly happy to discuss their views on the best way of bringing up boys like me to anyone who would listen.

When I was stood on the footstool, hands on head, in front of Miss Mary trying to control myself after a particularly gruelling ‘question time’ that had left me with hot, salty tears running down my face, it would often occur to me to wonder if the sound of my legs being smacked could be heard by Miss Mary’s parents as they sat in the next room. Certainly I was aware that nothing was ever said when my parents came to collect me later in the evening, at least not in my earshot, in spite of the telltale red marks on my still stinging thighs. It must have also been perfectly obvious that I had been crying. I did occasionally wonder if anyone had noticed the heat given off by my cherry-red legs, but again even if they had, nobody thought it worth remarking upon. Perhaps that is what made me feel even worse, the fact that they thought it to be such a normal and proper state of affairs that no one bothered to remark upon how I looked.

I will never forget the occasion when Miss Mary was asked by my mother how my studies had gone that evening. As was usual mother didn’t ask me, which of course made me feel as if what I thought didn’t matter. But what made it feel even worse was when Miss Mary told my mother that I’d not been concentrating properly and that in her opinion I was tired. She asked my mother if I had been sleeping properly. Once more completely ignoring me, mother happily explained my bedtime routine as I became more and more red-faced, upset and angry that the two of were discussing me as if I wasn’t there. Then, to my absolute shame, Miss Mary actually suggested that I was put to bed earlier! I must confess that I very nearly had a temper tantrum right there and then in the Fletcher’s hallway, but I managed to control myself although my heart was beating like a jackhammer with indignation. Didn’t anyone realise I was seventeen years old!

Despite my bitter resentment I was still expected to undertake one final formality before we left the Fletcher’s for home. After ignoring my presence for the previous ten minutes or so mother turned to face me. She said nothing, but gave me one of her looks as if to remind me to thank both Miss Mary and her parents for letting me visit them so that I could study. I therefore politely shook hands with Mr and Mrs Fletcher as I thanked them for their hospitality, before turning to shake hands with Miss Mary, thanking her and asking if I could please come back for another study session.

In the car on the way home mother told my father how considerate and thoughtful Mary had been. She said she agreed with Mary’s suggestion and thought it would be a very good idea for me to be put to bed earlier. Crumbs, I was seventeen and here were my parents discussing my bedtime as if I was a toddler not old enough to know what’s best for him. As it was I had to be dressed in my pyjamas and ready to be put to bed at nine o’clock every evening and now they were calmly discussing an even earlier bedtime! Well, that was too much for me and I stupidly blurted out that I didn’t want to go to bed any earlier. I probably said something about it not being fair because other boys weren’t put to bed that early and so on until the inevitable happened and I did have a tantrum sat in the back of the car. I’m ashamed to say that by the time we arrived home I was a complete mess with tears and snot running down my face. How ridiculous I must have looked sat there with my legs red and still stinging from the recent slaps. I was a teenager for heaven’s sake! No wonder that once indoors my parents were in no mood to put up with any more of my silliness. I was told that my childish behaviour in the car had put my immaturity beyond any shadow of a doubt. Henceforth I was to be put in my pyjamas by seven-thirty and tucked up in bed by eight-thirty, “at the very latest”. Those were their final words on the subject. 

The injustice of it all left me fuming. I could think of nothing I could do that would alter my junior status within an adult world, an adult world that, much to my indignation, included Miss Mary even though she was only fifteen. My behaviour in the car on the way home had put any prospect of such a change well out of reach. I went to bed that evening brooding on the unfairness of it all. I kept telling myself that I was seventeen and that I should stand up for myself, but I knew I would never dare risk upsetting my parents least they thought me ungrateful.

As I drifted off to sleep it became ever more apparent that for me to stand any chance at all of changing the way I was treated would be for me to do everything that I was told; to do it without question, without moaning and without sulking. I simply had to accept there was no alternative but for me to wait until my parents had decided that by their standards my behaviour was sufficiently mature enough to be accepted by them as a young man.

My parents were also great ones for hosting their own dinner parties and although on these occasions I was spared a visit to the Fletcher’s house and Miss Mary’s stern supervision, I was nonetheless not spared another altogether different form of humiliation, albeit one less physically painful.

I’ve no doubt that by now it won’t come as much of a surprise to know that since my parents did not consider me to be mature enough, even as a seventeen year old, to be allowed to wear long trousers other than for school, it therefore followed that it was not yet deemed suitable for me to be present when they were hosting one of their dinner parties. On these occasions I would have an early meal in the kitchen as my mother would have been busy making sure the table was set correctly in the dining-room and that everything was ready for my parent’s guests. Mother was always very fussy and everything had to be ‘just so’ and I would only have been in the way. Guests would normally start to arrive between seven-thirty and eight o’clock, therefore a little before seven o’clock I was sent upstairs to wash, clean my teeth and to change into my boy’s traditional striped winceyette pyjamas ready to be put to bed.

Knowing that at some point I would be expected to go downstairs and say ‘hello’ to my parents’ guests I would begin to feel anxious. As I waited after finishing my ablutions I was able to hear people arriving, knowing that any moment I would hear mother’s voice calling, telling me to come down to the hall where she would be waiting at the foot of the stairs to take me by the arm, pull me forward and present me to her guests.

Apart from the supreme humiliation of me, a seventeen year old teenager, being dressed in boy’s pyjamas in the early evening, there was the awful, depressing feeling that I was never going to be treated any differently. Perhaps what hurt the most was how my mother fended off enquires about me that were occasionally raised by guests unfamiliar with my strict upbringing. It was hugely embarrassing to have to stand there as my mother assured everyone that boys like me needed a good night’s sleep, otherwise they they were liable to be fractious and uncooperative the next day. No, I wasn’t allowed to stay up late, my mother would explain, because if I was my schoolwork would suffer. Guests would smile and nod in agreement, completely accepting my mother’s assurances, no doubt thinking what a lucky boy I was to have such a wonderful, attentive mother to look after me.

I wonder if you can possibly imagine how I felt as I stood in the hallway next to my mother in front of the guests, tongue-tied, bashful and unable to say anything. I had to meekly accept that as everyone arrived they saw me dressed in my pyjamas waiting to be sent upstairs to bed. Mother would fuss about, brushing a mote from my shoulder, or stroking a stray hair from my forehead. There was always something about me, or my pyjamas that needed her attention such as checking that my pyjama-top was buttoned up to her satisfaction. This was her way of showing her guests what a kind, considerate mother she was.

After the guests had all had the opportunity to see me dressed ready for bed, I would be expected to say ‘Goodnight’ to them, before mother, in front of everyone, sent me back upstairs with the words, “I’ll be up in a little while to make sure you’re properly tucked up in bed… and they’ll be no reading comics until all hours, so I’ll be turning off your light to make sure…” Actually it was the only time of day I got to read my comic books, but I’d rather mother hadn’t announced this to the world.

I’ve a feeling that you might already be ahead of me and will have guessed what was going to happen on the occasion of one of my parents’ dinner parties. Yes, the Fletchers were invited one evening and of course Miss Mary came with them. It seemed as if she was considered mature enough to attend a dinner party and mix with the adults even though I was older than she was.

It wasn’t until I was dressed in my pyjamas and had walked along the landing to the top of the stairs when I saw Mary and her parents in the hallway below. I felt more ashamed than ever and hesitated before my mother looked up and saw that I had stopped.

“What are you waiting for?” Mother asked, “You’ve met Mr and Mrs Fletcher enough times and Mary too. Don’t be so unsociable… come down and say ‘hello’ to them.”

“He’s a shy one,” I heard Mrs Fletcher say. 

I did as I was told and descended the stairs in time to hear Miss Mary say how pleased she was that mother had taken her advice about giving me an earlier bedtime. It was utterly humiliating to have to stand barefoot in the hallway in my pyjamas while I was introduced to some more guests. Mr Fletcher had drifted into the living-room, but Mary and her mother remained in the hall to watch as I politely said hello to the new arrivals.

My position in the hall allowed me to see into the room where my parents’ guests were gathering. I could hear them laughing and talking and the sound of glasses chinking. It was a different world, an exotic world and one from which I was once again to be excluded.

It was foolish of me not to have foreseen what was to happen a few minutes later. 

When mother dismissed me to go up to my room, saying she would be up later to turn off my light, Miss Mary volunteered her services and said she would be only too happy to put me to bed. Barefoot I stood nervously in front of them, anxious at the thought of Miss Mary taking me upstairs and coming into my bedroom, into my personal space as it were.

It was reassuring to hear mother say that she couldn’t possibly let Mary trouble herself. Mary was her guest. For a moment I felt a sense of relief, but Mary insisted, saying that mother had better things to do than to bother herself about putting me to bed. She told her it would be no trouble to make sure I was properly tucked up in bed before turning off the light in my bedroom. 

Then Mrs Fletcher added a few words saying that although she understood boys needed much more attention, but mother shouldn’t take so much on herself. “Let Mary help you, after all she knows George… she’ll make sure he’s tucked up properly. 

I ended up heaping more shame and humiliation upon myself by pleading that I could put myself to bed; that I was old enough and that I would promise turn of my light and not stay awake all night reading. I must have looked pathetic. A grown boy of seventeen pleading and telling them that I didn’t need Mary to help put me to bed. But that just showed them how immature I really was. I didn’t understand that every time I argued I debased myself further, simply making myself look like a fractious little boy.

But of course it didn’t matter what I said. Mother relented and Miss Mary took a firm hold of my hand and led me upstairs.

“Which one is your room?” she asked, looking along the landing as we reached the top of the stairs.

With my free hand I pointed towards my bedroom door.

“Have you brushed your teeth, Georgie?”

She tugged my hand sharply when I failed to answer. Feeling even more like a little boy, I replied: “Yes…”

“Yes… what?”

“Yes, Miss Mary.”

“That’s better… now come along, Georgie and let’s get you tucked up in bed.”

She took me to my bedroom and finally let go of my hand as she bent to pull back the sheets of my bed and plumped up my pillow as I stood and watched.

“Come on, Georgie… in you get.”

I climbed into bed and Mary pulled the sheets and blanket up before tucking me in. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I only realised later the significance of her making sure both my arms were placed on top of my bedding. However did she know what some badly behaved boys got up to in bed? Did she really think I would risk doing anything so naughty? I was far too terrified I’d be caught to even think about playing with myself.

Before she turned off my light, Mary looked around my bedroom. She picked up and looked at various books, no doubt curious to see what a teenage boy like me was permitted to read. Mary need not have worried as my reading matter was strictly controlled to ensure there was no danger of me being corrupted by any inappropriate material. When she turned her attention to other items in my room it must have seemed to her that she was in the bedroom of a much younger boy. My face must have been a picture of embarrassment as Mary asked me about the model cars on a shelf and the model aeroplanes suspended by fine thread from the ceiling. Then she saw my teddy on the chair by my desk. It was an old style school desk and chair my parents had bought for me from a secondhand shop. I would sit at the desk, accompanied by teddy, as I did my homework.

Mary took teddy, came back to my bedside and tucked him in beside me.

“Now be a good boy… you and teddy go straight to sleep, Georgie… Nighty-night.”

And with that, Mary flicked off the light and left to go and join the grown-ups downstairs, leaving me angry and so frustrated at being treated like a little immature boy that I grabbed hold of teddy and threw him across the room.

As I lay there fuming with the indignity of it all, my curiosity to know what was going on at the party downstairs in my absence continued to grow. I wondered what everybody was talking about, until I could stand it no longer. I speculated on whether it would be worth the risk of my getting out of bed and trying to eavesdrop from the top of the stairs.

Half an hour passed and feeling very daring, I pushed back my bedclothes and as quietly as I could I got up out of bed. Stealthily I crept along the upstairs landing until I was almost at the top of the stairs. I could hear the noise and voices coming from the open door to the room downstairs where the party was. I crouched down and lay on my stomach, afraid that anyone coming out of the room might see me if they looked up.

I couldn’t actually make out what was being said, just the odd word, but it was still a thrill to at least be able to eavesdrop, however naughty that might be. A thrill that is until I sensed that I wasn’t alone on the landing. You know how it is when you can feel someone’s presence even though you can’t see them. Well that was the feeling I had and my stomach turned to lead when I realised I’d been caught. I turned my head to look back over my shoulder to see who it was.

“What are you doing out of bed, Georgie? Are you spying?” Miss Mary asked. She didn’t raise her voice which made me feel even more afraid than I already was at being found out.

“Really, Georgie, it’s very naughty of you to be out of bed like this,” she sighed as if talking to a ten year old, “It’s just as well your mother asked me to get her some paracetamol from the bathroom cabinet, otherwise who knows how long you would have been out of bed. Why, it was only half an hour ago I tucked you up. Really, Georgie, I thought you were a much better behaved boy.”

I didn’t know what was worse, the fact that I’d been caught was bad enough. That it had been Miss Mary who had found me was probably more embarrassing than if it had been someone else, but what really rankled was that mother must have entrusted Mary with the key to the bathroom cabinet, something which she had never done with me. 

Just then the potential consequences of my being found out occurred to me. Alarmed, I looked up and asked pathetically: “You won’t tell on me… please Miss Mary?”

The thought of how my mother might find out that not only had I been out of bed, but that I’d been spying on her dinner party, appalled me. I was filled a deep sense of shame and remorse, but when I looked up I saw Mary was smiling in the way one does to a child, full of understanding and sympathy. She reached out her hand, gripped my arm and helped me to my feet.

“Let’s get you back into bed, Georgie… and for now we’ll say no more about it.”

I felt an initial sense of relief her words gave me, but of course I was left with a nagging doubt about why Miss Mary had qualified her statement by including two little words ‘for now’.

For now it would be alright, but I could never be sure how long ‘for now’ would be.