Donald - Part Two

Donald looked down at the crisp, freshly ironed pair of pyjamas that lay on his bed. Just seeing them, so neatly folded, brought back memories that he found at the same time both humiliating and exciting. He reached out his hand and felt the soft, comforting winceyette as he thought of the day one of his mother’s friends had called round.

Even though it was early evening, not long after the six o’clock Angelus bell, Donald had already been put into his pyjamas. He was almost fifteen and a half years old. Donald had been undressed and had his hands and face washed at the kitchen sink, before his mother brought him some clean pyjamas from the hot press. Donald knew better than to make a fuss as his pyjama jacket was buttoned up… all the buttons, mummy insisted, even the very top one. “We don’t want you to get a chill in bed, do we, Donald?” she would say as he felt the collar of his pyjama top tighten around his neck. Having that top button done up always annoyed Donald. For some reason he associated it with the sort of thing little boys had to put up with… and he was a teenager, for goodness sake! Why couldn’t his mother leave the top button undone? It wasn’t much to ask. And while he was at it, why did mummy have to harp on about catching a chill in bed? If she was so worried about catching a chill, he argued to himself, she would let me wear long trousers once in a while.

Donald had been kept in quite ludicrously short trousers, his legs bare to the tops of his thighs even in the coldest weather. The only time he’d had the courage to complain about the shortness of his school shorts, his mother had informed him in no uncertain terms that, “You don't catch a cold through your legs!” And that admonishment was enough put an end to the matter. True his gaberdine mac kept the worst of the rain off his exposed thighs during the not infrequent periods of wet weather, but it was still an embarrassment for him that people could see his long school socks and T-bar sandals below the hem of his tightly buttoned up dark blue mackintosh. Although during summer term Donald was ‘allowed’ ankle socks, which he naturally hated as it meant his hairless, smooth legs were constantly on full display and he could do nothing to hide the unblemished flesh from everyone’s gaze. He never got used to being called names, the most popular and least offensive being ‘girly-legs’, by boys as they teased him on the way to school.

He remembered how mummy would hold his pyjama bottoms open for Donald to step into and she would draw them up her son’s hairless legs, up and over his bottom. With practised ease mummy made sure the jacket was tucked neatly into the pyjama bottoms before tying a knot in the drawstring cord.

Donald recalled how he had heard a sharp knock on the kitchen door as it was opened and the voice of a neighbour: “Coo-ee, it’s only me, Mabel… oh, you’re getting Donald ready for bed.” It was Gloria Cooley, a friend of his mother’s, who had a twelve year old son, Rory.

“Not quite bedtime just yet, but saves time if can get Donald washed and into his pyjamas, so that he can finish his homework before I put him to bed,” Mabel replied.

“Actually it was about pyjamas I wanted to see you about, Mabel… you see I was thinking about getting Rory some new pyjamas and I was wondering whether to get him some proper boy’s pyjamas like Donald wears… you see Rory wears what he likes to bed… those pull-on tops and bottoms, you know like T-shirts and shorts… although I’ve caught the little rascal wearing nothing at all a few times!” Gloria laughed.

Mabel chuckled, but cast a reproving eye on Donald: “Boys will be boys I’ve no doubt, but I’d better not find you in bed in the nip in the morning,” she told him, “or you’ll find yourself feeling the back of my hairbrush before breakfast.”

Donald blushed as well he might even if he did find it a shock and perfectly unfair that a boy over three years his junior could wear ‘what he likes’ to bed… or even go bare naked! It was also very embarrassing to be ticked off like that in front of his mum’s visitor. But that was always the way with Donald’s mother, if she thought he needed to be put in his place, or even scolded, it mattered not a jot who else was present.

Donald’s mother and Mrs Cooley continued to chat for a few minutes as they discussed the various bedtime routines of their sons, although it transpired that little Rory didn’t have much of a routine at all. “... but I always make sure he’s in bed by ten-thirty at the latest,” Mrs Cooley explained.

Mabel told her that Donald was always tucked up in bed at eight o’clock on schooldays, but that when he was sixteen he might… “if he behaves himself,” be awarded an extension to eight-thirty. 

Donald sighed as he remembered mummy discussing his bedtime routine with Mrs Cooley. As it turned out, Donald was not given this later bedtime until he was seventeen. Even now he was married, his wife Joan insisted that Donald was in bed by nine-thirty each evening.

With a shudder, Donald recalled how the two mothers talked as if he wasn’t even in the room with them and, after all this time, he blushed as he remembered what happened next.

During a lull in the conversation, Mrs Cooley suddenly stepped forward towards Donald, turned to face his mother and asked, “Would you mind if I just had a look at the label on Donald’s pyjamas, Mabel?”

“Of course not, Gloria,” came the reply. Once more Donald continued to be ignored.

Mrs Cooley turned back to face Donald and without even looking at him directly, undid the top two buttons of his pyjama jacket. She pushed the collar back then took a firm hold of Donald’s shoulders and made him turn around so that she could examine the label stitched in by the manufacturer. Pulling the collar down to uncover the nape of Donald’s neck, Mrs Cooley twisted the label to read what it said. Donald, feeling rather like a tailor’s dummy, stood as still as he could before the collar was pushed back up. She then turned Donald back round again to face her and did up the two top buttons without bothering to make eye contact with him.

“I’d just like to get an idea of the length of the jacket, Mabel…” and without warning Mrs Cooley pulled Donald’s pyjama jacket all the way of the pyjama bottoms before smoothing it down at the sides so that she could see its length. Donald was anxious as the pyjama bottoms, loosened by the removal of the jacket, felt as if they were about to slip down. He scrabbled with his fingers to hold onto the winceyette pyjama bottoms, but Mrs Cooley told him not to fidget as she needed him to keep still while she checked the length of the jacket. These were the only words said directly to Donald who immediately did as he was told. He knew that his mother would have reinforced her command with a sharp smack of her hand to the back of his nearest leg and he was afraid that Mrs Cooley wouldn’t hesitate to do the same.

“There… just as I thought… they’re a good length, why the pyjama top is long enough to wear without the bottoms,” she said to Donald’s mother with a mischievous smile.

Donald was horrified and almost said something, but thought better of it. He stood as still as he could as Mrs Cooley fussed about and ‘ummed’ and ‘ahhed’ as if trying to come to a decision. She pulled Donald’s pyjama jacket this way and that. Then all of a sudden she lifted the jacket up, baring Donald’s tummy as she examined the hem of the jacket. Donald jerked as he felt the jacket being tugged and this was enough to cause his already loosened pyjama bottoms to slip a little way down his hips. The shock of feeling this happen made Donald tremble with fear which was enough to precipitate the very thing he was so anxious to avoid.

“Donald!!” his mother snapped as she saw the pyjama bottoms slide all the way down Donald’s legs to land in a puddle around his feet, “What do you think you are doing?!!”

As Mrs Cooley continued to hold on to the pyjama jacket, Donald found himself bare from the waist down in front of the two women. He remembered with bitterness how he had of course been blamed for this incident.

“I don’t think Mrs Cooley wants to see your little tiddler, Donald,” his mother said and she turned to apologise to her neighbour, but neither woman made any attempt to restore the fallen pyjama bottoms to their proper place. So Donald stood in the middle of the kitchen with his boyhood displayed as Mrs Cooley continued to umm and ahh while holding up his pyjama top. After a few more moments she reached her decision: “No, I don’t think Rory would like to wear these… but I just wanted to make sure,” she said before finally letting go of Donald’s pyjama jacket.

“I quite understand, Gloria… It’s always best to think about these things before you decide what’s suitable…”

After further delay while the two women talked some more it was Mrs Cooley who finally bent down to pull up Donald’s pyjama bottoms, adding to his already fearsome embarrassment. Mrs Cooley tucked in the pyjama top and pulled the white pyjama drawstring tight before tying into a neat bow. It was as if Donald was just a little boy being got ready for bedtime and he hated himself for standing meekly while Mrs Cooley smoothed down his pyjamas once more.

“There… all done…” she said and patted Donald’s pyjama-clad bottom for good measure.

As Donald thought back this incident he couldn’t help thinking how he’d have liked to seen some other boy being put through such an humiliating ordeal. A boy like Rory, for example, who Donald had more reason than most to want to see taken down a peg or two.

While Donald had to endure the daily humiliation of wearing short trousers, Rory had been allowed to wear ‘longs’ for as long as Donald could remember… in fact Donald couldn’t even recall seeing Rory, nearly four whole years his junior, wearing anything but long trousers. Donald knew that at one time Rory must have worn shorts, since at the age of thirteen Donald was given some of Rory’s old play shorts… hand-me-downs that even the nine year old Rory thought too embarrassing to be seen wearing. “But there’s plenty of wear left in them,” Gloria had said to Donald’s mother, “And as everyone knows Donald likes to wear shorts, Rory thought Donald might like them…”

Mabel wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth and gladly accepted the bundle of Rory’s old clothes: “That’s very kind of Rory to think of Donald… it’s not many boys who would be so considerate. I’ll make sure Donald remembers to thank Rory when when he next sees him.”

“There’s some of Rory’s old T-shirts as well…” Gloria informed her.

Donald was mortified to be sent out wearing Rory’s old play-clothes only to be ridiculed by Rory’s playmates as they were told of the provenance of Donald’s clothing… such as it was, since, being the clothes of a nine year old boy, they left little to the imagination, exposing even more of Donald’s bare flesh to the health-giving fresh air and sun. The sleeveless T-shirts didn’t even reach down to Donald’s belly-button and the shorts were so small the elastic waistband was stretched low enough to reveal the awful truth that Donald’s pubis was perfectly smooth, showing no signs at all of pubic hair. 

Since he was a ‘late bloomer’ Donald’s mother saw little point in pretending otherwise and Donald remembered how his lack of development had been openly discussed on a number of occasions.

For instance on one Sunday afternoon, the time when his mother Mabel usually had three or four of the ladies who attended church with her, a mother new to the parish had been invited to join them for tea and biscuits. As usual Donald, dressed in a smart short trouser suit (his ‘Sunday Best’), was expected to help serve the ladies their tea. It was as he was bringing in the tea things the new lady spoke and asked how old Donald was. On being told by his mother that Donald was sixteen, the lady remarked: “I see you have him in short trousers… has he yet to get to that ‘difficult’ stage then?”

“Oh, Donald has still got a fair bit of growing up to do,” his mother replied quite casually, “He’s still my little boy and I think he will be for a while yet.”

Spoons were stirred in teacups and saucers rattled. Heads were nodded. Yes, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind what was being discussed… discussed as if Donald wasn’t there in the room overhearing all that was was being said about him.

“Some boys bloom a little later than others, some earlier,” Mrs Cooley interjected, “My Rory, for instance, has already started… and he’s only twelve, bless him… and do you know, he says he’s a big boy now and insists he can bath all by himself…”

Donald could feel his face getting redder than ever. He was still bathed by his mother, something he knew for a fact that Mrs Cooley was aware of.

“Careful your Rory doesn’t develop any bad habits, Mrs Cooley,” another lady advised.

“Boys can be very shy at that stage,” one of the other ladies remarked.

“It’s the same with my Brendan,” another joined in, “He gets quite coy now he’s started to, y’know… grow up… and don’t get me started on the extra laundry that’s involved…”  

The were some mutterings of sympathy from one or two of the ladies before Mabel adroitly changed the subject, but not before embarrassing Donald further by telling her guests that her ‘little boy’ hadn’t so far troubled her on that account.

Donald was already flushed with embarrassment the moment he realised it was boys’ puberty that was being talked about so openly… and the fact of his own late puberty. He could barely meet the eyes of the ladies as he offered them biscuits and fancy cakes. Now all of them knew that it wasn’t only his legs that were smooth and hairless.

Donald shuddered at the thought as he recalled those Sunday afternoons with his mother holding court with her friends. Why couldn’t it have been Rory who was humiliated in front of everyone? Donald would have given a whole month’s worth of his pocket money, not that it amounted to much, to see Rory blushing and squirming with embarrassment as… as, oh what Donald really wanted to see was cute little Rory, the apple of his mother’s eye, have his long trousers and pants pulled down for a smacked bare bottom! In his heart of hearts Donald knew this was never going to happen. It was he, Donald, who got his bottom smacked… and not only his bottom, his bare legs too often felt the sting of his mother’s hand when they were out shopping and Donald had given her cause to admonish him.

Donald remembered when his wife Joan had seen him having the backs of his legs smacked when he was in his mid-teens. There must have been other occasions, but this was the one that stuck in his mind since it was when it became apparent to Donald that Joan had little sympathy for naughty boys, indeed he recalled how Joan had remarked on how effective his smacking had been and how red the backs of his thighs were. She even went so far as to say that she too would have no hesitation in employing this method when a sharp lesson in manners was called for.

All that had happened on this occasion was that Donald’s mind had wondered for a moment and he had failed to hear his mother telling him to help Joan’s mother by carrying her shopping. It seemed so unfair to Donald that he had been smacked on the backs of his bare legs in front of everyone for his momentary lack of attention. It was humiliating. He was a teenager, sixteen years old, didn’t mummy realise how embarrassing it was to have his legs smacked in public? The cheeks of his face had burnt as hot as the backs of his thighs.

The more he thought about these humiliating incidents, the more Donald longed to see these humiliations visited upon some other teenage boy. Oh, how he wished that he could somehow get a boy like Rory into trouble… trouble that would see the boy put straight back into short trousers after having his bare bottom smacked. Smacked until he was wailing and begging for it to stop. How Donald would enjoy watching the boy bawling his head off, his face smeared with tears, snot and drool dripping from his chin as he cried his eyes out, just as he had done on so many occasions. 

Meanwhile, unknown to Donald as he grew more and more excited at the thought of someone else enduring the sort of upbringing he had suffered, his wife, Joan and his mother, Mabel were having a conference. Mabel explained to Joan how she had visited Father Benedict and what he’d had to say. Then Mabel produced a pair of Donald’s short trousers.

“I kept these and some of his other clothes,” she explained, “just in case they might be needed… and I didn’t like to part with perfectly good clothes with plenty of wear left in them,” she added.

“Now, Joan… Father Benedict suggested that we find some way of helping Donald to get these silly ideas of his out of his system… Quite honestly I don’t even begin to understand why Donald should be so interested in boy’s short trousers…”

“But you should have seen him… I told you he was… examining a pair of junior boy’s school shorts… I could see him, plain as day as he turned them inside out to look at the lining…”

“Well, that’s as maybe, Joan, but together we’ve got to do something about it… and I think the best way forward is to give Donald a good dose of short trouser discipline, such as I gave him when he was acting up in those… those difficult years that boys go through… if you understand me.”

Joan nodded. She knew perfectly well what Mabel was talking about. Silly young boys who thought that because they were teenagers they were all grown up and deserving to be treated like mature adults, when they were nothing of the sort.

Mabel continued: “As you know Donald was rather late in that department, but that still doesn’t excuse his current behaviour, so taking him down a peg or two is just what he needs in my opinion… it worked in the past and I’ve no reason to think it won’t work now… he’ll soon buck his ideas up after a week or two spent in short trousers…”

Joan nodded her head again. She was fully in agreement with her mother-in-law. They had both been far too lax with Donald recently. An old-fashioned dose of discipline was the remedy required if he wasn’t going to go completely off the rails.

“Fancy… in Dunne’s of all places,” Joan recalled, “It was embarrassing to see him through the shop window looking at those boy’s shorts… I’m just thankful there was no one else there that I knew to see him.” She paused as she watched Mabel smoothing out the pair of Donald’s old short trousers on the table in front of them.

“You’re right, Mabel,” Joan said abruptly, “Let’s see how Donald feels when we put him back into short trousers for while… that will bring him back to his senses and I’m sure that will cure him of this childish behaviour.”

“I’ve brought along a few pairs of his boy’s briefs to wear… I bought them for Donald especially to wear with these shorts… he didn’t like them, but they need to be small so they don’t show,” Mabel explained.

Joan looked at the short trousers. There was hardly any inseam at all. Of course Donald would definitely need to wear the boy’s junior underpants that Mabel had brought with her.

So, with her mother-in-law’s help and encouragement, Joan’s mind was made up. Donald was in need of a lesson he would never forget. Let him see what it feels like to be kept in short trousers like a naughty schoolboy. She was sure that would soon cure him of whatever silly ideas he had when she saw him through Dunne’s shop window. 

The last thing on Donald’s mind as he stood in the shop was the possibility of wearing short trousers again. He’d had enough experience in being kept in them into late adolescence under his mother’s strict supervision. Quite enough to last him a lifetime. He recalled the horror of having to wear them and he shivered at the thought. No, Donald’s mind was set on taking revenge on all those boys who had teased him over the years. Oh how Donald longed to put a boy into short trousers… to make him suffer the humiliations that he’d had to endure. That was the sole reason for his visit to Dunne’s. He sincerely hoped that if he’d had a reasonable excuse to be in the boyswear shop, such as enquiring about short trousers for an imaginary nephew, he might just be fortunate enough to be present when a mother brought her son into the shop to be measured for his school uniform. Donald fancied that he might even have the opportunity to advise on the choice of clothing, telling the mother how his own ‘nephew’ was kept in short trousers at all times, summer and winter. Of course this was all Donald’s elaborate fantasy, a fantasy he had developed to in some way compensate for his own extended boyhood, a way of justifying his meek acceptance of his mother’s strictures.

A few days later Donald, his head still full of his fantasies, entered the dining-room to find his mother and his wife, Joan, sat at the table. He noticed a stool had been placed to one side of the room before he saw what was laid out on the table.

“Come in, Donald,” Joan said, “Your mother and I have been going through some of your things…”

“Sorting them out…” his mother added.

Although Donald was understandably anxious at the sight of some of his old clothes the women were handling, he managed to act normally. The very last thing he imagined was that the clothes were being sorted out for him to wear.

Putting on a brave face the addressed his mother: “I don’t know why you kept all those old clothes of mine… about time you got rid of them, I’d say…”

Joan spoke up: “Oh no, we’re not getting rid of them, Donald…”

“The-then what are you doing? I don’t understand…” Donald’s heart skipped a beat, “If you’re not getting rid of them… what are you sorting them out for?”

Mabel and Joan ignored Donald for the moment and carried on with what they were doing.

“Oh, isn’t that just what every boy would love to wear?” Joan enthused as she held up the startlingly short shorts of a boy’s short trouser suit.

“Those are part of Donald’s best suit… his ‘Sunday best’ we called it. I bought it for his fifteenth birthday… you will have seen him wearing it, Joan… Look how well tailored it is… made to last…”

“It looks as though it would still fit him,” Joan observed as she held the little trousers up in front of Donald, “What do you say, Mabel… do you think they would fit Donald?”

Donald’s mouth was suddenly dry as he looked from Joan to his mother to see want her reaction would be. His mind raced… surely they weren’t expecting him to put those on? Even just trying them on to satisfy their curiosity would be perfectly awful. The thought that Joan and Mabel might be planning to put him back into short trousers never occurred to him.

Mabel took the short trousers from Donald’s Sunday best suit from Joan and held them up. Donald watched nervously as his mother examined the shorts and then looked up at him.

“I don’t think Donald would have the least trouble in putting these on,” she decided.

Then Joan spoke up: “Your mother and I have come to a decision,” she announced, “... and it’s for your own good that we have decided that it’s high time you were taken in hand. We’ve both noticed that you’ve been distracted of late… I’ve lost count of the times I’ve had to repeat myself and even the simplest of tasks seems to take you forever to finish… why, the other day I told you to mow Mrs Donoghue’s lawn and do to do a spot of weeding for her… you know how she can’t manage on her own… and did you do as I asked? No you did not…”

Donald opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short.

“Don’t interrupt and let me finish, Donald… there was no excuse, you wandered off to do heaven knows what… No, it simply won’t do, Donald and that’s why your mother and I have decided to do something about it…”

Donald was crestfallen. He hated to be admonished by Joan in front of his mother. It made him feel like a little boy. He was of course anxious to know what that ‘something’ was that had been decided. Whatever it was, he knew he would have comply with their wishes or face the consequences.

“We simply can’t have you wandering off and not knowing where you are… your mother and I have been very worried about you, Donald, so in order to make sure you understand how concerned we are and to help you, we have decided that the best thing we can do is to give you the opportunity to show how you can behave yourself by putting you back into short trousers again for a while…”

Donald couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Surely Joan wasn’t serious? Short trousers? Was that why they were looking through his old clothes his mother had brought round? Was that why Joan held up those humiliating short trousers from his Sunday best suit? They can’t expect me to wear that suit again… surely not?

Joan and Mabel had decided not to say anything about his being seen in Dunne’s boyswear shop, but Donald couldn’t help wondering if someone had seen him. Of course he daren’t say anything in case it was pure coincidence that he was now being told that he was to be put back into short trousers. It was difficult to know which was causing him the most anguish, the thought of being seen as bare-legged as a junior schoolboy, or that his visit to Dunne’s had been noticed.

It was his mother’s turn to speak: “Joan and I are in complete agreement… Joan knows how headstrong you were in your teens…”

“Headstrong!” Donald wondered what his mother was talking about. He never had any time to be headstrong in his teens… or at any other age. His mother kept him just as busy as she and Joan did now… how could they accuse him of being headstrong? It was so unfair, but once again Donald was plagued with doubts that his secret obsession, the urge to see boys humiliated and treated in the same way that he had been, was known to both his wife and his mother. But now, instead of another boy, it was he who was to be put into short trousers and treated as if he was an irresponsible twelve year old who couldn’t be trusted with the most menial of tasks. In the few moments he had left wearing long trousers, Donald cursed himself for his visit to the boy’s outfitters. The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that his visit had some bearing on this new nightmare unfolding before him.

“... how I had to push you to be an altar-boy,” Mabel continued, “...how I had to make sure you were always on your best behaviour and dressed smartly without your shirt-tails hanging out like some ragamuffin… all the things a mother has to do unless she wants her little boy to grow up to think only about himself, with no sense of Christian duty.”

Hardly pausing for breath, Donald’s mother continued: “Now get undressed, Donald and we’ll see of I’m not right about your Sunday suit…”

Donald was horror-struck: “W-what, now… here?”

“Of course now, of course here… what else did you think I meant? Don’t be so silly and get those clothes off right now.” Mabel sighed and turned to Joan, “Honestly sometimes Donald behaves as if he’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.” She turned back to Donald again, “Now off with those things and let’s have no more fuss… I’m your mother and Joan is your wife and we’ve both seen you in the bare before, now get on with it.”

Donald knew it was pointless to argue with his mother and he also knew that in any argument his wife, Joan, would always take his mother’s side.