The Memoirs of a Boy - Part 2

 

I am pleased to say the exams I had been studying so hard for under Miss Mary’s supervision went well. I passed them all with flying colours. Both my parents were so pleased with my performance that they took the unprecedented and wholly unexpected step of announcing a change to my strict clothing restrictions. As a reward for all my hard work I was for the first time to be allowed to wear long trousers for visits and outings with my parents. Naturally I was thrilled at the prospect of no longer having to appear in public dressed in thigh-baring short trousers and I had high hopes that at long last I could look forward to being treated more as an adult than a boy. Already in my mind’s eye I saw myself being invited to attend the dinner parties given by my parents, perhaps even being asked to join them at some of their social events. It was a heady few days for me as I thrilled at how much this new dispensation would mean to me. To be allowed to wear long trousers was a privilege long desired and I could hardly believe my good fortune.

For two weeks I enjoyed undisputed possession of my long trousers. Mother even talked about purchasing for me a second pair! With my eighteenth birthday on the horizon I was on cloud nine. I had even convinced myself that once Miss Mary saw me wearing longs, her attitude towards me would change. She would see that I was no longer a boy dressed in short trousers short enough to embarrass even the most immodest boy, but a mature teenager blossoming into young manhood. There was no need either for the study sessions to continue as now that my exams were out of the way I could afford to unwind and enjoy the self-confidence that wearing long trousers gave me.

The Fletchers had been away on holiday when the results of my exams were announced, so I had not been able to share my good news with Miss Mary… or just plain ‘Mary’ as I felt I was now entitled to call her. 

At home rules were relaxed sufficiently for me to continue wearing my long trousers around the house. Yet there was a nagging feeling my happiness couldn’t last, so I did everything I could to ensure that I would keep my long trouser privileges. I was only too well aware that if my behaviour fell short of my parents’ high standards, these privileges could so easily be withdrawn, or at the very least curtailed.

Yet it wasn’t a failing on my part in the eyes of my parents that saw me once again dressed in short trousers.

As I said, Mary and her family had been away for an extended holiday, visiting relatives as it happens. A week or so after their return mother invited them to visit us. She was no doubt eager to hear all about their trip away. Upon the arrival of the Fletchers I was delegated to open the front door to them and I immediately noticed Mrs Fletcher look at my long trousers as she entered the hallway. Although brief, her glance was sufficient in length for me to realise she had noted their presence. Nothing was said, but I felt myself blush as if I had upset her in some way by the change in my appearance. Mary, who followed her mother through the front door, took a little longer in her appraisal of my new apparel. As her parents walked ahead to join mine in the living room, Mary’s eyes scanned me from feet to waist, before continuing their gaze upwards until she was looking straight at my now crimson-suffused face. She smiled sweetly, but said nothing more than, “Hello, Georgie…” before following her parents and leaving me to close the front door.

I felt my stomach tighten. In those few brief moments my new found pride in wearing long trousers evaporated. It was almost as if I felt ashamed for letting Mary down. No words had been spoken other than that greeting, but it was easy to see from her manner that Mary disproved of how I was dressed and in the way she had called me ‘Georgie’.

I had been so confident in my belief that Mary’s attitude towards me would change. But it appeared that I had been badly mistaken. It was a bitter blow.

With a heavy heart I joined everyone in the living-room. The anticipated sense of at last belonging in the company of adults that I imagined I would feel wearing long trousers had all but vanished. Thankfully I wasn’t expected to contribute much to the conversation that took place during the Fletcher’s visit. Mother took the opportunity to whitter on at some length about how well I’d done in my exams, so it came as a relief when I was sent into the kitchen to replenish the bowls of nibbles. Mary followed me saying that she would help.

Once we were in the kitchen and out of earshot of our parents, Mary shook her head and tutted: “Long trousers, Georgie… I am surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s happened to your short trousers? They’re so much smarter than those dreadful, ill-fitting longs you’re wearing.”

Indignantly I blurted: “They’re my school longs,” I explained, stung by her criticism.

Mary was clearly unimpressed. “Did your parents give you permission to wear long trousers, Georgie?”

Sensing where this was leading, I began to panic: “Yes, but…”

I was perplexed. Was she joking? Did Mary really think I would be allowed to wear longs without the consent of my parents?

“Well, Georgie, did they?”

“Yes, of course they did. It’s my reward for doing well in my exams.”

“Your reward?" Mary sniffed, “What about my reward for all the time and effort I devoted to keeping your nose to the grindstone? Jolly hard work it was too. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have done nearly so well in your exams.” It was Mary’s turn to be indignant, “I have just had to sit and listen to your mother praising you, telling us about all the hard work you put into your studies with hardly a word said about my help. How do you think that made me feel, Georgie?”

I hung my head. I could see how upset she was. It was true that mother had been particularly forthright and effusive, telling the Fletchers how well I had done in my exams. “I - I don’t know, um, Miss Mary…”

My hands were shaking as I tried to concentrate on replenishing the bowls of nibbles. I really couldn’t think what to say that might placate Mary and prevent matters getting out of hand. As usual I failed.

“Georgie… Georgie, look at me when I’m talking to you!” she snapped. I looked up. I was easy to see how annoyed Mary had become. “Do you not think I deserve a reward for supervising your studies?”

“I, er…”

“Well? Come on, Georgie, it’s a simple question…”

“Yes, Miss Mary.”

“Yes… what, Georgie?”

“Yes, you do deserve a reward… er, for supervising and helping me.”

“I am pleased you think so… and what do you think that reward should be, Georgie?”

“I - I don’t know…”

“Well I do. I want you to thank me for all my hard work in getting you through your exams. You are to do this in front of our parents when we go back into the living-room. I want you to make sure your mother and father understand how grateful you are for all the help I have given you.”

I felt relieved. If this recognition was to be Mary’s ‘reward’, then I would gladly do as she had said. However, what she said next made my blood run cold. Mary simply told me how I was to tell my mother and father that I no longer wanted to wear longs. I was to to say that I preferred to wear short trousers. How this was to be achieved was up to me, but it had to be done. My only consolation was that my request to wear to short trousers was to be carried out after the Fletchers had left the house. Clearly Mary did not want there to be any hint of her involvement in my ‘decision’. I knew the price for failure… the secret of my spying on my parents’ dinner party would be made known. 

As you can imagine I was now left fearful of what the reaction of my parents would be. Should they refuse my request, I was sure to be exposed as a nosey snooper and more than likely put back into short trousers as a punishment in any case. If they agreed I would be back in short trousers and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future, but the secret of my misdeed would at least be safe. Either way, I knew I was destined to be a bare-kneed boy once more.

Miss Mary and I returned to rejoin our parents. I was more nervous than ever knowing that not only would I have to make an announcement stating how grateful I was for Mary’s help, but that later I would have to tell my parents how I no longer wished to wear long trousers.

Due to my lack of experience in adult company, I had great difficulty in finding an opportunity to speak. As the minutes passed I became anxious before finally resolving to say what Miss Mary had told me to say. In order to get noticed I put my hand up. I felt like, and must have looked like, a nervous schoolboy in class raising his arm in an effort to attract his teacher’s attention.

Mother succeeded in misinterpreting my gesture and caused me more embarrassment: “What is it, George? Do you need to go to the toilet? You needn’t put your hand up… just say ‘excuse me’ before leaving the room.”

I begged mother’s pardon and explained that I wished to make an announcement. I stood up. Everyone in the room looked at me. Inside my long trousers my legs trembled, but I managed to say how grateful I was that Mary had given her time so freely to help me study for my exams. I glanced in Mary’s direction in the hope that was sufficient and that my ordeal was over, but it was not to be. Mary made it clear by her expression she expected me to say more. I looked round at the faces of both my parents and those of the Fletchers before adding that it was entirely due to Mary’s help that I achieved such good grades and that without her to guide me I doubted that I would have passed any of my exams.

It was a shameful experience having to give all the credit to Mary. There could be no doubt that I felt cheated, but what choice did I have? I knew the effect that my declaration would have, that all the hard work that I did put in would count for little in the eyes of both sets of parents. I sat down and as I suspected the talk became all about what a marvellous girl Mary was and how much she had done to help me. I could have cried. In the space of a few minutes what praise and recognition I had earlier received for all my efforts meant nothing. I looked across to Mary as she absorbed the praise being heaped upon her. She glanced in my direction, presumably to gauge my reaction, and by a subtle tilt of her head made me understand that I still had another part of her ‘reward’ to fulfil later with my parents. It seemed hardly possible for me to feel any more miserable.

After the Fletchers had departed I pondered on how best to approach my parents. I wondered what their reaction would be when I told them of my wish to forego my new clothing privileges and my desire to remain in short trousers. Whatever their reaction might turn out to be, I knew I had to make this request, since it would have been the height of folly should I choose not to say anything and risk my parents being told by Mary of how I had got out of my bed to spy on their dinner party guests.

When I finally summoned up courage later that day to raise the matter with them, the interview with my parents was the worse I could remember. While father was initially puzzled at my request, he nevertheless conceded that with Miss Mary’s help I had still managed to do exceptionally well in my exams. He concluded that I should be allowed to satisfy what he termed my ‘whim’. 

Mother, on the other hand was positively apoplectic. She told me how she’d had to put up with me nagging her to be allowed to wear long trousers out of school. “And now you tell me you don’t want to wear them after all!” She went on to say what an ungrateful boy I was being. She simply couldn’t understand what had got into me. I was told in no uncertain terms that I could forget all about her buying a second pair of longs. I was told how I had upset her with my fickle behaviour and how she would now have explain to everyone how mistaken she had been in thinking I was ready for long trousers.

If I had been wearing short trousers at the moment she spoke her final words, “Are you intent on showing me up?!” they would, I felt sure, have been accompanied by a few sharp smacks on my bare legs.

It was rare indeed that my parents disagreed on anything, particularly with regard to my upbringing. It was simply unheard of and seeing how deeply divided they were about my request, it made me feel not only ashamed, but guilty that I was the cause of their disagreement. 

But despite her protests, mother was overruled and I was allowed by father to fulfil my ‘whim’. I went to my bedroom and sat down with a heavy heart. The prospect of wearing short trousers full-time once more was upsetting and the imminent loss of the rewards I had so long thought that wearing long trousers would bring were gone. Thoughts of how different my life would have been wearing long trousers tormented me in much the same way as did the realisation that I would continue to be excluded from adult company… oh, why had I been so stupid?

But there was nothing for it, so I stood up and took off my longs, folding them neatly before opening my wardrobe to select a pair of short trousers. I had just put them on and pulled up the zip fly when mother came into my room to collect my long trousers.

I handed them to her and as mother took the trousers from me, she spoke: “I hope you’re satisfied,” and left me to wonder if I’d ever see my longs again.

Mother had her revenge the following weekend when an aunt and uncle of mine came to visit with their fourteen year old son, my cousin Nicolas. Nicholas had been given long trousers for his thirteenth birthday and had worn longs for over a year (as I pointed out in the first part of my memoir, different families have different rules… gosh, and how I wished my family’s rules were those of a different family). Despite me still being in short trousers and Nicholas in longs, we got on really well and were good friends. Like the friends of my parents, it didn’t bother Nicholas that I was kept in short trousers even though he would sometimes tease me if he saw me wearing a pair of my particularly brief short trousers. He knew of my parents uncompromising attitude toward my clothing and simply excepted I had no say in what I wore. I’m sure he was also grateful that his own parents did not share the same views as did mine.

It was Sunday afternoon and we were all gathered in the living room. My aunt, uncle, cousin Nicholas and my parents were all sat on the sofa and chairs, while I was sat on the pouffe. This was one of my parents rules; that while wearing short trousers I was not allowed to sit on the sofa or chairs in the living room. I therefore had to either sit on the pouffe, stand, or sit on the floor. Sitting on the pouffe I found rather awkward. Since it was lower than the chairs it meant that I was always looking up at everyone in the room. But that wasn’t the most embarrassing feature of being made to sit on the pouffe. Being sat so low down meant that my knees were almost up to my shoulders which rucked up my short trousers and left my bare thighs, and indeed the lower curves of my bottom, so exposed to make it impossible for anyone in the room to miss the display of bare flesh. Humiliating as it was, sitting on the pouffe was nevertheless marginally less embarrassing than being sat on the floor, where I was expected to sit with legs crossed. I will leave it to your imagination as to the sight I presented in such a position when wearing my uncomfortably brief short trousers.

Naturally it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to the question of why I was back in short trousers. Mother explained what had happened while I sat on the pouffe red-faced. I think Nicholas found my insistence on wearing short trousers difficult to understand, but his parents appeared to accept as plausible the explanation that it was my ‘whim’.

Mother was still clearly very annoyed with me, but what happened next took me by surprise. After she had told Nicholas she’d noticed how he’d had a recent growth spurt which had left his long trousers a little too short, meaning his ankle socks were showing, mother said she’d had an idea.

“Stand up, Nicholas… you too, George,” she said, “Now turn and stand back-to-back and keep still while I measure you… Yes, George, you’re still a few inches taller than Nicholas… never mind,  if they’re a bit too long, Nicholas will soon grow into them…”

I was as puzzled as I think Nicholas was when mother used her tape-rule to measure our legs from waist to ankle. I felt Nicholas’s fingers brush the side of my left thigh. It tickled, as he knew it would, and I suddenly jerked my leg, unable to control the reflex action.

“Keep still, George! How can I measure you if you keep jumping about like a grasshopper?” mother snapped.

This was accompanied by a warning smack to my right leg. I kept resolutely still and took a deep breath when I felt Nicholas’s fingers tickle me again. I knew Nicholas wasn’t being mean, just having a bit of fun at my expense. He also knew that mother wouldn’t take kindly to his teasing me if she caught him in the act, so Nicholas was very careful to avoid overdoing it.

I was then in for an even bigger shock when mother disappeared only to return a few minutes later carrying my school longs, the only pair of long trousers I possessed.

“Nicholas can have these trousers as George doesn’t have a use for them any more,” she said to my aunt, “They’re a little bit too long for Nicholas at the moment, but at the rate he’s growing it won’t be long before they fit him perfectly.”

I was thunderstruck. This meant I would have to start the new term at school in short trousers after having spent the past school year in longs. As mother had said I wouldn’t be getting any more longs after her disagreement with father over my ‘whim’ I now no longer had any long trousers at all. It was as if I was being cast adrift once more, condemned to remain a short trouser wearing teenager… for how long was anyone’s guess.

Aunty Vi, Nicholas’s mother was pleased to accept the trousers which mother assured her had had little wear. It wasn’t my place to confirm this, but of course I knew she was correct.

Mother giving away my only pair of long trousers was a traumatic experience, but what happened later in the week was even worse. Every morning as I pulled up a pair of my short trousers I cursed myself for being so stupid as to get out of bed the evening I tried to eavesdrop on one of my parents’ parties. I might have known I’d be found out, but the fact it had been Miss Mary who caught me made it a hundred times worse. I had lost count of the number of times I’d told myself that I should stand up to her, after all I was seventeen, two years older than Mary. But I realised that was impossible. Not now. That boat had weighed anchor and sailed off over the horizon the minute Mary saw me in my pyjamas lying on the floor at the top of the stairs.

Ever since that evening I had been on tenterhooks each time Mary and my parents met, anxious that one slip of the tongue might see my naughty behaviour made public. I cleaved to my belief that if I did everything Mary demanded of me, my secret would remain safe. No matter how high the price, I was willing to pay it in order to keep it that way. Such was my mood when Mary and her mother visited us one afternoon.

As usual when we had guests we were in the living room and as usual, as I have explained, I was sat on the pouffe, uncomfortably displaying my bare legs and smooth thighs.

“You’re wearing short trousers, George,” Miss Mary observed (she only called me Georgie when we were alone together… not wishing to embarrass me in front of our elders, I suppose). “Why aren’t you wearing those long trousers I saw you in the other day?” She asked innocently.

Before I had time to say anything, mother worked up a full head of steam as she launched into a speech about how, after rewarding me for my exam results and allowing me to wear long trousers more often, I had for some unknown reason decided to reject my reward. Mother was most upset at what she called my selfish, inconsiderate, thoughtless conduct. She simply couldn’t understand what had got into me, she explained. It made me even more ashamed of my behaviour as I thought of how cowardly I was being in not being able to face up to the consequences of admitting to my parents that I had been out of bed when I shouldn’t have been. I could have kicked myself for being such a wimp that I would rather let myself be humiliated by Miss Mary than see my parents find out what I’d done.

As their conversation continued mother and Mrs Fletcher discussed the disrespectful behaviour of teenage boys. Then mother explained how father had decided, “... though what possessed him, I’ve no idea…” to accede to my ‘whim’, as he had called it. Mrs Fletcher shook her head in disbelief, sympathising with the awkward position into which this turn of events had placed mother.

There was a lull in the conversation during which Mary rose and came over to where I was sat. Politely I got to my feet. Mary looked down at my bare legs.

“What happened to your long trousers?” Mary asked as if she didn’t know perfectly well what had happened.

Nervously I ran my fingertips along the hem of my short trousers as if to check that I was really wearing them: “I, er… asked father if I could continue to wear short trousers, er… as I,er… liked them better…”

“Oh, I see,” Mary said sounding surprised, “I thought you looked jolly smart in long trousers… it’s a pity you don’t like wearing them…”

Then Mary reached out and touched the hem of my shorts.

“Your legs are very bare, George.” She observed, as if she thought I wasn’t already painfully aware of the fact. “These trousers you’re wearing are very short… are you sure you don’t want to wear long trousers? They’d cover up your bare legs.”

I gulped and was about to say something about preferring to wear short trousers when I heard mother tell Mary how these were not my shortest short trousers.

“You’ve some special short trousers, haven’t you, George?” mother asked me, referring to the pull-up grey shorts with the fully elasticated waistband and no fly or pockets that I mentioned in the first part of my memoir.

My mind was in a whirl. Mary had never seen this pair of particularly humiliating boy’s short trousers and I instinctively knew she would be eager to see them. Inwardly I cursed mother for mentioning these horrible shorts.

Mother spoke again: “Perhaps you’d like show them to Mary?” which wasn’t so much a question, or even a suggestion, but an order confirmed when she added, “You know where they are kept. Go and change into them so that Mary and Mrs Fletcher can see what you wear when you’ve shown me up with your selfish behaviour.” Mother paused before adding words that I dreaded to hear, “...and remember to wear them properly.”

Although these words might have puzzled Mary and her mother, I knew perfectly well what they meant. My heart beat a little faster as I thought of the added humiliation this final sentence conveyed.

I went straight upstairs to my room, thankful Miss Mary had at least stayed in the living room. I opened the drawer in which the little pull-up shorts were kept and took them out. I put them on my bed as I unzipped and tugged down the short trousers I was wearing. I then pushed my fingers into my underpants. Down they went and off. This was what mother meant; no underpants were to be worn underneath the little boy shorts. I was also expected at all times to keep my shirt tucked properly into the short trousers. It was a Sisyphean task, since the school shirt I was wearing had hardly any tails and only just stayed in the shorts I had taken off. This, coupled with the lower waist of the little shorts meant that I was forever trying to keep myself looking respectable. I little realised where this battle to remain decent in the eyes of mother would lead.

Downstairs again and Mary’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw the tiny grey shorts I was wearing, for not only were my thighs fully bare, but she could see exposed the cheeks of my bottom peeking out from under the hem of the shorts.

I hung my head in shame, knowing full well the sight I presented, a boy of seventeen dressed in shorts that would disgrace a ten year old.

“Stand up straight, George!” mother snapped, “You’re slouching again… what have I told you about slouching? Why do I have to keep reminding you to stand up straight?”

I was slouching for a reason, but I apologised and of course the inevitable happened. As I did as I was told, my shirt parted company with my pull-up shorts.

Mother sighed: “... and for heavens sake, George, tuck your shirt in… and don’t start blaming your clothes. If you had a little more pride in your appearance this wouldn’t happen.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Miss Mary and her mother whispering to each other before Mary nodded her head in agreement to whatever it was they were talking about. It wasn’t more than a few seconds later that I found out what it was.

Mrs Fletcher spoke: “Mary attends dance classes and part of the curriculum is devoted to posture exercises… it looks to me as if they’re something George would benefit from.”

“I’m sure he would.” Mother thought for a moment before asking, “Do you think Mary could help him?”

Mrs Fletcher turned to her daughter: “What do you think, Mary? It would mean having to look after George again… showing him the exercises.”

The thought of being ‘looked after’ by Miss Mary again was awful and my heart sank, but I could see by the glint in her eye that Mary didn’t need to be asked twice. However that didn’t stop her from making a big song and dance about whether she had the time and so on.

I couldn’t believe it when mother actually begged Miss Mary to take me in hand, “It would do him so much good… I’m always telling him to sit up straight and I’m forever having to nag him about his table manners… boys simply don’t seem able to grasp even the basics of etiquette…”

It made it appear as if I’d not long been brought in untamed from the wild woods. It was just so unfair. I did try my best. I admit that mother often had to remind me not to sit with my elbows on the table, or to hold my knife and fork properly. Even now mother is liable to embarrass me in public, admonishing with the words, “Elbows, George!”, reducing me to the status of a little boy should I be rash enough to forget my table manners.

Mary agreed to teach me and used the opportunity to obtain an agreement from mother that I should be dressed as I was, in the awful grey pull-up shorts whenever I met Miss Mary for my lessons in deportment.

“That’s settled then,” mother said with satisfaction, “I’m  so pleased you’ve agreed, Mary… I’m sure if you use the same methods you used to get George through his exams, you’ll have no difficulty with teaching him not to slouch.”

There was that feeling in the pit of my stomach again. The feeling I had always got whenever I was due to be dropped off at the Fletchers for my study sessions, only now I was to be dressed in the flimsiest, briefest of short trousers. I brushed my finger tips on the sides of my thighs and couldn’t help but wonder how they would be left stinging after one of Miss Mary’s lessons.

I had an agonising few days to wait before arrangements were made for my first lesson. As you might imagine my waking hours were spent wondering just what these new lessons would entail. One thing I was sure of though was that any failing on my part would be dealt with the utmost promptitude by Miss Mary.

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.