Consequences

One of my earliest memories is of a balmy summer's evening in England.    My father had been home less than a year after he was demobilized from the British army following World War II.
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As we marched down the road, I heard my mother calling me back in a non-too-friendly voice.  It might even have been hostile.  Avery was going to the youth club, and I decided I was going too, even though she was five years older than me--ten years to my five. 

Your mum's calling you.   You'd better go back, she warned, as I matched my steps to hers.  Clomp, clomp, clomp, went my shoes on the pavement, my legs almost in splits as I tried to lengthen my strides.  I liked the sound of our feet in concert, and concentrated on keeping up with her pace.  Then--whoosh.    What a surprise.  My mother had pulled out all the stops, and sent my father after me.  He picked me up, tucked me under his arm, and turned back towards home.  I was feet first, head dangling down at waist level, facing the ground.

I remember blowing the hair out of my eyes as I watched the cracks going by between the paving stones--little weeds sticking up out of  narrow bits of dirt, with one or two tiny white flowers eking a shallow living as best they could.     My father was muttering under his breath as, at intervals, he kept hitching me up, holding me tighter as he strode up the hill.  I recall him saying something about grown men in the army jumping to attention when he issued an order, so he wasn't about to be disobeyed by an impudent five-year-old . . . and who did I think I was?

About this time, I realized that there were going to be consequences to a) saying no to my mother, and b) following that up by ignoring her.  I could feel my face growing hot and red.   I'm not sure if it was caused by gravity as my head was definitely lower than my feet or the sense of dread creeping through my entire body.   It was hard to blow the hair off my face and gulp at the same time, but I managed.   My arms were immobile and pinned to my sides, but I felt my dad's arm begin to tremble from my  weight.    Did I hear him say he was tempted to drop me on my head?  No, not my dad--my partner in all sorts of fun activities.   But he was really, really mad, and continued to mumble through clenched teeth about feeling like a sideshow at a circus, as he noted the various neighbors peering at us through their windows. 

I liked living in a small village where everything and everybody was familiar, but there was definitely a downside:  there was little that was kept away from prying eyes, and even the most mundane of events was often blown out of proportion after being repeated several times on the bush telegraph.  My father despised rumors, and I've often wondered what story came back to him about that little misadventure.    Child abuse?   Poor parenting?   I don't remember what happened when I finally had to face my mother's wrath, but it can't have been too bad.  I lived to disobey on other days, and probably sent tongues a-wagging again.