I swear
South Shields, 1967. I leaned against our back gate, acting the big man in front of the bloke next door. Mouthing off to him and swearing even though he'd already complained a couple of times to Mam about my bucket-mouth. Repeating all the foul words I'd heard recently, thinking I was so big and clever, the other kids looked on. They were keen to see what happened next. Altercations in those days before telly, always attracted a small crowd.
I should have realised something bad was coming my way when their eyes widened in shock. But I was too busy showing off until someone's hand grabbed my collar, yanked me off my feet, and hauled me through the gate.
Mam had seen through all my lies in the past. She'd known I'd swear again, because I'd repeatedly promised her that I had never sworn at anyone at all!
She knew, intuitively the way that all mothers did, that I lied a lot, so she'd hidden on the other side of the gate and heard my performance.
She dragged me across the yard to the back steps. I was blubbering and pleading with her, that I'd be good from then on. I'd have sworn to anything to avoid what was coming next. But soon my heels were thumping on the rickety stairs as the fading light from the back door illuminated the cobwebs in the roof amid the dirt and stains. I lost a plimsoll on the way when it snagged on a crack in the stair riser, but that didn't slow Mam down as she hauled me like a sack of spuds into the scruffy scullery.
She'd warned me endlessly that if she caught me swearing, she'd wash my mouth out with Carbolic Soap. If everyday soap could be categorized as nice and sweet, soft and gentle, perfumed and refreshing, then Carbolic was the total opposite: Blocky, rough, smelling of disinfectant, lather-less, industrial cleaner, and generally horrible. Carbolic was the skinhead of soaps, and I was about to have a meal of it!
I could tell Mam meant business because she took the dirty plates out of the sink and smashed them to the floor in temper. Oh Gawd, I was in big trouble. I just stood looking at her, hoping that if I looked dejected enough she'd relent but she didn't. She yanked me by the collar and the seat of my pants. When she had her mad on she could be a strong bugger! Quite scary in fact. Then she slammed me onto the damp, smelly drainer, like a butcher slapping a hunk of beef onto a chopping-block. The dampness seeped into my clothes, as my head drooped into the big china sink. Mam mustn't have liked the position I was in because she couldn't get a strong enough hold on me, so she dragged me further up the drainer, scattering the greasy pans and plates that were by the sink waiting to be washed, until I was directly under the brass tap.
I fought her even harder. On the drainer, I struggled and wriggled,trying to shake free of Mam's strong, polished-finger-nailed hand that held me by the throat, I could feel her fingernails digging into my neck, and they hurt.
But Mam still managed to keep me positioned and I fought her back despite my struggles to keep my head away from the sink edge.
Pans and plates scattered, clattering everywhere as my legs and feet thrashed wildly, she fought to keep me positioned and I fought back to keep my head away from the tap.
She reached over me and turned the tap on, there was a clunk as the air was released and I heard the water surging up the pipe. Then a single drop gathered on the end, and I thought I'd been saved, sometimes the water didn't flow on certain days, due to low pressure and I thought to myself that this was one of those times. But alas for me, not that day!
The treacherous water gushed out of the tap, soaking my head and neck. For a brief second the coldness of the water froze me where I lay. I now spluttered and spat as I continued to cry and begged Mam to let me go. But once Mam made up her mind to do something she did it.
All the while Mam was shouting at me at the top of her voice, "I'll teach you to f***ing swear you little bas***d! You won't f***ing swear again, will you? You f***ing little shite!"
I heard snippets of distant shouts drifting up the stairs. "Go on Mim, give the little bugger what for!" or "Teach the little bugger a lesson he wont forget!"
I jammed my mouth closed with a snap. I knew she couldn't shove the soap between my lips if they were closed tight.
"Open up, and this'll go easier on you!" shouted Mam.
At that point, three pit ponies wouldn't have got me to open my gob.
"Open your mouth" she repeated quieter.
I remember defiantly staring at her, if it could be called a stare? I had to keep blinking to keep the splashes of water out of my eyes. My lips were still wedged shut, but at the same time I tried to dodge the water that still gushed out of the tap.
Then she leaned down, got right in my face, until we were practically nose to nose and she repeated in a really strange quiet-like voice,
"Brian, open your mouth," then she gave me one of those rictus-smiles where I knew she was also gritting her teeth. I was really scared then!
Anyone who's experienced a stern-loving Mother like this will know exactly what I'm talking about. This was the killer-smile. That brooked no more arguments, no resistance, no bullshit. This kind of calm command had to be obeyed, or woe betide anyone. I knew then it was no good. I had to give in or it would be worse for me.
I stammered a quick "Please Mam," but instantly she jammed the Carbolic Soap into me gob! Oh she could be so quick! I gagged, I knew for sure I was going to die. She began rubbing and drubbing like wash day on a Monday, while humming some obscure song. Her eyes, normally blue and pretty, were just slits in her face. I was familiar with that look as well.
Meanwhile I begged and sobbed and got myself worked up into a lather, I felt really sorry for myself then. The bar was wedged between my teeth, she really put some elbow grease into it. The taste was horrible, like sucking on a toilet urinal cake, and trying like frig not to swallow. She was determined though, she was going to teach me a lesson, even if it meant someone reporting her to the National Assistance.
Finally it was over. She stood me on my feet. I, of course, being the devious little git that I am, wobbled a bit, and looked about to faint. Mam gathered me in her arms, all contrite, guilt could be a good commodity when you were eight and knew how to wield it. She wrapped me in her arms cooing to me and telling herself what a horrible person she felt for inflicting this on her poor child I made a cardinal error. I smiled, thinking to myself of how I could turn this to my advantage?
She saw this and instantly reverted to Were-Mam, my arse was back on that draining board in a flash. She had the Carbolic Soap in her hand ready to "wash" me again. I looked on with what I can only now describe as a futile-acceptance of something uncontrollable. She saw this, and slowly dropped the bar onto the floor, looked at me with a little discomfort and possibly shame on her face and told me to get off the drainer myself. This wasn't easy, there being no stool or chair to climb down, but I eventually managed and stood in front of her.
I hung my head, I was totally knackered by my exertions and swore on the Bible that I wouldn't ever swear again. She stood in front of me with her hands on her hips, her foot constantly tapping its temper-fuelled rhythm. I knew I could still be in trouble so I said nothing. She shook her head slowly, sighed and said quietly "Eee, our Brian, what am I going to do with you?"
In 1993, when we buried me Mam who'd died from Cancer, I was reminded of the taste of that Soap in me gob. We'd gathered in me Ma's sitting room for her wake. I told the rest of the family about what she'd done, but me Aunty Syl asked the question.
"Did it work then? did she teach you to stop swearing?"
All their eyes were on me again as I pondered her question. It didn't take long to answer.
"Did she Fuck!"
