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When it wasn't raining, dust-covered everything, including our half-naked bodies that glistened from hard labour and burning sun.Insects buzzed amongst the grime that made the golden air as thick as London smog. House-martins flew above our heads taking flies on the wing, and Kestrels hovered in the hot air searching for a homeless treat.It was nearly eight o’clock when our gang trudged wearily home, on the last exhausting day of the harvest. As we turned into the village Tommy said I could walk at the front, “Your Dad would be so proud son.”Women came out from their cottages offering glasses of ginger beer and cigarettes. There was talk of a bumper crop, the best since the old war.When Tommy and I got home, Mum waved a tiny Union-Jack; last seen on VE day. “The harvest is home,” she cried.The radio blasted out Glen Miller adding to the party mood. Tommy playfully smacked mum’s bum and she giggled. As always, my sisters ignored me; busy chatting with a young woman that I’d never met. Little by little my only thought became the stinging, so gradually did it build that there was never a point where it began to hurt, it was like watching the sunset on a summer evening, day becoming dusk, dusk becoming night, so slow you only realise it is dark when you decide to walk home and someone shines a torch.A sound distracted me, a low moaning, almost crooning. As it grew louder I realised it was me, the stinging had built in intensity so much I could no longer contain it, the moaning seemed to release it, release me.That was when I realised I was free, not free to go, not at all, but free to let the stinging out, to moan, to scream, to express my feelings, it felt strange, liberating, an unexpected gift. A gift I accepted fully.I wondered at the strength needed to control the whip, to keep the speed and force so perfectly uniform, so precise, I tried to distract myself with thoughts of how it must look, how it must feel, the power, the control, but I could only imagine,.
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