The Chaperone’s Role

In the autumn of 1980, Fairfax Academy was abuzz with the annual medical examinations, its ivy-clad halls filled with the nervous shuffle of sixth-formers. Emma Gardner, a young house mother at just twenty-one, stood as a figure of quiet authority in her new role. Unmarried and still finding her footing, Miss Gardner was tasked with supervising the pre-examination process, ensuring students stripped to their underwear with efficiency and decorum. Today, with Dr. Evelyn Thorne running behind schedule, the examinations were rushed, and Emma was assigned to chaperone two girls simultaneously: Angela Whitaker and Rebecca Langley, both eighteen and in their final year.

In the changing room, a small, chilly room adjacent to the doctor’s office, Emma stood with her clipboard, her modest blouse and skirt neatly pressed. Angela and Rebecca entered, dressed in their school uniforms—pleated skirts and crisp blouses. “Right, girls,” Emma said softly, her voice steady despite her youth. “Please remove your outer clothing and shoes, down to your bra and knickers.” The girls hesitated, exchanging glances. Angela, tall and slender with chestnut hair in a ponytail and freckled cheeks, began unbuttoning her blouse, revealing a simple white cotton bra. She stepped out of her skirt, folding it neatly, her matching knickers modest and plain. Rebecca, shorter and curvier with blonde curls, followed suit, her fuller figure accentuated as she shed her uniform, her white bra and knickers slightly more worn. Standing side by side, their bare feet on the cold floor, they shifted awkwardly under Emma’s gaze.

Emma observed them closely, noting Angela’s slight hunch to cover her chest, Rebecca’s nervous tugging at her bra strap. At twenty-one, Emma was barely older than they were, and the scene stirred vivid memories of her own school medical in 1977 at Meadow Ridge Grammar School. She’d been eighteen, stripping to her slip in a drafty infirmary, her cheeks burning under the nurse’s scrutiny. Now, watching these girls, she felt a flush of empathy; their vulnerability echoed her own, the cold air and exposure as raw now as then. “You’ll wait in the corridor until Dr. Thorne calls you,” Emma instructed, her tone gentle. “It won’t be long.”

The girls nodded, clutching their folded uniforms, and stepped into the corridor, where a wooden bench awaited. They sat side by side, legs crossed, arms folded against the chill, their white underwear stark against the dim hallway’s shadows. Emma lingered in the doorway, her heart twinging at their quiet discomfort. She remembered waiting like that, shivering, dreading the call. At twenty-one, she felt an odd blend of responsibility and relatability, as if she were both guardian and peer. The weight of her role as Miss Gardner pressed on her, a young woman tasked with overseeing such intimate moments.

After a few minutes, Dr. Thorne’s voice rang out: “Whitaker and Langley, come in!” The girls rose, their bare feet padding back into the examination room, where Emma followed, taking her seat by the window. The antiseptic scent hit her, sharp and familiar, pulling her back to her own exam—the nurse’s probing questions, the cold touch. Dr. Thorne, glasses slipping down her nose, looked up briefly. “We’re pressed for time. I’ll examine you together. Miss Gardner is here as chaperone. Remove your undergarments now and stand side by side—we’ll move straight to physicals after questions.”

Angela and Rebecca exchanged another anxious glance. Angela unhooked her bra, letting it fall to reveal small, pert breasts, nipples tightening in the cool air. She slid off her knickers, folding them with trembling hands, her neat triangle of pubic hair exposed. Rebecca followed, her fuller breasts swaying as she stepped out of her knickers, revealing soft, light curls. Standing nude together, their youthful bodies—Angela’s lean frame and Rebecca’s softer curves—glistened under the fluorescent lights, goosebumps prickling their skin. Emma’s breath caught; their exposure mirrored her own at eighteen, the memory of her own stripped-down vulnerability searing. Her cheeks warmed, a mix of sympathy and discomfort at witnessing such intimacy so close to her own age. How did I endure it? she wondered, her fingers tightening on her notepad.

“Questions, quickly,” Dr. Thorne said, her pen a blur. “Angela, last menstrual period?”

“Two weeks ago, regular,” Angela murmured, her arms twitching as if to cover herself before she forced them down.

“Rebecca?”

“Last week, five days, normal,” Rebecca replied, her voice higher, eyes on the floor.

“Sexual activity? Angela?”

“No, not yet.”

“Rebecca?”

“Once, over summer with a boyfriend. Protected.”

Emma noted their flushed faces, the way they avoided each other’s eyes. At her own exam, she’d lied about everything—periods, boys, even touching herself—terrified of judgment. These girls’ honesty, though hesitant, struck her as brave. She felt a pang of admiration, tempered by the awkwardness of her role; at twenty-one, she was still navigating her own place, yet here she was, privy to their secrets. It made her feel older, a reluctant guardian of their dignity.

“Masturbation? Frequency?” Dr. Thorne pressed.

“Once or twice a week,” Angela said softly, her cheeks crimson.

“Maybe three times,” Rebecca admitted, glancing at Angela then away.

Emma’s mind flashed to her own interrogation—“Do you indulge in sinful habits, girl?”—and the burning shame of her stammered denial. She shifted in her seat, her youth making the moment feel more intimate, as if she were one of them. Yet her duty anchored her, a silent presence to ensure fairness.

“Angela, on the table first. Feet in stirrups,” Dr. Thorne ordered, snapping on gloves. Angela lay back, her legs parting under the harsh light, vulva fully exposed. Rebecca stood nearby, nude and waiting, her hands clasped tightly. The doctor parted Angela’s labia swiftly, inspecting with clinical precision. “Healthy, no irritation.” The speculum went in next, cold metal clicking open for a cervical view. “Normal,” she said, swabbing quickly before the bimanual exam—fingers inside, pressing the abdomen. “Uterus and ovaries fine.” Angela’s breaths were shallow, her face averted.

Emma watched, her heart racing. The speculum’s chill, the exposure—it was all too familiar. At eighteen, she’d nearly cried during her own exam, the intrusion overwhelming. Now, seeing Angela’s subtle wince, she felt a surge of protectiveness, wishing she could shield her. Rebecca’s nervous shifting drew her eye next; the girl’s fuller figure trembled slightly, awaiting her turn. The rush of it all—the doctor’s brisk movements, the shared nudity—made Emma’s stomach twist. It was thorough, yes, but so relentless.

“Angela, rectal now. Side position, knees up.” Angela curled fetal, and Dr. Thorne’s lubricated finger probed briefly. “All clear.” Angela’s knuckles whitened on the table’s edge.

“Switch,” Dr. Thorne commanded, changing gloves. Rebecca climbed onto the table, legs in stirrups, her face a mask of tension. The process repeated: external exam—“Labia healthy”—speculum—“Cervix good”—bimanual—“No issues.” Rebecca’s wince was more pronounced, her curvier frame shifting uncomfortably.

Emma’s memories surged again—the cold probe, the nurse’s impersonal touch. She felt a mix of sorrow and resolve; at twenty-one, she was close enough to their age to feel their humiliation acutely, yet far enough to know they’d survive it, as she had. The doctor’s rush only heightened the intensity, but her thoroughness—every question asked, every check completed—ensured no corners were cut.

“Rebecca, rectal. Side position.” Rebecca complied, and the quick probe—“Normal”—ended it. Dr. Thorne stepped back, discarding gloves. “Both healthy. Dress and go—next!”

The girls dressed hurriedly, their movements synchronised in silent solidarity, pulling on bras and knickers with practiced speed. Emma rose, offering a gentle smile. “You both did wonderfully,” she said, her voice soft but firm. Inside, her emotions churned: relief at the end, empathy for their shared ordeal, and a lingering echo of her own youth. As Miss Gardner, so young herself, she felt the weight of her role—guardian of their vulnerability, a bridge between her past and their present. As they left, she exhaled, steeling herself for Philip and Lucas, the day’s demands pressing on.