Part 1

It was perfectly reasonable that Mrs. Dexter’s husband should want to interview me; after all you wouldn’t leave your children in the care of somebody you’d never met would you? Everybody in the town knew the Dexters. She was very active in the local community and charities and she was fitting this interview in between a committee meeting and a trip to the town hall to lobby about some local issue. He was also very well known and as befitted these paragons, they lived on the top of the hill, in the rich and posh end of the town, the house being much larger than those I was used to at the lower end. Mr Dexter used part of the ground floor for his work but I saw Mrs Dexter in what, in earlier times. would have been called the drawing room. Not that it was stuffy or Victorian, but very definitely didn’t have the aura of being a room much used by the family. I wondered where her children played but then realised that the house was big enough for them to have plenty of space. Because I was being fitted into Mrs Dexter’s busy schedule, I did not expect to see Mr Dexter until a later time.

So I was surprised when at the end of the initial interview with Mrs. Dexter she said that her husband was free and would like to see me now. I felt a mild flutter of anxiety. Mrs. Dexter had proved to be a tough interviewer: not in a nasty way, but she was somebody who took no prisoners and who had thoroughly explored the reasons why I was currently out of work and if I was really the right person to look after the little Dexters. I did not expect her husband to be much easier, but he had to be faced at some point so why not now?

Mrs. Dexter asked me to wait in the hall, her husband would be along in a moment. I sat in one of the chairs and waited, picking up one of the magazines. A distinguished head popped out of a door further down.

“You must be the prospective nanny – do come through” it said.

I got up and walked up towards the door, getting my first good look at the man who could be my employer. He was as handsome as the lower town gossip suggested. Young, well compared to my parents anyway, short hair, well dressed.

“Come in and take a seat “ he invited. I sat down in front of the desk that dominated the room.

“Now tell me how why you want to look after my little horrors”. I answered his questions, as best I could, explaining why I would make the perfect employee. He seemed less intimidating than his wife and seemed to have a knack of getting me to open up, perhaps more than I had expected.

After about 30 minutes we seemed to have got to a natural end, how persuasively on my part I was not sure.

“There’s just one other thing,” he said. “I need to make sure that you’re up to the job physically, do you have time now?” Well what can you say?

“Of course” I said with my mouth, my brain saying, “Hang on – what’s this mean?”

“It’ll only take a short while, if you’d just like to pop through here …” indicating the room next door.

“Just pop yourself on to the edge of the couch, I just need to ask you a few questions” which were innocuous, and most of which he already knew the answers to: Birth date, childhood illnesses, and health of close relatives. Nothing difficult or intimidating.

But as he ran out of questions, and picked up his stethoscope my heart missed a beat. Here I was, a lower town girl, just about to be examined by Dr. Dexter who was the doctor to be seen by – if you could afford his fees. His bedside manner was legendary in the town, the likes of us believing that your money could buy miracles or at least make you feel that he cared, deeply, about your well-being. Of course at my age that wasn’t really the issue, I didn’t do ill. But I did do attractive men, with money and power, and I was already relishing telling my little cohort of unemployed friends that I had actually seen, nay spoken to, the great Doctor Dexter. But this would be enhanced no end by being able to say that I had his healing hands on my body.

To my disappointment he looked in my ears, in my eyes and at my throat all with disturbing my clothing ad with a minimum of physical contact. Then I knew the best was to come: he took the stethoscope from round his neck and put plugged the tubes in his ears.

“Just pull your shirt up” he indicated. I did and he placed the steth on the lower part of my chest. It wasn’t cold, and it wasn’t there very long. A couple of breaths and that was it, he indicated that I could pull my shirt back down.

Next blood pressure – cuff over my arm, pumped up slowly released. And then “Thank you, that seems to be fine. My wife will be in touch if we want to take things further”. I left the house and walked slowly down the hill.

What a disappointment. The handsomest doctor in the town and he didn’t even lay his healing hands on my hot expectant skin. My clothes remained firmly on and my beating heart did not seem to be a cause for concern.

Did I get the job? Yes. Did I see more of Doctor Dexter? Oh yes – my health didn’t seem to be as good as he thought, but that, as they say, is another story.

Part 2

Had been working for the Dexter’s for some six months, and had settled in reasonably well. It wasn’t a live-in post: I hauled myself up the hill every weekday morning in time to give the children their breakfasts and to get them ready for school or supervise their day if they were staying at home. When their mother came in from her do-gooding charitable activities in the evening I left, do back down the hill to my family’s small house.

My friends were in awe: the great Dr. Dexter’s reputation had filtered down even to our part of town even though the chances of any of us ever having the opportunity to consult him was remote. His fees precluded us attending him, and he didn’t do pro bono, or at least not in a way that touched us. But others of the my social circle worked for people who had been seen by Dr. Dexter and they spoke of his healing powers with awe, with tales of bringing patients back from extreme sicknesses to full health. Of course I am sure the tales were embellished and exaggerated but nevertheless there seemed to be no doubt that he was a superlative physician.

I was always being asked if I had seen him or spoken to him but although his consulting rooms were part of the house, he kept himself to himself and I hardly saw him in the main part of the house, addressing him only if he spoke to me which was rarely; he seemed to have forgotten that he had children or a nanny.

He never indicated that he took any interest in the health of his children. They were old enough to have got through the major childhood illnesses, mumps, whooping cough and the like, but picked up, naturally, the colds, stomach upsets and other minor illnesses that form part of school life. Whenever one of the children had one of these upsets I was left to look after the child as best I could. If recovery was taking longer than normal, or it appeared more serious, then I would be given some money by Mrs. Dexter and told to go to the local pharmacist and seek their advice. All too often I would come back with some proprietary medicine, of dubious medicinal value I suspected, but which seemed to satisfy the Dexter’s, and the children would get better in their own good time. Mrs. Dexter never admitted to being ill – I certainly never saw her use illness as an excuse for not doing something. Her constitution seemed to be that of the proverbial ox.

So it was with some trepidation that I hauled myself up the hill one autumnal day. I had had a sleepless night, tossing and turning unable to find a sleeping position that was comfortable, alternately throwing the bed clothing off as I sweated and burned and then gathering them up again as the perceived icy cold gnawed at me making me shiver and clutch the pillow for comfort. My appetite was not good either: the thought of breakfast had almost made me faint. I had to stop several times on the way to work to get my breath and my strength.

As usual when I arrived Mrs. Dexter was busying herself for her morning’s meetings and barely had time to acknowledge my existence, never mind my state of health. She bustled about while I tried to serve breakfast to the children, without vomiting, get them dressed, without fainting, and walked to school without stopping to rest.

I returned to the house barely able to take another step, and I staggered to the kitchen aiming for the comfortable old armchair. I need to it down and rest, my domestic duties would have to wait.

I must have fallen asleep, and had no idea what time it was, but was awoken very abruptly.

“Girl, whatever do you think you are doing?”

“Errr, sorry, what”

Not the best response but I was feeling ill, sleepy and not at all sure where I was.

“I shall ask you again, girl, what do you think you are doing?”

By now some sense of my surroundings had crept into my consciousness and who the gentleman standing in front of me was.

“Oh sir, sorry, I fell asleep as I am not feeling well, sir”

“You call me doctor, as that’s what I am. What sort of ill?”

I explained, as best I could, my symptoms. He still insisted on calling me ‘girl’ but I had no energy to complain: this after all was the great Dr. Dexter.

“And you are supposed t be looking after my children?”

“Yes doctor”

“well, girl, you can hardly do that in your state”

“No doctor”

“Who is your physician?”

I mentioned the name of the local free clinic, but had hardly got the name out before he interrupted me

“oh don’t bother with that place girl, no idea what they are doing most of the time.”

I wondered what the alternative was supposed to be.

“Come to my consulting room at 2:30 this afternoon and I will examine you and give you something for the symptoms, girl. Don’t be late, I have other patients to see after you”.

With that he turned and walked out of the kitchen and I wondered if I had turned delirious. Dr. Dexter – willing to see me? I felt better already.

As 2:30 approached I began to feel sick again – the sort of inner turmoil that your stomach gets into when it can’t decide if you are scared or excited. I was both and still feeling the effects of my fever. Several times in the hour preceding the appointment I had taken myself to the toilet where I retched ineffectively as my stomach did cartwheels. It was this last visit which meant that I was standing outside the surgery door a few minutes after 2;30 timidly knocking.

“Come in” – and I did as I was bidden making sure that I had closed the door behind me.

The couch was still there – the one that had promised so much and delivered so little previously. But Dr. Dexter was sitting behind his desk. He looked imposing, immaculately attired and groomed, and as far from the rather grubby lower town doctor I saw when I could afford it, as it was possible to be.

I stood awkwardly, waiting for him to acknowledge me as he finished tidying some papers on his desk. My nerves continued to gnaw at me and I twisted my hands together and then let them uncurl before starting all over again.

“Well, girl, what have you to say for yourself?”

I wasn’t actually sure what I did have to say for myself: he knew who I was, and that I was feeling ill, not to mention in charge of his children on their return from school. And his tone was very unlike the last time I had been in this room; it no longer sounded gentle and sympathetic but had a harsh undertone.

“W… W…ell you told me to come and see you on account of me not feeling well” I stuttered.

He stared at me making my anxiety worse.

“Girl” I was beginning to hate that – he knew my name – “when I found you in serious breach of your duties I gave you an order which I expected to be obeyed at all times, with regard to you showing respect to your betters. You appear to have forgotten this already which is a serious failing for one whom I employ”

He clearly expected a response but I was busy trying to remember what he had said to me while I was in my slightly comatose state. The penny dropped.

“Sorry Doctor”

“I should think so. Now what time were you due here?”

“2:30 doctor”

“And what time did you arrive?”

“2:35 doctor”

“Hmm. Another rather basic failing for somebody in my service. I expect you here when I tell you to be here, is that understood?”

“yes doctor but …”

He cut me off. “ I am not interested in your pathetic excuses. The fact is you were late and I do not tolerate this sort of slovenly approach from my staff. Do you understand girl?”

I started to nod then caught myself realizing that a nod probably wasn’t the right response.

“Yes Doctor, it won’t happen again”

“Correct. It will not or you will suffer the consequences”

My thoughts at that point drifted towards dismissal – a thought that horrified me as I had been lucky indeed to secure this position and my family needed the money.

“Now girl I need to take a good look at you. Strip off and on the couch.”

He sat and stared at me while I hesitated. This was not how the good Dr. Dexter had obtained his caring reputation, surely?

“Come on girl we don’t have all day. Get those clothes off. You may put them on this chair. “

I started to take off my top clothes: my sweater, then my shirt. I placed them on the chair he had indicated. I looked up hoping he would not be upset about the bra I was wearing. It was old, slightly grey and the straps were frayed.

“And the rest girl”, there was an impatience in his voice.

I dropped my skirt to the floor and stepped out of it leaving my underskirt on. I hesitated again and again he intervened:

“When I order you to strip I mean strip. I do not man leave articles of underclothing on so take off that rather tired brassiere off and remove your underskirt and any clothing you may have on below it”

His voice did not encourage any debate so I stepped out of the underskirt and put that and my top skirt on the chair. I was left standing in my knickers and bra and clearly both of those were expected to be off as well. I fiddled with my bra strap finally placing that on the chair and then pulled my knickers down and off, placing them on the chair also.

I had no stockings on so now I was naked in front of this stranger and my instinct was to try and cover my breasts and pubic area with my hands. Of course it couldn’t work, not enough hands, and I ended up squirming as my embarrassment grew. I had never been completely naked in front of a man before. The lower town doctor regarded clothes as an obstacle to be navigated while examining me and never required them to be taken off. And the only boy I had been with never got any further than roughly spreading his dirty hands over my top clothes in an attempt to feel my breasts.

“Stand up straight, hands at your side” he instructed. I obeyed feeling the inevitable red blush creeping over my face as he continued to stare, first at my face then moving his eyes down to my chest and bosom where my nipples were beginning to stand out, then down past my stomach to my groin where his eyes lingered on my mass of pubic hair. Then finally down my legs to my feet.

“Turn around girl and face the wall”

I did so and this time imagined, rather than saw, his eyes picking out every detail of my body: my smooth back with the red stripes where my bra didn’t quite fit properly, down to my buttocks and the hint of my femininity and again down to my feet.

“Good” was his only comment before instructing me to get on the couch. Previously I had sat on the edge fully clothed. This time I was instructed to lay face up with my arms above my head.

When he came over and took one of my arms strapping it to the top of the couch it took me by surprise; he was a very practiced operator as he had the other arm manacled before I had time to object.

My ankles were similarly retrained and I could feel that I was exposed in a sort of X shape. This was well beyond my experience or expectation and he did little to reassure me:

“A you’ve already shown yourself to be unreliable I am afraid I have no option but to ensure that you remain in a suitable position for this examination, girl.”

My imagination could not stretch to what might follow and what would necessitate being unable to move. But the ladies at the top of the hill adored him and I should trust him, after all he is a doctor.

Part 3

“Open your mouth” he instructed. “Wider, come on girl” and as soon as I had it sufficiently wide he slipped in a metal instrument that seemed to occupy all my mouth. He turned a ratchet at the side and my mouth was forced open further and I could feel the metal of the instrument just nipping the side of my lips as he continued to open this device I thought I would dislocate my jaw. Whilst not exactly hurting it was certainly uncomfortable and all I could do was sort of gasp and issue sounds as though I were about to vomit. Speech was impossible.

“Be quiet girl. I will tell you if I need you to communicate with me. Now don’t move”. Suddenly lights flashed in front of me and I realized he was checking my eyes but the sudden bright light in front of me made me squirm and move my head out of the way. He grunted then I realized he was doing something to that metal mouth instrument. It became tighter, locking closer to the sides of my lips. I tried to see what was happening but realized that I now couldn’t move my head. If I tried the instrument really pinched and there was a slight clink of metal on metal as the chain he had attached to couch kept taut.

The light came back, first a long way away then closer moving around my head as the quadrants of my eye were examined, sometimes he came so close to me that in a the light escaping from the instrument I could see the hairs at the bottom of his nose. Sometimes the light’s colour changed: white, red or green. Then the other eye, same process but this time he had to lean across my naked chest.

Finally the light stopped and I thought he might release me – allow me to move my head. But no he pulled the skin around my eyes while he instructed me to “look up, down, left, right”. I went through various iterations of saying ‘aah’ as Dr Dexter looked in my mouth with his light and wooden spatula. He looked closely at my tongue but finally seemed satisfied and went back to his desk.

I heard again the clank of metal on metal and worried. My head was still chained in position so I couldn’t see what Dr. Dexter was getting or doing until he came back over to me. He took a paper towel and set it on my naked stomach and on top of that he set down what looked suspiciously like a set of dental instruments. I was worried, I had not been to a dentist for many years, for the fees were prohibitive, but so far I had been lucky and not suffered from toothache. But I was sure that any investigation of my dentition would reveal all sorts of issues that a dentist would want to treat. But he’s not a dentist was the thought that crossed my mind briefly before he came fully into my view with a dental mirror and one of those nasty sharp pointed things dentists are so fond of.

My mouth of course was ratched wide open, my head restrained as well as my body so as he poked about grunting occasionally all I could do was lie there. And then he found it. One of the pre-molars to the front top jaw. He was working his way round and then he put the pick in and it sank - or so it felt – deep through the tooth’s protective enamel. I screamed, there was no other reaction I could give. The pain was intense, more intense than anything else I have ever experienced.

“Be quiet girl, I cant work with that racket going on” he said as he withdrew the pick. “if you had proper dental care you wouldn’t be in this situation. I am going to make you an appointment with a dental colleague of mine to get yourself fixed up – this tooth “ and here he waved the instrument near to my tooth again setting off a psychological pain that was at least as piecing as the real one ‘”badly needs some attention and I am sure that it is not the only one. You will attend the appointment I make for you girl” I was in no position to argue but the words set off my deep fear of all things dental: the injections, the whine of the drill, the joke of no pain and I could feel my nipples contracting with some sort of sudden cold fear.

I wanted to ask for something to dull the residual pain I could feel in that tooth but being unable to move I could just plead with my eyes. I think he saw something and my mood lifted. “The pain will go in a couple of hours, just don’t eat or drink anything hot or cold or sweet for a few hours” he said not totally unsympathetically.

“Now I want to listen to your chest” which lifted my spirits as I saw him pick up his stethoscope.